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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..588ef14 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66661 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66661) diff --git a/old/66661-0.txt b/old/66661-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4d5cb31..0000000 --- a/old/66661-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3324 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Truth about an Author, by Arnold Bennett - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Truth about an Author - -Author: Arnold Bennett - -Release Date: November 4, 2021 [eBook #66661] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRUTH ABOUT AN AUTHOR *** - -THE TRUTH ABOUT - -AN AUTHOR - - - - -NEW EDITION WITH PREFACE - - - - -BY - -ARNOLD BENNETT - -Author of "How to Live on 24 Hours a Day," -"The Old Wives' Tale," etc. - - - - -GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY - -PUBLISHERS - -NEW YORK - - - - -_Copyright, 1911_ -By George H. Doran Company - - - - -CONTENTS -PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION -CHAPTER I -CHAPTER II -CHAPTER III -CHAPTER IV -CHAPTER V -CHAPTER VI -CHAPTER VII -CHAPTER VIII -CHAPTER IX -CHAPTER X -CHAPTER XI -CHAPTER XII -CHAPTER XIII -CHAPTER XIV -CHAPTER XV -CHAPTER XVI - - - - -PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION - - -Sometime in the last century I was for several years one of the most -regular contributors to "The Academy," under the editorship of Mr. Lewis -Hind and the ownership of Mr. Morgan Richards. The work was constant; -but the pay was bad, as it too often is where a paper has ideals. I well -remember the day when, by dint of amicable menaces, I got the rate -raised in my favor from ten to fifteen shillings a column, with a -minimum of two guineas an article for exposing the fatuity of popular -idols. One evening I met Mr. Lewis Hind at the first performance of some -very important play, whose name I forget, in the stalls of some theatre -whose name I forget. (However, the theatre has since been demolished.) -We began to talk about the "Academy", and as I was an editor myself, I -felt justified in offering a little advice to a fellow-creature. "What -you want in the 'Academy,'" I said, "is a sensational serial." "Yes, I -know," he replied, with that careful laziness of tone which used to mark -his more profound utterances, "and I should like you to write your -literary autobiography for us!" In this singular manner was the notion -of the following book first presented to me. It was not in the least my -own notion. - -I began to write the opening chapters immediately, for I was fascinated -by this opportunity to tell the truth about the literary life, and my -impatience would not wait. I had been earning a living by my pen for a -number of years, and my experience of the business did not at all -correspond with anything that I had ever read in print about the -literary life, whether optimistic or pessimistic. I took a malicious and -frigid pleasure, as I always do, in setting down facts which are opposed -to accepted sentimental falsities; and certainly I did not spare myself. -It did not occur to me, even in the midst of my immense conceit, to -spare myself. But even had I been tempted to spare myself I should not -have done so, because there is no surer way of damping the reader's -interest than to spare oneself in a recital which concerns oneself. - -The sensational serial ran in "The Academy" for about three months, but -I had written it all in the spare hours of a very much shorter period -than that. It was issued anonymously, partly from discretion, and partly -in the hope that the London world of letters would indulge in conjecture -as to its authorship, which in theory was to be kept a dark secret. The -London world of letters, however, did nothing of the kind. Everybody who -had any interest in such a matter seemed to know at once the name of the -author. Mr. Andrew Chatto, whose acquaintance I made just then, assured -me that he was certain of the authorship of the first article, on -stylistic evidence; and I found him tearing out the pages of the -"Academy" and keeping them. I found also a number of other people doing -the same. In fact I do not exaggerate in saying that the success of the -serial was terrific--among about a hundred people. It happened to me to -see quite sane and sober writing persons gurgle with joy over the mere -recollection of sundry scenes in my autobiography. But Mr. Andrew -Chatto, an expert of immense experience, gave me his opinion, with -perhaps even more than his customary blandness, that the public would -have no use for my autobiography. I could scarcely adopt his view. It -seemed to me impossible that so honest a disclosure, which had caused -such unholy joy in some of the most weary hearts that London contains, -should pass unheeded by a more general public. - -Mr. Andrew Chatto did not publish this particular book of mine. I cannot -remember if it was offered to him. But I know that it was offered to -sundry other publishers before at last it found a sponsor. There was no -wild competition for it, and there was no excitement in the press when -it appeared. On the other hand, there was a great deal of excitement -among my friends. The book divided my friends into two camps. A few were -extraordinarily enthusiastic and delighted. But the majority were -shocked. Some--and among these the most intimate and beloved--were so -shocked that they could not bear to speak to me about the book, and to -this day have never mentioned it to me. Frankly, I was startled. I -suppose the book was too true. Many fine souls can only take the truth -in very small doses, when it is the truth about some one or something -they love. One of my friends--nevertheless a realistic novelist of high -rank--declined to credit that I had been painting myself; he insisted on -treating the central character as fictional, while admitting the events -described were factual. - -The reviews varied from the flaccid indifferent to the ferocious. No -other book of mine ever had such a bad press, or anything like such a -bad press. Why respectable and dignified organs should have been moved -to fury by the publication of a work whose veracity cannot be impugned, -I have never been quite able to understand; for I attacked no financial -interests; I did not attack any interest; I merely destroyed a few -illusions and make-believes. Yet such organs as "The Athenaeum" and -"Blackwood's" dragged forward their heaviest artillery against the -anonymous author. In its most virulent days "Blackwood's" could scarcely -have been more murderous. Its remarks upon me will bear comparison even -with its notorious attack, by the same well-known hand, on Mr. Bernard -Shaw. I had, of course, ample opportunities for adjusting the balance -between myself and the well-known hand, which opportunities I did not -entirely neglect. Also I was convinced that the time had arrived for -avowing the authorship, and I immediately included the book in the -official list of my publications. Till then the dark secret had only -once been divulged in the press--by Sir W. Robertson Nicoll. But this -journalist, whose interest in the literary life is probably unsurpassed, -refrained from any criticism. - -I have purposely forgotten the number of copies sold. It was the -smallest in my experience of infinitesimal numbers. In due season the -publishers--to my regret, and conceivably now to theirs--'remaindered' -the poor red-and-green volume. And The Times Book Club, having -apparently become possessed of a large stock of the work, offered it, -with my name but without my authority, at a really low price. I think -the first bargain was fivepence, but later sixpence was demanded. As The -Times Book Club steadily continued to advertise the book, I suppose that -at sixpence it must have had quite a vogue. At any rate it has been -quoted from with more freedom than any other book of mine, and has -indeed obviously formed the basis of dozens of articles--especially in -the United States--of which the writers have omitted to offer me any -share in their remuneration. I have myself bought copies of it at as -high as a shilling a piece, as a speculation. And now here, after about -a dozen years, is a new edition, reproducing word for word the original -text in all its ingenuous self-complacency. - - - - -I - - -I who now reside permanently on that curious fourth-dimensional planet -which we call the literary world; I, who follow the incredible parasitic -trade of talking about what people have done, who am a sort of public -weighing-machine upon which bookish wares must halt before passing from -the factory to the consumer; I, who habitually think in articles, who -exist by phrases; I, who seize life at the pen's point and callously -wrest from it the material which I torture into confections styled -essays, short stories, novels, and plays; who perceive in passion -chiefly a theme, and in tragedy chiefly a "situation"; who am so -morbidly avaricious of beauty that I insist on finding it where even it -is not; I, in short, who have been victimized to the last degree by a -literary temperament, and glory in my victimhood, am going to trace as -well as I can the phenomena of the development of that idiosyncrasy from -its inception to such maturity as it has attained. To explain it, to -explain it away, I shall make no attempt; I know that I cannot. I lived -for a quarter of a century without guessing that I came under the -category of Max Nordau's polysyllabic accusations; the trifling foolish -mental discipline which stands to my credit was obtained in science -schools, examination rooms, and law offices. I grew into a good man of -business; and my knowledge of affairs, my faculty for the nice conduct -of negotiations, my skill in suggesting an escape from a dilemma, were -often employed to serve the many artists among whom, by a sheer and -highly improbable accident, I was thrown. While sincerely admiring and -appreciating these people, in another way I condescended to them as -beings apart and peculiar, and unable to take care of themselves on the -asphalt of cities; I felt towards them as a policeman at a crossing -feels towards pedestrians. Proud of my hard, cool head, I used to twit -them upon the disadvantages of possessing an artistic temperament. Then, -one day, one of them retorted: "You've got it as badly as any of us, if -you only knew it." I laughed tolerantly at the remark, but it was like a -thunderclap in my ears, a sudden and disconcerting revelation. Was I, -too, an artist? I lay awake at night asking myself this question. -Something hitherto dormant stirred mysteriously in me; something -apparently foreign awoke in my hard, cool head, and a duality henceforth -existed there. On a certain memorable day I saw tears in the eyes of a -woman as she read some verses which, with journalistic versatility, I -had written to the order of a musical composer. I walked straight out -into the street, my heart beating like a horrid metronome. Am I an -artist? I demanded; and the egotist replied: Can you doubt it? - -From that moment I tacitly assumed a quite new set of possibilities, and -deliberately ordered the old ruse self to exploit the self just born. -And so, by encouragement and fostering, by intuition and imitation, and -perhaps affectation, I gradually became the thing I am, the _djinn_ that -performs tricks with, some emotions, a pen, and paper. And now, having -shadowed forth the tale, as Browning did in the prologue to _The Ring -and the Book_, I will proceed to amplify it. - - - Let this old woe step on the stage again! - Act itself o'er anew for men to judge. - - - - -II - - -My dealings with literature go back, I suppose, some thirty and three -years. We came together thus, literature and I. It was in a kitchen at -midday, and I was waiting for my dinner, hungry and clean, in a tartan -frock with a pinafore over it. I had washed my own face, and dried it, -and I remember that my eyes smarted with lingering soap, and my skin was -drawn by the evaporation of moisture on a cold day. I held in my hand a -single leaf which had escaped from a printed book. How it came into that -chubby fist I cannot recall. The reminiscence begins with it already -there. I gazed hard at the paper, and pretended with all my powers to be -completely absorbed in its contents; I pretended to ignore some one who -was rattling saucepans at the kitchen range. On my left a very long and -mysterious passage led to a pawnshop all full of black bundles. I heard -my brother crying at the other end of the passage, and his noisy -naughtiness offended me. For myself, I felt excessively "good" with my -paper; never since have I been so filled with the sense of perfect -righteousness. Here was I, clean, quiet, sedate, studious; and there was -my brother, the illiterate young Hooligan, disturbing the sacrosanct -shop, and--what was worse--ignorant of his inferiority to me. Disgusted -with him, I passed through the kitchen into another shop on the right, -still conning the page with soapy, smarting eyes. At this point the -light of memory is switched off. The printed matter, which sprang out of -nothingness, vanishes back into the same. - -I could not read, I could not distinguish one letter from another. I -only knew that the signs and wonders constituted print, and I played at -reading with intense earnestness. I actually felt learned, serious, -wise, and competently superior, something like George Meredith's "Dr. -Middleton." Would that I could identify this my very first literature! I -review three or four hundred books annually now;[1] out of crass, -saccharine, sentimentality, I would give a year's harvest for the volume -from which that leaf was torn, nay, for the leaf alone, as though it -might be a Caxton. I remember that the paper was faintly bluish in tint, -veined, and rather brittle. The book was probably printed in the -eighteenth century. Perhaps it was Lavater's Physiognomy or Blair's -Sermons, or Burnet's Own Time. One of these three, I fancy, it must -surely have been. - -After the miraculous appearance and disappearance of that torn leaf, I -remember almost nothing of literature for several years. I was six or so -when The Ugly Duckling aroused in me the melancholy of life, gave me to -see the deep sadness which pervades all romance, beauty, and adventure. -I laughed heartily at the old henbird's wise remark that the world -extended past the next field and much further; I could perceive the -humour of that. But when the ugly duckling at last flew away on his -strong pinions, and when he met the swans and was accepted as an equal, -then I felt sorrowful, agreeably sorrowful. It seemed to me that nothing -could undo, atone for, the grief and humiliations of the false -duckling's early youth. I brooded over the injustice of his misfortunes -for days, and the swans who welcomed him struck me as proud, cold, and -supercilious in their politeness. I have never read The Ugly Duckling -since those days. It survives in my memory as a long and complex -narrative, crowded with vague and mysterious allusions, and wet with the -tears of things. No novel--it was a prodigious novel for me--has more -deliciously disturbed me, not even "On the Eve" or "Lost Illusions." Two -years later I read "Hiawatha." The picture which I formed of Minnehaha -remains vividly and crudely with me; it resembles a simpering waxen doll -of austere habit. Nothing else can I recall of "Hiawatha," save odd -lines, and a few names such as Gitchee-Gumee. I did not much care for -the tale. Soon after I read it, I see a vision of a jolly-faced -house-painter graining a door. "What do you call that?" I asked him, -pointing to some very peculiar piece of graining, and he replied, -gravely: "That, young sir, is a wigwam to wind the moon up with." I -privately decided that he must have read, not "Hiawatha," but something -similar and stranger, something even more wig-wammy. I dared not -question him further, because he was so witty. - -I remember no other literature for years. But at the age of eleven I -became an author. I was at school under a master who was entirely at the -mercy of the new notions that daily occurred to him. He introduced games -quite fresh to us, he taught us to fence and to do the lesser circle on -the horizontal bar; he sailed model yachts for us on the foulest canal -in Europe; he played us into school to a march of his own composing -performed on a harmonium by himself; he started a debating society and -an amateur dramatic club. He even talked about our honour, and, having -mentioned it, audaciously left many important things to its care--with -what frightful results I forget. Once he suffered the spell of -literature, read us a poem of his own, and told us that any one who -tried could write poetry. As it were to prove his statement, he ordered -us all to write a poem on the subject of Courage within a week, and -promised to crown the best poet with a rich gift. Having been commanded -to produce a poem on the subject of Courage, I produced a poem on the -subject of Courage in, what seemed to me, the most natural manner in the -world. I thought of lifeboats and fire-engines, and decided on lifeboats -for the mere reason that "wave" and "save" would rhyme together. A -lifeboat, then, was to save the crew of a wrecked ship. Next, what _was_ -poetry? I desired a model structure which I might copy. Turning to a -school hymn-book I found-- - - - A little ship was on the sea, - It was a pretty sight; - It sailed along so pleasantly - And all was calm and bright - - -That stanza I adopted, and slavishly imitated. In a brief space a poem -of four such stanzas was accomplished. I wrote it in cold blood, -hammered it out word after word, and was much pleased with the result. -On the following day I read the poem aloud to myself, and was thrilled -with emotion. The dashing cruel wave that rhymed with save appeared to -me intensely realistic. I failed to conceive how any poem could be -better than mine. The sequel is that only one other boy besides myself -had even attempted verse. One after another, each sullenly said that he -had nothing to show. (How clever _I_ felt!) Then I saw my rival's -composition; it dealt with a fire in New York and many fire-engines; I -did not care for it; I could not make sense of much of it; but I saw -with painful clearness that it was as far above mine as the heaven was -above the earth. . . . - -"Did you write this yourself?" The master was addressing the creator of -New York fire-engines. - -"Yes, sir." - -"All of it?" - -"Yes, sir." - -"You lie, sir." - -It was magnificent for me. The fool, my rival, relying too fondly on the -master's ignorance of modern literature, had simply transcribed entire -the work of some great American recitation-monger. I received the -laurel, which I fancy amounted to a shilling. - -Nothing dashed by the fiasco of his poetry competition, the schoolmaster -immediately instituted a competition in prose. He told us about M. -Jourdain, who talked prose without knowing it, and requested us each to -write a short story upon any theme we might choose to select. I produced -the story with the same ease and certainty as I had produced the verse. -I had no difficulty in finding a plot which satisfied me; it was -concerned with a drowning accident at the seaside, and it -culminated--with a remorse--less naturalism that even thus early -proclaimed the elective affinity between Flaubert and myself--in an -inquest. It described the wonders of the deep, and I have reason to -remember that it likened the gap between the fin and the side of a fish -to a pocket. In this competition I had no competitor. I, alone, had -achieved fiction. I watched the master as he read my work, and I could -see from his eyes and gestures that he thought it marvellously good for -the boy. He spoke to me about it in a tone which I had never heard from -him before and never heard again, and then, putting the manuscript in a -drawer, he left us to ourselves for a few minutes. - -"I'll just read it to you," said the big boy of the form, a daring but -vicious rascal. He usurped the pedagogic armchair, found the manuscript, -rapped the ruler on the desk, and began to read. I protested in vain. -The whole class roared with laughter, and I was overcome with shame. I -know that I, eleven, cried. Presently the reader stopped and scratched -his head; the form waited. - -"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Fishes have pockets! Fishes have pockets!" - -The phrase was used as a missile against me for months. - -The master returned with his assistant, and the latter also perused the -tale. - -"Very remarkable!" he sagely commented--to be sage was his foible, "very -remarkable, indeed!" - -Yet I can remember no further impulse to write a story for at least ten -years. Despite this astonishing success, martyrdom, and glory, I -forthwith abandoned fiction and went mad on water-colours. - - -[Footnote 1: Written in 1900.] - - - - -III - - -The insanity of water-colours must have continued for many years. I say -insanity, because I can plainly perceive now that I had not the -slightest genuine aptitude for graphic art. In the curriculum of South -Kensington as taught at a provincial art school I never got beyond the -stage known technically as "third-grade freehand," and even in that my -"lining-in" was considered to be a little worse than mediocre. O floral -forms, how laboriously I deprived you of the grace of your Hellenic -convention! As for the "round" and the "antique," as for pigments, these -mysteries were withheld from me by South Kensington. It was at home, -drawn on by a futile but imperious fascination, that I practised them, -and water-colours in particular. I never went to nature; I had not the -skill, nor do I remember that I felt any sympathetic appreciation of -nature. I was content to copy. I wasted the substance of uncles and -aunts in a complicated and imposing apparatus of easels, mahlsticks, -boards, What-man, camel-hair, and labelled tubes. I rose early, I -cheated school and office, I outraged the sanctity of the English -Sabbath, merely to satisfy an ardour of copying. I existed on the Grand -Canal in Venice; at Toledo, Nuremburg, and Delft; and on slopes -commanding a view of Turner's ruined abbeys, those abbeys through whose -romantic windows streamed a yellow moonlight inimitable by any -combination of ochre, lemon, and gamboge in my paint-box. Every replica -that I produced was the history of a disillusion. With what a sanguine -sweep I laid on the first broad washes--the pure blue of water, the -misty rose of sun-steeped palaces, the translucent sapphire of Venetian -and Spanish skies! And then what a horrible muddying ensued, what a -fading-away of magic and defloriation of hopes, as in detail after -detail the picture gradually lost tone and clarity! It is to my credit -that I was always disgusted by the fatuity of these efforts. I have not -yet ceased to wonder what precise part of the supreme purpose was served -by seven or eight years of them. - -From fine I turned to applied art, diverted by a periodical called "The -Girl's Own Paper." For a long period this monthly, which I now regard as -quaint, but which I shall never despise, was my principal instrument of -culture. It alone blew upon the spark of artistic feeling and kept it -alive. I derived from it my first ideals of aesthetic and of etiquette. -Under its influence my brother and myself started on a revolutionary -campaign against all the accepted canons of house decoration. We -invented friezes, dadoes, and panels; we cut stencils; and we carried -out our bright designs through half a house. It was magnificent, -glaring, and immense; it foreshadowed the modern music-hall. Visitors -were shown through our rooms by parents who tried in vain to hide from -us their parental complacency. The professional house-decorator was -reduced to speechless admiration of our originality and extraordinary -enterprise; he really was struck--he could appreciate the difficulties -we had conquered. - -During all this, and with a succession of examinations continually -looming ahead, literature never occurred to me; it was forgotten. I -worked in a room lined with perhaps a couple of thousand volumes, but I -seldom opened any of them. Still, I must have read a great deal, -mechanically, and without enthusiasm: serials, and boys' books. At -twenty-one I know that I had read almost nothing of Scott, Jane Austen, -Dickens, Thackeray, the Brontës, and George Eliot. An adolescence -devoted to water-colours has therefore made it forever impossible for me -to emulate, in my functions of critic, the allusive Langism of Mr. -Andrew Lang; but on the other hand, it has conferred on me the rare -advantage of being in a position to approach the classics and the -alleged classics with a mind entirely unprejudiced by early -recollections. Thus I read David Copperfield for the first time at -thirty, after I had written a book or two and some hundreds of articles -myself. The one author whom as a youth I "devoured" was Ouida, creator -of the incomparable Strathmore, the Strathmore upon whose wrath the sun -unfortunately went down. I loved Ouida much for the impassioned nobility -of her style, but more for the scenes of gilded vice into which she -introduced me. She it was who inspired me with that taste for liaisons -under pink lampshades which I shall always have, but which, owing to a -puritanical ancestry and upbringing, I shall never be able to satisfy. -Not even the lesson of Prince Io's martyrdom in "Friendship" could cure -me of this predilection that I blush for. Yes, Ouida was the unique -fountain of romance for me. Of poetry, save "Hiawatha" and the enforced -and tedious Shakespeare of schools, I had read nothing. - -The principal local daily offered to buy approved short stories from -local readers at a guinea apiece. Immediately I wrote one. What, beyond -the chance of a guinea, made me turn so suddenly to literature I cannot -guess; it was eight years since I had sat down as a creative artist. But -I may mention here that I have never once produced any literary work -without a preliminary incentive quite other than the incentive of -ebullient imagination. I have never "wanted to write," until the -extrinsic advantages of writing had presented themselves to me. I cannot -recall that I found any difficulty in concocting the story. The heroine -was named Leonora, and after having lost sight of her for years, the -hero discovered her again as a great actress in a great play. (Miss -Ellen Terry in "Faust" had passed disturbingly athwart my existence.) I -remember no more. The story was refused. But I firmly believe that for a -boy of nineteen it was something of an achievement. No one saw it except -myself and the local editor; it was a secret, and now it is a lost -secret. Soon afterwards another local newspaper advertised for a short -serial of local interest. Immediately I wrote the serial, again without -difficulty. It was a sinister narrative to illustrate the evils of -marrying a drunken woman. (I think I had just read "L'Assommoir" in -Vizetelly's original edition of Zola.) There was a street in our town -named Commercial Street. I laid the scene there, and called it -Speculation Street. I know not what satiric criticism of modern life was -involved in that change of name. This serial too was refused; I suspect -that it was entirely without serial interest. - -I had matriculated at London University three years before, and was then -working, without heart, for a law degree (which I never won); instead of -Ouida my nights were given to Austin's Jurisprudence, the Institutes of -Justinian and of Gaius, and Maine's Ancient Law; the last is a great and -simple book, but it cannot be absorbed and digested while the student is -pre-occupied with the art of fiction. Out of an unwilling respect for -the University of London, that august negation of the very idea of a -University, I abandoned literature. As to water-colours, my tubes had -dried up long since; and house-decoration was at a standstill. - -The editor of the second newspaper, after a considerable interval, wrote -and asked me to call on him, for all the world as though I were the -impossible hero of a journalistic novel. The interview between us was -one of these plagiarisms of fiction which real life is sometimes guilty -of. The editor informed me that he had read my sinister serial with deep -interest, and felt convinced, his refusal of it notwithstanding, that I -was marked out for the literary vocation. He offered me a post on his -powerful organ as a regular weekly contributor, without salary. He said -that he was sure I could write the sort of stuff he wanted, and I -entirely agreed with him. My serene confidence in my ability, pen in -hand, to do anything that I wished to do, was thus manifest in the -beginning. Glory shone around as I left the editorial office. The -romantic quality of this episode is somewhat impaired by the fact, which -I shall nevertheless mention, that the editor was a friend of the -family, and that my father was one of several optimistic persons who -were dropping money on the powerful organ every week. The interview, -however, was indeed that peculiar phenomenon (so well-known to all -readers of biography) styled the "turning-point in one's career." But I -lacked the wit to perceive this for several years. - -The esteemed newspaper to which I was now attached served several fairly -large municipalities which lay so close together as to form in reality -one very large town divided against itself. Each wilful cell in this -organism was represented by its own special correspondent on the -newspaper, and I was to be the correspondent for my native town. I had -nothing to do with the news department; menial reporters attended to -that. My task was to comment weekly upon the town's affairs to the -extent of half a column of paragraphic notes. - -"Whatever you do, you must make your pars bright," said the editor, and -he repeated the word--"Bright!" - -Now I was entirely ignorant of my town's affairs. I had no suspicion of -the incessant comedy of municipal life. For two days I traversed our -stately thoroughfares in search of material, wondering what, in the -names of Horace Greeley, James Gordon Bennett, and Mr. Delane, my first -contribution was going to consist of. Law went to the devil, its natural -home. Then I happened to think of tram-lines. The tram-lines, under the -blessing of Heaven, were badly laid, and constituted a menace to all -wheeled traffic save trams; also the steam-engines of the trams were -offensive. I wrote sundry paragraphs on that topic, and having thus -acquired momentum, I arrived safely at the end of my half column by the -aid of one or two minor trifles. - -In due course I called at the office to correct proof, and I -was put into the hands of the sub-editor. It was one of those -quarters-of-an-hour that make life worth living; for the sub-editor -appreciated me; nay, he regarded me as something of a journalistic -prodigy, and his adjectives as he ran through the proof were extremely -agreeable. Presently he came to a sentence in which I had said that -such-and-such a proceeding "smacked of red tape." - -"'Smacked of red tape'?" He looked up at me doubtfully. "Rather a mixed -metaphor, isn't it?" - -I didn't in the least know what he meant, but I knew that sentence -was my particular pet. "Not at all!" I answered with feeling. "Nothing -of the sort! It _does_ smack of red tape--you must admit that." - -And the sentence stood. I had awed the sub-editor. - -My notes enjoyed a striking success. Their brightness scintillated -beyond the brightness of the comments from any other town. People -wondered who this caustic, cynical, and witty anonymous wag was. I -myself was vastly well satisfied; I read the stuff over and over again; -but at the same time I perceived that I could make my next contribution -infinitely more brilliant. And I did. I mention this matter, less -because it was my first appearance in print, than because it first -disclosed to me the relation between literature and life. In writing my -stories I had never thought for a moment of life. I had made something, -according to a model, not dreaming that fiction was supposed to reflect -real life. I had regarded fiction as--fiction, a concoction on the plane -of the Grand Canal, or the Zocodover at Toledo. But in this other -literature I was obliged to begin with life itself. The wheel of a -dog-cart spinning off as it jammed against a projecting bit of -tram-line; a cyclist overset: what was there in that? Nothing. Yet I had -taken that nothing and transformed it into something--something that -seemed important, permanent, _literary_. I did not comprehend the -process, but I saw its result. I do not comprehend it now. The man who -could explain it could answer the oft-repeated cry: What is Art? - -Soon afterwards I had a delightful illustration of the power of the -press. That was the era of coffee-houses, when many excellent persons -without too much humour tried all over the country to wean the populace -from beer by the superior attractions of coffee and cocoa; possibly they -had never tasted beer. Every town had its coffee-house company, limited. -Our coffee-house happened to be a pretty bad one, while the coffee-house -of the next town was conspicuously good. I said so in print, with my -usual display of verbal pyrotechny. The paper had not been published an -hour before the aggrieved manager of our coffee-house had seen his -directors on the subject. He said I lied, that I was unpatriotic, and -that he wanted my head on a charger; or words to that effect. He asked -my father, who was a director of both newspaper and coffee-house, -whether he could throw any light on the identity of the scurrilous and -cowardly scribe, and my father, to his eternal credit, said that he -could not. Again I lived vividly and fully. As for our coffee-house, it -mended its ways. - -The County Council Bill had just become law, and our town enjoyed the -diversions of electing its first County Councillor. The rival candidates -were a brewer and a prominent lay religionist. My paper supported the -latter, and referred to the conflict between the forces of civilization -and the forces of barbarism. It had a magnificent heading across two -columns: "Brains versus Beer," and expressed the most serene confidence -as to the result. Of course, my weekly notes during the campaign were a -shield and a buckler to the religionist, who moreover lived next door. - -The result of the poll was to be announced late on the night before the -paper went to press. The editor gave me instructions that _if_ we lost, -I was to make fun of the brewer, and in any case to deliver my copy by -eleven o'clock next morning. We lost heavily, disastrously; the forces -of civilization were simply nowhere. I attended the declaration of the -poll, and as the elated brewer made his speech of ceremony in front of -the town hall, I observed that his hat was stove-in and askew. I -fastened on that detail, and went to bed in meditation upon the -facetious notes which I was to write early on the morrow. In the middle -of the night I was wakened up. My venerable grandfather, who lived at -the other end of the town, had been taken suddenly ill and was dying. As -his eldest grandson, my presence at the final scene was indispensable. I -went, and talked in low tones with my elders. Upstairs the old man was -fighting for every breath. The doctor descended at intervals and said -that it was only a question of hours. I was absolutely obsessed by a -delicious feeling of the tyranny of the press. Nothing domestic could be -permitted to interfere with my duty as a journalist. - -"I must write those facetious comments while my grandfather is dying -upstairs!" This thought filled my brain. It seemed to me to be fine, -splendid. I was intensely proud of being laid under a compulsion so -startlingly dramatic. Could I manufacture jokes while my grandfather -expired? Certainly: I was a journalist. And never since have I been more -ardently a journalist than I was that night and morning. With a strong -sense of the theatrical, I wrote my notes at dawn. They delicately -excoriated the brewer. - -The curious thing is that my grandfather survived not only that, but -several other fatal attacks. - -A few weeks later, my newspaper was staggering under the blow of my -migration to London. - - - - -IV - - -I came to London at the age of twenty-one, with no definite ambition, -and no immediate object save to escape from an intellectual and artistic -environment which had long been excessively irksome to me. Some -achievement of literature certainly lay in the abyss of my desires, but -I allowed it to remain there, vague and almost unnoticed. As for -provincial journalism, without meed in coin, it had already lost the -charm of novelty, and I had been doing it in a perfunctory manner. I -made no attempt to storm Fleet Street. The fact is that I was too much -engaged in making a meal off London, swallowing it, to attend to -anything else; this repast continued for over two years. I earned a -scanty living as shorthand clerk, at first, in a solicitor's office; but -a natural gift for the preparation of bills of costs for taxation, that -highly delicate and complicated craft, and an equally natural gift for -advancing my own interests, soon put me in receipt of an income that -many "admitted" clerks would have envied: to be exact and prosaic, two -hundred a year. Another clerk in the office happened to be an ardent -bibliophile. We became friends, and I owe him much. He could chatter in -idiomatic French like a house on fire, and he knew the British Museum -Reading Room from its centre to its periphery. He first taught me to -regard a book, not as an instrument for obtaining information or -emotion, but as a _book_, printed at such a place in such a year by -so-and-so, bound by so-and-so, and carrying colophons, registers, -water-marks, and _fautes d'impression_. He was acquainted, I think, with -every second-hand bookstall in the metropolis; and on Saturday -afternoons we visited most of them. We lived for bargains and rarities. -We made it a point of honour to buy one book every day, and when -bargains failed we used to send out the messengers for a Camelot Classic -or so--ninepence net; this series was just then at the height of its -vogue. We were for ever bringing into the office formidable tomes--the -choice productions of the presses of Robert and Henry Stephen, Elzevir, -Baskerville, Giunta, Foulis, and heaven knows whom. My discovery of the -Greek _editio princeps_ of Plutarch, printed by Philip Giunta at -Florence in 1517, which I bought in Whitechapel for two shillings, -nearly placed me on a level with my preceptor. We decidedly created a -sensation in the office. The "admitted" clerks and the articled clerks, -whom legal etiquette forbids as a rule to fraternize with the -"unadmitted," took a naïve and unaffected pleasure in our society. One -day I was examining five enormous folios full-bound in yellow calf, in -the clients' waiting-room, when the senior partner surprised me thus -wasting the firm's time. - -"What's all this?" he inquired politely. He was far too polite to -remonstrate. - -"This, sir? Bayle's 'Dictionaire Historique et Critique,'" I replied. - -"Is it yours?" - -"Yes, sir. I bought it in the lunch-hour at Hodgson's." - -"Ah!" - -He retired abashed. He was a gentle fellow, and professed an admiration -for Browning; but the chief thing of which he had the right to be proud -was his absolutely beautiful French accent. - -I had scarcely been in London a year when my friend and I decided to -collaborate in a bibliographical dictionary of rare and expensive books -in all European languages. Such a scheme sounds farcical, but we were -perfectly serious over it; and the proof of our seriousness is that we -worked at it every morning before breakfast. I may mention also that we -lunched daily at the British Museum, much to the detriment of our -official duties. For months we must have been quite mad--obsessed. We -got about as far as the New English Dictionary travelled in the first -twenty years of its life, that is to say, two-thirds through A; and then -suddenly, irrationally, without warning, we dropped it. The mere -conception of this dictionary was so splendid that there was a grandeur -even in dropping it. - -Soon after this, the managing clerk of the office, a university man, -autocratic, but kindly and sagacious, bought a country practice and left -us. He called me into his room to say good-bye. - -"You'd no business to be here," he said, sharply. "You ought to be doing -something else. If I find you here when I visit town next, I shall look -on you as a d----d fool. Don't forget what I say." - -I did not. On the contrary, his curt speech made a profound impression -on me. He was thirty, and a man of the world; I was scarcely -twenty-three. My self-esteem, always vigorous, was flattered into all -sorts of new developments. I gradually perceived that, quite without -intending it, I had acquired a reputation. As what? Well, as a learned -youth not lacking in brilliance. And this reputation had, I am -convinced, sprung solely from the habit of buying books printed mainly -in languages which neither myself nor my acquaintances could read. I -owned hundreds of books, but I seldom read any of them, except the -bibliographical manuals; I had no leisure to read. I scanned. I can only -remember, in this period, that I really studied one book--Plato's -"Republic," which I read because I thought I was doing the correct -thing. Beyond this, and a working knowledge of French, and an entirely -sterile apparatus of bibliographical technique, I had mastered nothing. -Three qualities I did possess, and on these three qualities I have -traded ever since. First, an omnivorous and tenacious memory (now, alas, -effete!)--the kind of memory that remembers how much London spends per -day in cab fares just as easily as the order of Shakespeare's plays or -the stock anecdotes of Shelley and Byron. Second, a naturally sound -taste in literature. And third, the invaluable, despicable, disingenuous -journalistic faculty of seeming to know much more than one does know. -None knew better than I that, in any exact, scholarly sense, I knew -nothing of literature. Nevertheless, I should have been singularly blind -not to see that I knew far more about literature than nine-tenths of the -people around me. These people pronounced me an authority, and I -speedily accepted myself as an authority: were not my shelves a silent -demonstration? By insensible degrees I began to assume the pose of an -authority. I have carried that pose into newspaper offices and the very -arcana of literary culture, and never yet met with a disaster. Yet in -the whole of my life I have not devoted one day to the systematic study -of literature. In truth, it is absurdly easy to impress even persons who -in the customary meaning of the term have the right to call themselves -well-educated. I remember feeling very shy one night in a drawing-room -rather new to me. My host had just returned from Venice, and was -describing the palace where Browning lived; but he could not remember -the name of it. - -"Rezzonico," I said at once, and I chanced to intercept the look of -astonishment that passed between host and hostess. - -I frequented that drawing-room a great deal afterwards, and was always -expected to speak _ex cathedra_ on English literature. - -London the entity was at least as good as my dreams of it, but the -general mass of the persons composing it, considered individually, were -a sad disappointment. "What duffers!" I said to myself again and again. -"What duffers!" I had come prepared to sit provincially at the feet of -these Londoners! I was humble enough when I arrived, but they soon cured -me of that--they were so ready to be impressed! What struck me was the -extraordinary rarity of the men who really could "do their job." And -when I found them, they were invariably provincials like me who had come -up with the same illusions and suffered the same enlightenment. All who -were successfully performing that feat known as "getting on" were -provincials. I enrolled myself in their ranks. I said that I would get -on. The "d----d fool" phrase of the Chancery clerk rang in my ears like a -bugle to march. - -And for about a year I didn't move a step. I read more than I have ever -read before or since. But I did nothing. I made no effort, nor did I -subject myself to any mental discipline. I simply gorged on English and -French literature for the amusement I could extract from such gluttony, -and found physical exercise in becoming the champion of an excessively -suburban lawn-tennis club. I wasted a year in contemplating the -magnificence of my future doings. Happily I never spoke these dreams -aloud! They were only the private solace of my idleness. Now it was that -I at last decided upon the vocation of letters; not scholarship, not the -dilettantism of belles-lettres, but sheer constructive journalism and -possibly fiction. London, however, is chiefly populated by grey-haired -men who for twenty years have been about to become journalists and -authors. And but for a fortunate incident--the thumb of my Fate has -always been turned up--I might ere this have fallen back into that -tragic rearguard of Irresolutes. - -Through the good offices of my appreciative friends who had forgotten -the name of the Palazzo Rezzonico, I was enabled to take up my quarters -in the abode of some artists at Chelsea. I began to revolve, dazzled, in -a circle of painters and musicians who, without the least affectation, -spelt Art with the majuscule; indeed, it never occurred to them that -people existed who would spell it otherwise. I was compelled to set to -work on the reconstruction of nearly all my ideals. I had lived in a -world where beauty was not mentioned, seldom thought of. I believe I had -scarcely heard the adjective "beautiful" applied to anything whatever, -save confections like Gounod's "There is a green hill far away." Modern -oak sideboards were called handsome, and Christmas cards were called -pretty; and that was about all. But now I found myself among souls that -talked of beauty openly and unashamed. On the day that I arrived at the -house in Chelsea, the drawing-room had just been papered, and the -pattern of the frieze resembled nothing in my experience. I looked at -it. - -"Don't you think our frieze is charming?" the artist said, his eyes -glistening. - -It was the man's obvious sincerity that astounded me. O muse of mahogany -and green rep! Here was a creature who took a serious interest in the -pattern of his wall-papers! I expressed my enthusiasm for the frieze. - -"Yes," he replied, with simple solemnity, "_it is very beautiful_." - -This worship of beauty was continuous. The very teaspoons were banned or -blessed on their curves, and as for my rare editions, they wilted under -tests to which they were wholly unaccustomed. I possessed a _rarissime_ -illustrated copy of Manon Lescaut, of which I was very proud, and I -showed it with pride to the artist. He remarked that it was one of the -ugliest books he had ever seen. - -"But," I cried, "you've no idea how scarce it is! It's worth--" - -He laughed. - -I perceived that I must begin life again, and I began it again, -sustained in my first efforts by the all-pervading atmosphere of ardour. -My new intimates were not only keenly appreciative of beauty, they were -bent on creating it. They dreamed of great art-works, lovely -compositions, impassioned song. Music and painting they were familiar -with, and from me they were serenely sure of literature. The glorious -accent with which they clothed that word--literature! Aware beforehand -of my authority, my enthusiasm, they accepted me with quick, warm -sympathy as a fellow-idealist. Then they desired to know what I was -engaged upon, what my aims were, and other facts exceedingly difficult -to furnish. - -It happened that the most popular of all popular weeklies had recently -given a prize of a thousand pounds for a sensational serial. When the -serial had run its course, the editor offered another prize of twenty -guineas for the best humorous condensation of it in two thousand words. -I thought I might try for that, but I feared that my friends would not -consider it "art." I was mistaken. They pointed out that caricature was -a perfectly legitimate form of art, often leading to much original -beauty, and they urged me to enter the lists. They read the novel in -order the better to enjoy the caricature of it, and when, after six, -evenings' labour, my work was done, they fiercely exulted in it. Out of -the fulness of technical ignorance they predicted with certainty that I -should win the prize. - -Here again life plagiarized the sentimental novel, for I did win the -guineas. My friends were delighted, but they declined to admit a -particle of surprise. Their belief in what I could do kept me awake at -nights. - -This was my first pen-money, earned within two months of my change of -air. I felt that the omen was favourable. - - - - -V - - -Now I come to the humiliating part of my literary career, the period of -what in Fleet Street is called "free-lancing." I use the term -"humiliating" deliberately. A false aureole of romance encircles the -head of that miserable opportunist, the free-lance. I remember I tried -to feel what a glorious thing it was to be a free-lance, dependent on -none (but dependent on all), relying always on one's own invention and -ingenuity, poised always to seize the psychological moment, and gambling -for success with the calm (so spurious) of a dicer in the eighteenth -century. Sometimes I deceived myself into complacency, but far more -often I realized the true nature of the enterprise and set my teeth to -endure the spiritual shame of it. The free-lance is a tramp touting for -odd jobs; a pedlar crying stuff which is bought usually in default of -better; a producer endeavouring to supply a market of whose conditions -he is in ignorance more or less complete; a commercial traveller liable -constantly to the insolence of an elegant West End draper's "buyer." His -attitude is in essence a fawning attitude; it must be so; he is the poor -relation, the doff-hat, the ready-for-anything. He picks up the crumbs -that fall from the table of the "staff"--the salaried, jealous, -intriguing staff--or he sits down, honoured, when the staff has -finished. He never goes to bed; he dares not; if he did, a crumb would -fall. His experience is as degrading as a competitive examination, and -only less degrading than that of the black-and-white artist who trudges -Fleet Street with a portfolio under his arm. And the shame of the -free-lance is none the less real because he alone witnesses it--he and -the postman, that postman with elongated missive, that herald of -ignominy, that dismaying process-server, who raps the rap of -apprehension and probable doom six, eight, and even twelve times per -diem! - -The popular paper that had paid me twenty guineas for being facetious -expressed a polite willingness to consider my articles, and I began to -turn the life of a law-office into literature; my provincial experience -had taught me the trick. Here was I engaged all day in drawing up bills -of costs that would impose on a taxing-master to the very last -three-and-fourpence; and there was the public in whose chaotic mind a -lawyer's bill existed as a sort of legend, hieroglyphic and -undecipherable. What more natural than a brief article--"How a bill of -costs is drawn up," a trifling essay of three hundred words over which I -laboured for a couple of evenings? It was accepted, printed, and with a -postal order for ten shillings on the ensuing Thursday I saw the world -opening before me like a flower. The pathos of my sanguine ignorance! I -followed up this startling success with a careful imitation of it--"How -a case is prepared for trial," and that too brought its ten shillings. -But the vein suddenly ceased. My fledgling fancy could do no more with -law, and I cast about in futile blindness for other subjects. I grew -conscious for the first time of my lack of technical skill. My facility -seemed to leave me, and my self-confidence. Every night I laboured dully -and obstinately, excogitating, inventing, grinding out, bent always to -the squalid and bizarre tastes of the million, and ever striving after -"catchiness" and "actuality." My soul, in the arrogance of a certain -achievement, glances back furtively, with loathing, at that period of -emotional and intellectual dishonour. The one bright aspect of it is -that I wrote everything with a nice regard for English; I would lavish a -night on a few paragraphs; and years of this penal servitude left me -with a dexterity in the handling of sentences that still surprises the -possessor of it. I have heard of Fleet Street hacks who regularly -produce sixty thousand words a week; but I well know that there are not -many men who can come fresh to a pile of new books, tear the entrails -out of them, and write a fifteen-hundred-word _causerie_ on them, -passably stylistic, all inside sixty minutes. This means skill, and I am -proud of it. But my confessions as a reviewer will come later. - -No! Free-lancing was not precisely a triumph for me. Call it my -purgatorio. I shone sometimes with a feeble flicker, in half-crown -paragraphs, and in jumpy articles under alliterative titles that now and -then flared on a pink or yellow contents-bill. But I can state with some -certainty that my earnings in the mass did not exceed threepence an -hour. During all this time I was continually spurred by the artists -around me, who naïvely believed in me, and who were cognizant only of my -successes. I never spoke of defeat; I used to retire to my room with -rejected stuff as impassive as a wounded Indian; while opening envelopes -at breakfast I had the most perfect command of my features. Mere vanity -always did and always will prevent me from acknowledging a reverse at -the moment; not till I have retrieved my position can I refer to a -discomfiture. Consequently, my small world regarded me as much more -successful than I really was. Had I to live again, which Apollo forbid, -I would pursue the same policy. - -During all this time, too, I was absorbing French fiction incessantly; -in French fiction I include the work of Turgenev, because I read him -always in French translations. Turgenev, the brothers de Goncourt, and -de Maupassant were my gods. I accepted their canons, and they filled me -with a general scorn of English fiction which I have never quite lost. -From the composition of 'bits' articles I turned to admire "Fathers and -Children" or "Une Vie," and the violence of the contrast never struck me -at the time. I did not regard myself as an artist, or as emotional by -temperament. My ambition was to be a journalist merely--cool, smart, -ingenious, equal to every emergency. I prided myself on my impassivity. -I was acquainted with men who wept at fine music--I felt sure that Saint -Cecilia and the heavenly choir could not draw a single tear from my -journalistic eye. I failed to perceive that my appreciation of French -fiction, and the harangues on fiction which I delivered to my intimates, -were essentially emotional in character, and I forgot that the sight of -a successful dramatist before the curtain on a first-night always caused -me to shake with a mysterious and profound agitation. I mention these -facts to show how I misunderstood, or ignored, the progress of my -spiritual development. A crisis was at hand. I suffered from insomnia -and other intellectual complaints, and went to consult a physician who -was also a friend. - -"You know," he said, in the course of talk, "you are one of the most -highly-strung men I have ever met." - -When I had recovered from my stupefaction, I glowed with pride. What a -fine thing to be highly-strung, nervously organized! I saw myself in a -new light; I thought better of myself; I rather looked down on cool, -ingenious journalists. Perhaps I dimly suspected that Fleet Street was -not to be the end of all things for me. It was soon afterwards that the -artists whom I had twitted about their temperament accused me of sharing -it with them to the full. Another surprise! I was in a state of ferment -then. But I had acquired such a momentum in the composition of articles -destined to rejection that I continued throughout this crisis to produce -them with a regularity almost stupid. My friends began to inquire into -the nature of my ultimate purpose. They spoke of a large work, and I -replied that I had no spare time. None could question my industry. "Why -don't you write a novel on Sundays?" one of them suggested. - -The idea was grandiose. To conceive such an idea was a proof of -imagination. And the air with which these enthusiasts said these things -was entirely splendid and magnificent. But I was just then firmly -convinced that I had no vocation for the novel; I had no trace of a -desire to emulate Turgenev. Again and again my fine enthusiasts returned -to the charge, urged on by I know not what instinct. At last, to please -them, to quieten them, I promised to try to write a short story. Without -too much difficulty I concocted one concerning an artist's model, and -sent it to a weekly which gives a guinea each week for a prize story. My -tale won the guinea. - -"There! We told you so!" was the chorus. And I stood convicted of -underestimating my own powers; fault rare enough in my career! - -However, I insisted that the story was despicably bad, a commercial -product, and the reply was that I ought next to write one for art's -sake. Instead, I wrote one for morality's sake. It was a story with a -lofty purpose, dealing with the tragedy of a courtesan's life. (No, I -had not then read "Splendeurs et Misères des Courtisanes.") A prominent -philanthropist with a tendency to faddism, who for morality's sake was -running a monthly magazine, was much impressed by my tale, and after -some trouble--the contributors were supposed to contribute _con -amore_--I got another guinea. This story only pleased me for a few -weeks; its crudity was too glaring. But I continued to write short -stories, and several of them appeared in halfpenny evening papers. -Gaining in skill, I aimed political skits in narrative form at the more -exclusive, the consciously superior, penny evening papers, and one or -two of these hit the mark. I admired the stuff greatly. Lo, I had risen -from a concocter of 'bits' articles to be the scorpion-sting of cabinet -ministers! My self-confidence began to return. - -Then, one day, one beneficent and adorable day, my brain was visited by -a Plot. I had a prevision that I was about to write a truly excellent -short story. I took incredible pains to be realistic, stylistic, and all -the other _istics_, and the result amazed me. I knew that at last I had -accomplished a good thing--I knew by the glow within me, the emotional -fatigue, the vista of sweet labour behind me. What moved me to despatch -this jewel, this bit of caviare-to-the-general, to the editor of a -popular weekly with a circulation of a quarter of a million, I cannot -explain. But so I did. The editor returned it with a note to say that he -liked the plot, but the style was below his standard. I laughed, and, -more happily inspired, sent it to the Yellow Book, where it duly -appeared. The Yellow Book was then in apogee. Several fiercely literary -papers singled out my beautiful story for especial praise. - -"By heaven!" I said, "I will write a novel." It was a tremendous -resolution. - -I saw that I could _write_. - - - - -VI - - -But before continuing the narration of my adventures in fiction, I must -proceed a little further in the dusty tracks of journalism. When I had -laboured sordidly and for the most part ineffectively as a free-lance for -two or three years, I became, with surprising suddenness, the -assistant-editor of a ladies' paper. The cause of this splendid -metamorphosis was sadly unromantic. I had not bombarded the paper, from -the shelter of a pseudonym, with articles of unexampled brilliance. The -editor had not invited his mysterious and talented contributor into the -editorial sanctum, and there informed him that his exclusive services, -at a generous salary, were deemed absolutely essential to the future -welfare of the organ which he had hitherto assisted only on occasion. I -had never written a line for the paper, nor for any ladies' paper. I -obtained the situation by "influence," and that of the grossest kind. -All that I personally did was to furnish a list of the newspapers and -periodicals to which I had contributed, and some specimens of my printed -work. These specimens proved rather more than satisfactory. The editor -adored smartness; smartness was the "note" of his paper; and he -discovered several varieties of smartness in my productions. At our -first interview, and always afterwards, his attitude towards me was full -of appreciation and kindness. The post was a good one, a hundred and -fifty a year for one whole day and four half-days a week. Yet I was -afraid to take it. I was afraid to exchange two hundred a year for a -hundred and fifty and half my time, I who ardently wished to be a -journalist and to have leisure for the imitation of our lady George -Sand! In the end I was hustled into the situation. My cowardice was -shameful; but in recording it I am not unconscious of the fact that -truth makes for piquancy. - -"I am sorry to say that I shall have to leave you at Christmas, sir." - -"Indeed!" exclaimed the lawyer who admired Browning. "How is that?" - -"I am going on to the staff of a paper." Perhaps I have never felt -prouder than when I uttered those words. My pride must have been -disgusting. This was the last time I ever said "sir" to any man under -the rank of a knight. The defection of a reliable clerk who combined -cunning in the preparation of costs with a hundred and thirty words a -minute at shorthand was decidedly a blow to my excellent; employer; good -costs clerks are rarer than true poets; but he suffered it with -impassive stoicism; I liked him for that. - -On a New Year's Day I strolled along Piccadilly to the first day's work -on my paper. "My paper"--O the joyful sound! But the boats were burnt -up; their ashes were even cool; and my mind, in the midst of all this -bliss, was vexed by grave apprehensions. Suppose the paper to expire, as -papers often did! I knew that the existence of this particular paper was -precarious; its foundations were not fixed in the dark backward and -abysm of time--it was two years old. Nevertheless, and indisputably and -solely, I was at last a journalist, and entitled so to describe myself -in parish registers, county court summonses, jury papers, and income-tax -returns. In six months I might be a tramp sleeping in Trafalgar Square, -but on that gorgeous day I was a journalist; nay, I was second in -command over a cohort of women whose cleverness, I trusted, would be -surpassed only by their charm. - -The office was in the West End--index of smartness; one arrived at ten -thirty or so, and ascended to the suite in a lift. One smoked cigars and -cigarettes incessantly. There was no discipline, and no need of -discipline, since the indoor staff consisted only of the editor, myself, -and the editor's lady-secretary. The contrast between this and the exact -ritual of a solicitor's office was marked and delightful. In an -adjoining suite on the same floor an eminent actress resided, and an -eminent actor strolled in to us, grandiosely, during the morning, -accepted a cigar and offered a cigarette (according to his frugal -custom), chatted grandiosely, and grandiosely departed. Parcels were -constantly arriving--books, proofs, process-blocks, samples of soap and -of corsets: this continuous procession of parcels impressed me as much -as anything. From time to time well-dressed and alert women called, to -correct proofs, to submit drawings, or to scatter excuses. This was -"Evadne," who wrote about the toilet; that was "Angélique," who did the -cookery; the other was "Enid," the well-known fashion artist. In each -case I was of course introduced as the new assistant-editor; they were -adorable, without exception. At one o'clock, having apparently done -little but talk and smoke, we went out, the Editor and I, to lunch at -the Cri. - -"This," I said to myself quite privately, "this may be a novel by -Balzac, but it is not my notion of journalism." - -The doings of the afternoon, however, bore a closer resemblance to my -notion of journalism. That day happened to be press-day, and I perceived -that we gradually became very busy. Messenger-boys waited while I wrote -paragraphs to accompany portraits, or while I regularized the syntax of -a recipe for sole _à la Normande_, or while I ornamented two naked -lines from the "Morning Post" with four lines of embroidery. The editor -was enchanted with my social paragraphs; he said I was born to it, and -perhaps I was. I innocently asked in what part of the paper they were to -shine. - -"Gwendolen's column," he replied. - -"Who is Gwendolen?" I demanded. Weeks before, I had admired Gwendolen's -breadth of view and worldly grasp of things, qualities rare in a woman. - -"You are," he said, "and I am. It's only an office signature." - -Now, that was what I called journalism. I had been taken in, but I was -glad to have been taken in. - -At four o'clock he began frantically to dictate the weekly London Letter -which he contributed to an Indian newspaper; the copy caught the Indian -mail at six. And this too was what I called journalism. I felt myself to -be in my element; I lived. At an hour which I forget we departed -together to the printers, and finished off. It was late when the paper -"went down." The next morning the lady-secretary handed to me the first -rough folded "pull" of the issue, and I gazed at it as a mother might -gaze at her firstborn. - -"But is this all?" ran my thoughts. The fact was, I had expected some -process of initiation. I had looked on "journalism" as a sort of temple -of mysteries into which, duly impressed, I should be ceremoniously -guided. I was called assistant-editor for the sake of grandiloquence, -but of course I knew I was chiefly a mere sub-editor, and I had -anticipated that the sub-editorial craft would be a complex technical -business requiring long study and practice. On the contrary, there -seemed to me to be almost nothing in its technique. The tricks of -making-up, making-ready, measuring blocks, running-round, cutting, -saving a line, and so on: my chief assumed in the main that I understood -all these, and I certainly did grasp them instinctively; they appeared -childishly simple. Years afterwards, a contributor confided to me that -the editor had told her that he taught me nothing after the first day, -and that I was a born journalist. I do not seriously think that I was a -born journalist, and I mention this detail, not from any vain-glory over -a trifle, but to show that the _arcana_ of journalism partake of the -nature of an imposture. The same may be said of all professional -_arcana_, even those of politics or of the swell-mob. - -In a word, I was a journalist--but I felt just the same as before. - -I vaguely indicated my feelings on this point to the chief. - -"Ah!" he said. "But you know you'd been through the mill before you came -here." - -So I had been through the mill! Writing articles at night and getting -them back the next morning but one, for a year or two--that was going -through the mill! Let it be so, then. When other men envied my position, -and expressed their opinion that I had "got on to a soft thing," I -indicated that the present was the fruit of the past, and that I had -been through the mill. - -Journalism for women, by women under the direction of men, is an affair -at once anxious, agreeable and delicate for the men who direct. It is a -journalism by itself, apart from other journalisms. And it is the only -journalism that I intimately know. The commercial side of it, the queer -financial basis of it, have a peculiar interest, but my scheme does not -by any means include the withdrawal of those curtains. I am concerned -with letters, and letters, I fear, have little connection with women's -journalism. I learnt nothing of letters in that office, save a few of -the more obvious journalistic devices, but I learnt a good deal about -frocks, household management, and the secret nature of women, especially -the secret nature of women. As for frocks, I have sincerely tried to -forget that branch of human knowledge; nevertheless the habit, acquired -then, of glancing first at a woman's skirt and her shoes, has never left -me. My apprenticeship to frocks was studded with embarrassing -situations, of which I will mention only one. It turns upon some designs -for a layette. A layette, perhaps I ought to explain, is an outfit for a -new-born babe, and naturally it is prepared in advance of the stranger's -arrival. Underneath a page of layette illustrations I once put the -legend, correct in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of a -thousand--but this was the thousandth--_Cut-to-measure patterns -supplied_. The solecism stands to all eternity against me on the file of -the paper; and the recollection of it, like the recollection of a -_gaucherie_, is persistently haunting. - -And here I shall quit for a time the feminine atmosphere, and the path -which I began by calling dusty, but which is better called flowery. My -activity in that path showed no further development until after I had -written my first novel. - - - - -VII - - -"By heaven!" I said, "I will write a novel!" - -And I sat down to my oaken bureau with the air of a man who has resolved -to commit a stupendous crime. Perhaps indeed it was a crime, this my -first serious challenge to a neglectful and careless world. At any rate -it was meant to be the beginning of the end, the end being twofold--fame -and a thousand a year. You must bear well in mind that I was by no means -the ordinary person, and my novel was by no means to be the ordinary -novel. In these cases the very essence of the situation is always that -one is not ordinary. I had just discovered that I could write--and -when I use the term "write" here, I use it in a special sense, -to be appreciated only by those elect who can themselves "write," -and difficult of comprehension by all others. I had had a -_conte_--exquisitely Gallic as to spirit and form--in the "Yellow Book," -and that _conte_ had been lauded in the "South Audley Street Gazette" or -some organ of destructive criticism. My friends believed in Art, -themselves, and me. I believed in myself, Art, and them. Could any -factor be lacking to render the scene sublime and historic? - -So I sat down to write my first novel, under the sweet influences of the -de Goncourts, Turgenev, Flaubert, and de Maupassant. It was to be -entirely unlike all English novels except those of one author, whose -name I shall not mention now, for the reason that I have afore-time made -my admiration of that author very public. I clearly remember that the -purpose uppermost in my mind was to imitate what I may call the physical -characteristics of French novels. There were to be no poetical -quotations in my novel, no titles to the chapters; the narrative was to -be divided irregularly into sections by Roman numerals only; and it was -indispensable that a certain proportion of these sections should begin -or end abruptly. As thus, for a beginning:--"Gerald suddenly changed the -conversation, and taking the final match from his match-box at last -agreed to light a cigar." And for an ending:--"Her tremulous eyes sought -his; breathing a sigh she murmured . . ." O succession of dots, charged -with significance vague but tremendous, there were to be hundreds of you -in my novel, because you play so important a part in the literature of -the country of Victor Hugo and M. Loubet! So much for the physical -characteristics. To come nearer to the soul of it, my novel was to be a -mosaic consisting exclusively of Flaubert's _mots justes_--it was to be -_mots justes_ composed into the famous _écriture artiste_ of the de -Goncourts. The sentences were to perform the trick of "the rise and -fall." The adjectives were to have colour, the verbs were to have -colour, and perhaps it was a _sine qua non_ that even the pronouns -should be prismatic--I forget. And all these effects were to be obtained -without the most trifling sacrifice of truth. There was to be no bowing -in the house of the Rimmon of sentimentality. Life being grey, sinister, -and melancholy, my novel must be grey, sinister, and melancholy. As a -matter of strict fact, life deserved none of these epithets; I was -having a very good time; but at twenty-seven one is captious, and liable -to err in judgment--a liability which fortunately disappears at -thirty-five or so. No startling events were to occur in my novel, nor -anything out of the way that might bring the blush of shame to the -modesty of nature; no ingenious combinations, no dramatic surprises, and -above all no coincidences. It was to be the Usual miraculously -transformed by Art into the Sublime. - -The sole liberty that I might permit myself in handling the Usual was to -give it a rhythmic contour--a precious distinction in those Yeller-bocky -days. - -All these cardinal points being settled, I passed to the business of -choosing a subject. Need I say that I chose myself? But, in obedience to -my philosophy, I made myself a failure. I regarded my hero with an air -of "There, but for the grace of God, goes me!" I decided that he should -go through most of my own experiences, but that instead of fame and a -thousand a year he should arrive ultimately at disillusion and a -desolating suburban domesticity. I said I would call my novel "In the -Shadow," a title suggested to me by the motto of Balzac's "Country -Doctor"--"For a wounded heart, shadow and silence." It was to be all -very dolorous, this Odyssey of a London clerk who---- But I must not -disclose any detail of the plot. - -So I sat down, and wrote on a fair quarto sheet, "In the Shadow," and -under that, "I." It was a religious rite, an august and imposing -ceremonial; and I was the officiating priest. In the few fleeting -instants between the tracing of the "I" and the tracing of the first -word of the narrative, I felt happy and proud; but immediately the -fundamental brain-work began, I lost nearly all my confidence. With -every stroke the illusion grew thinner, more remote. I perceived that I -could not become Flaubert by taking thought, and this rather obvious -truth rushed over me as a surprise. I knew what I wanted to do, and I -could not do it. I felt, but I could not express. My sentences would -persist in being damnably Mudiesque. The _mots justes_ hid themselves -exasperatingly behind a cloud. The successions of dots looked merely -fatuous. The charm, the poetry, the distinction, the inevitableness, the -originality, the force, and the invaluable rhythmic contour--these were -anywhere save on my page. All writers are familiar with the dreadful -despair that ensues when a composition, on perusal, obstinately presents -itself as a series of little systems of words joined by conjunctions and -so forth, something like this--subject, predicate, object, _but_, -subject, predicate, object. Pronoun, _however_, predicate, negative, -infinitive verb. _Nevertheless_, participle, accusative, subject, -predicate, etc., etc., etc., for evermore. I suffered that despair. The -proper remedy is to go to the nearest bar and have a drink, or to read a -bit of "Comus" or "Urn-Burial," but at that time I had no skill in -weathering anti-cyclones, and I drove forward like a sinking steamer in -a heavy sea. - -And this was what it was, in serious earnest, to be an author! For I -reckon that in writing the first chapter of my naturalistic novel, I -formally became an author; I had undergone a certain apprenticeship. I -didn't feel like an author, no more than I had felt like a journalist on -a similar occasion. Indeed, far less: I felt like a fool, an incompetent -ass. I seemed to have an idea that there was no such thing as -literature, that literature was a mirage, or an effect of hypnotism, or -a concerted fraud. After all, I thought, what in the name of common -sense is the use of telling this silly ordinary story of everyday life? -Where is the point? What _is_ art, anyway, and all this chatter about -truth to life, and all this rigmarole of canons? - -I finished the chapter that night, hurriedly, perfunctorily, and only -because I had sworn to finish it. Then, in obedience to an instinct -which all Grub Street has felt, I picked out the correct "Yellow Book" -from a shelf and read my beautiful story again. That enheartened me a -little, restored my faith in the existence of art, and suggested the -comfortable belief that things were not perhaps as bad as they seemed. - -"Well, how's the novel getting on?" my friend the wall-paper enthusiast -inquired jovially at supper. - -"Oh, fine!" I said. "It's going to be immense." - -Why one should utter these frightful and senseless lies, I cannot guess. -I might just as well have spoken the precise truth to him, for his was a -soul designed by providence for the encouragement of others. Still, -having made that remark, I added in my private ear that either the novel -must be immense or I must perish in the attempt to make it so. - -In six months I had written only about thirty thousand words, and I felt -the sort of elation that probably succeeds six months on a treadmill. -But one evening, in the midst of a chapter, a sudden and mysterious -satisfaction began to warm my inmost being. I knew that chapter was -good and going to be good. I experienced happiness in the very act of -work. Emotion and technique were reconciled. It was as if I had -surprisingly come upon the chart with the blood-red cross showing where -the Spanish treasure was buried. I dropped my pen, and went out for a -walk, and decided to give the book an entirely fresh start. I carefully -read through all that I had written. It was bad, but viewed in the mass -it produced on me a sort of culminating effect which I had not -anticipated. Conceive the poor Usual at the bottom of a flight of -stairs, and the region of the Sublime at the top: it seemed to me that I -had dragged the haggard thing halfway up, and that it lay there, inert -but safe, awaiting my second effort. The next night I braced myself to -this second effort, and I thought that I succeeded. - -"We're doing the trick, Charlie," Edmund Kean whispered into the ear of -his son during a poignant scene of "Brutus." And in the very crisis of -my emotional chapters, while my hero was rushing fatally to the nether -greyness of the suburbs and all the world was at its most sinister and -most melancholy, I said to myself with glee: "We're doing the trick." My -moods have always been a series of violent contrasts, and I was now just -as uplifted as I had before been depressed. There were interludes of -doubt and difficulty, but on the whole I was charmed with my novel. It -would be a despicable affectation to disguise the fact that I deemed it -a truly distinguished piece of literature, idiosyncratic, finely -imaginative, and of rhythmic contour. As I approached the end, my -self-esteem developed in a _crescendo_. I finished the tale, having -sentenced my hero to a marriage infallibly disastrous, at three o'clock -one morning. I had laboured for twelve hours without intermission. It -was great, this spell; it was histrionic. It was Dumas over again, and -the roaring French forties. - -Nevertheless, to myself I did not yet dare to call myself an artist. I -lacked the courage to believe that I had the sacred fire, the inborn and -not-to-be-acquired vision. It seemed impossible that this should be so. -I have ridiculed the whole artist tribe, and, in the pursuit of my -vocation, I shall doubtless ridicule them again; but never seriously. -Nothing is more deeply rooted in me than my reverence for the artistic -faculty. And whenever I say, "The man's an artist," I say it with an -instinctive solemnity that so far as I am concerned ends all discussion. -Dared I utter this great saying to my shaving-mirror? No, I repeat that -I dared not. More than a year elapsed before the little incident -described at the commencement of these memoirs provided me with the -audacity to inform the author of "In the Shadow" that he too belonged to -the weird tribe of Benjamin. - -When my novel had been typewritten and I read it in cold blood, I was -absolutely unable to decide whether it was very good, good, medium, bad, -or very bad. I could not criticize it. All I knew was that certain -sentences, in the vein of the _écriture artiste_, persisted beautifully -in my mind, like fine lines from a favourite poet. I loosed the brave -poor thing into the world over a post-office counter. "What chance _has_ -it, in the fray?" I exclaimed. My novel had become nothing but a parcel. -Thus it went in search of its fate. - -I have described the composition of my first book in detail as realistic -as I can make it, partly because a few years ago the leading novelists -of the day seemed to enter into a conspiracy to sentimentalize the -first book episode in their brilliant careers. - - - - -VIII - - -"Will you step this way?" said the publisher's manager, and after -coasting by many shelves loaded with scores of copies of the same book -laid flat in piles--to an author the most depressing sight in the -world--I was ushered into the sanctum, the star-chamber, the den, the -web of the spider. - -I beheld the publisher, whose name is a household word wherever the -English language is written for posterity. Even at that time his imprint -flamed on the title-pages of one or two works of a deathless nature. My -manuscript lay on an occasional table by his side, and I had the curious -illusion that he was posing for his photograph with my manuscript. As I -glanced at it I could not help thinking that its presence there bordered -on the miraculous. I had parted with it at a post-office. It had been -stamped, sorted, chucked into a van, whirled through the perilous -traffic of London's centre, chucked out of a van, sorted again, and -delivered with many other similar parcels at the publisher's. The -publisher had said: "Send this to So-and-so to read." Then more perils -by road and rail, more risks of extinction and disorientation. Then -So-and-so, probably a curt man, with a palate cloyed by the sickliness -of many manuscripts, and a short way with new authors, had read it or -pretended to read it. Then finally the third ordeal of locomotion. And -there it was, I saw it once more, safe! - -We discussed the weather and new reputations. I was nervous, and I think -the publisher was nervous, too. At length, in a manner mysterious and -inexplicable, the talk shifted to my manuscript. The publisher permitted -himself a few compliments of the guarded sort. - -"But there's no money in it, you know," he said. - -"I suppose not," I assented. ("You are an ass for assenting to that," I -said to myself.) - -"I invariably lose money over new authors," he remarked, as if I was to -blame. - -"You didn't lose much over Mrs.----," I replied, naming one of his -notorious successes. - -"Oh, _well_!" he said, "of course----. But I didn't make so much as you -think, perhaps. Publishing is a very funny business." And then he added: -"Do you think your novel will succeed like Mrs.----'s?" - -I said that I hoped it would. - -"I'll be perfectly frank with you," the publisher exclaimed, smiling -beneficently. "My reader likes your book. I'll tell you what he says." -He took a sheet of paper that lay on the top of the manuscript and read. - -I was enchanted, spell-bound. The nameless literary adviser used phrases -of which the following are specimens (I am recording with exactitude): -"Written with great knowledge and a good deal of insight." "Character -delineated by a succession of rare and subtle touches." "Living, -convincing." "Vigour and accuracy." "The style is good." - -I had no idea that publishers' readers were capable of such laudation. - -The publisher read on: "I do not think it likely to be a striking -success!" - -"Oh!" I murmured, shocked by this bluntness. - -"There's no money in it," the publisher repeated, firmly. "First books -are too risky. . . . I should like to publish it." - -"Well?" I said, and paused. I felt that he had withdrawn within himself -in order to ponder upon the chances of this terrible risk. So as not to -incommode him with my gaze, I examined the office, which resembled a -small drawing-room rather than an office. I saw around me signed -portraits of all the roaring lions on the sunny side of Grub Street. - -"I'll publish it," said the publisher, and I believe he made an honest -attempt not to look like a philanthropist; however, the attempt failed. -"I'll publish it. But of course I can only give you a small royalty." - -"What royalty?" I asked. - -"Five per cent.--on a three-and-six-penny book." - -"Very well. Thank you!" I said. - -"I'll give you fifteen per cent, after the sale of five thousand -copies," he added kindly. - -O ironist! - -I emerged from the web of the spider triumphant, an accepted author. -Exactly ten days had elapsed since I had first parted with my -manuscript. Once again life was plagiarizing fiction. I could not -believe that this thing was true. I simply could not believe it. "Oh!" I -reflected, incredulous, "Something's bound to happen. It can't really -come off. The publisher might die, and then----" - -Protected by heaven on account of his good deeds, the publisher -felicitously survived; and after a delay of twelve months (twelve -centuries--during which I imagined that the universe hung motionless and -expectant in the void!) he accomplished his destiny by really and truly -publishing my book. - -The impossible had occurred. I was no longer a mere journalist; I was an -author. - -"After all, it's nothing!" I said, with that intense and unoriginal -humanity which distinguishes all of us. And in a blinding flash I saw -that an author was in essence the same thing as a grocer or a duke. - - - - -IX - - -My novel, under a new title, was published both in England and America. -I actually collected forty-one reviews, of it, and there must have been -many that escaped me. Of these forty-one, four were unfavourable, eleven -mingled praise and blame in about equal proportions, and twenty-six were -unmistakably favourable, a few of them being enthusiastic. - -Yet I had practically no friends on the press. One friend I had, a man -of power, and he reviewed my book with an appreciation far too kind; but -his article came as a complete surprise to me. Another friend I had, -sub-editor of a society weekly, and he asked me for a copy of my book so -that he might "look after it" in the paper. Here is part of the result: - -"He has all the young novelist's faults. . . . These are glaring faults; -for, given lack of interest, and unpleasant scenes, how can a book be -expected to be popular?" - -A third friend I had, who knew the chief fiction-reviewer on a great -morning paper. He asked me for a special copy of my book, and quite on -his own initiative, undertook to arrange the affair. Here is part of the -result: - -"There is not much to be said either for or against---- by Mr.----" - -I had no other friends on the press, or friends who had friends on the -press. - -I might easily butcher the reviews for your amusement, but this practice -is becoming trite. I will quote a single sentence which pleased me as -much as any:--"What our hero's fate was let those who care to know find -out, but let us assure them that in its discovery they will read of -London life and labour as it is, not as the bulk of romances paint it." -All the principal organs were surprisingly appreciative. And the -majority of the reviewers agreed that my knowledge of human nature was -exceptionally good, that my style was exceptionally good, that I had in -me the makings of a novelist, and that my present subject was weak. My -subject was not weak; but let that pass. When I reflect how my book -flouted the accepted canons of English fiction, and how many aspects of -it must have annoyed nine reviewers out of ten, I am compelled to the -conclusion that reviewers are a very good-natured class of persons. I -shall return to this interesting point later--after I have described how -I became a reviewer myself. The fact to be asserted is that I, quite -obscure and defenceless, was treated very well. I could afford to smile -from a high latitude at the remark of "The New York----" that "the story -and characters are commonplace in the extreme." I felt that I had not -lived in vain, and that kindred spirits were abroad in the land. - -My profits from this book with the exceptional style and the exceptional -knowledge of human nature, exceeded the cost of having it typewritten by -the sum of one sovereign. Nor was I, nor am I, disposed to grumble at -this. Many a first book has cost its author a hundred pounds. I got a -new hat out of mine. - -What I did grumble at was the dishonour of the prophet in his own -county. Here I must delicately recall that my novel was naturalistic, -and that it described the career of a young man alone in London. It had -no "realism" in the vulgar sense, as several critics admitted, but still -it was desperately exact in places, and I never surrounded the head of a -spade with the aureole of a sentimental implement. The organ of a great -seaport remarked: "We do not consider the book a healthy one. We say no -more." Now you must imagine this excessively modern novel put before a -set of estimable people whose ideas on fiction had been formed under the -influence of Dickens and Mrs. Henry Wood, and who had never changed -those ideas. Some of them, perhaps, had not read a novel for ten years -before they read mine. The result was appalling, frightful, tragical. -For months I hesitated to visit the town which had the foresight to bear -me, and which is going to be famous on that score. I was castigated in -the local paper. My nearest and dearest played nervously with their -bread when my novel was mentioned at dinner. A relative in a distant -continent troubled himself to inform me that the book was fragmentary -and absolutely worthless. The broader-minded merely wished that I had -never written the book. The discreet received it in silence. One -innocent person, for whom I have the warmest regard, thought that my -novel might be a suitable birthday present for his adolescent son. By -chance he perused the book himself on the birthday eve. I was told that -neither on that night nor on the next did he get a wink of sleep. His -adolescent son certainly never got my book. - -Most authors, I have learnt on enquiry, have to suffer from this strange -lack of appreciation in the very circle where appreciation should be -kindest; if one fault isn't found, another is; but they draw a veil -across that dark aspect of the bright auctorial career. I, however, am -trying to do without veils, and hence I refer to the matter. - - - - -X - - -My chief resigned his position on the paper with intent to enliven other -spheres of activity. The news of his resignation was a blow to me. It -often happens that when an editor walks out of an office in the exercise -of free-will, the staff follows him under compulsion. In Fleet Street -there is no security of tenure unless one is ingenious enough to be the -proprietor of one's paper. - -"I shall never get on with any one as I have got on with you," I said to -the chief. - -"You needn't," he answered. "I'm sure they'll have the sense to give you -my place if you ask for it." "They" were a board of directors. - -And they had the sense; they even had the sense not to wait until I -asked. I have before remarked that the thumb of my Fate has always been -turned up. Still on the glorious side of thirty, still young, -enthusiastic, and a prey to delightful illusions, I suddenly found -myself the editor of a London weekly paper. It was not a leading organ, -but it was a London weekly paper, and it had pretensions; at least I -had. My name was inscribed in various annuals of reference. I dined as -an editor with other editors. I remember one day sitting down to table -in a populous haunt of journalists with no less than four editors. -"Three years ago," I said to myself, "I should have deemed this an -impossible fairy tale." I know now that there are hundreds of persons in -London and elsewhere who regard even editors with gentle and -condescending toleration. One learns. - -I needed a sub-editor, and my first act was to acquire one. I had the -whole world of struggling lady-journalists to select from: to choose was -an almost sublime function. For some months previously we had been -receiving paragraphs and articles from an outside contributor whose -_flair_ in the discovery of subjects, whose direct simplicity of style -and general tidiness of "copy," had always impressed me. I had never -seen her, and I knew nothing about her; but I decided that, if she -pleased, this lady should be my sub-editor. I wrote desiring her to -call, and she called. Without much preface I offered her the situation; -she accepted it. - -"Who recommended me to you?" she asked. - -"No one," I replied, in the rôle of Joseph Pulitzer; "I liked your -stuff." - -It was a romantic scene. I mention it because I derived a child-like -enjoyment from that morning. Vanity was mixed up in it; but I argued--If -you are an editor, be an editor imaginatively. I seemed to resemble -Louis the Fifteenth beginning to reign after the death of the Regent, -but with no troublesome Fleury in the background. - -"Now," I cried, "up goes the circulation!" - -But circulations are not to be bullied into ascension. They will only -rise on the pinions of a carefully constructed policy. I thought I knew -all about journalism for women, and I found that I knew scarcely the -fringe of it. A man may be a sub-editor, or even an assistant-editor, -for half a lifetime, and yet remain ignorant of the true significance of -journalism. Those first months were months of experience in a very -poignant sense. The proprietary desired certain modifications in the -existing policy. O that mysterious "policy," which has to be created and -built up out of articles, paragraphs, and pictures! That -thrice-mysterious "public taste" which has to be aimed at in the dark -and hit! I soon learnt the difference between legislature and executive. -I could "execute" anything, from a eulogy of a philanthropic duchess to -a Paris fashion letter. I could instruct a fashion-artist as though I -knew what I was talking about. I could play Blucher at the Waterloo of -the advertisement-manager. I could interview a beauty and make her say -the things that a beauty must say in an interview. But to devise the -contents of an issue, to plan them, to balance them; to sail with this -wind and tack against that; to keep a sensitive cool finger on the -faintly beating pulse of the terrible many-headed patron; to walk in a -straight line through a forest black as midnight; to guess the riddle of -the circulation-book week by week; to know by instinct why Smiths sent -in a repeat-order, or why Simpkins' was ten quires less; to keep one eye -on the majestic march of the world, and the other on the vagaries of a -bazaar-reporter who has forgotten the law of libel: these things, and -seventy-seven others, are the real journalism. It is these things that -make editors sardonic, grey, unapproachable. - -Unique among all suspenses is the suspense that occupies the editorial -mind between the moment of finally going to press and the moment of -examining the issue on the morning of publication. Errors, appalling and -disastrous errors, will creep in; and they are irremediable then. These -mishaps occur to the most exalted papers, to all papers, except perhaps -the "Voce della Verità," which, being the organ of the Pope, is -presumably infallible. Tales circulate in Fleet Street that make the -hair stand on end; and every editor says: "This might have happened to -_me_." Subtle beyond all subtleties is the magic and sinister change that -happens to your issue in the machine-room at the printers. You pass the -final page and all seems fair, attractive, clever, well-designed. . . . Ah! -But what you see is not what is on the paper; it is the -reflection of the bright image in your mind of what you intended! When -the last thousand is printed and the parcels are in the vans, then you -gaze at the unalterable thing, and you see it coldly as it actually is. -You see not what you intended, but what you have accomplished. And the -difference! It is like the chill, steely dawn after the vague poetry of -a moonlit night. - -There is no peace for an editor. He may act the farce of taking a -holiday, but the worm of apprehension is always gnawing at the root of -pleasure. I once put my organ to bed and went off by a late train in a -perfect delirium of joyous anticipation of my holiday. I was recalled by -a telegram that a fire with a strong sense of ironic humour had burnt -the printing office to the ground and destroyed five-sixths of my entire -issue. In such crises something has to be done, and done quickly. You -cannot say to your public next week: "Kindly excuse the absence of the -last number, as there was a fire at the printers." Your public recks not -of fires, no more than the General Post Office, in its attitude towards -late clerks, recognizes the existence of fogs in winter. And herein -lies, for the true journalist, one of the principal charms of Fleet -Street. Herein lies the reason why an editor's life is at once -insufferable and worth living. There are no excuses. Every one knows -that if the crater of Highgate Hill were to burst and bury London in -lava to-morrow, the newspapers would show no trace of the disaster -except an account of it. That thought is fine, heroic, when an editor -thinks of it. - -And if an editor knows not peace, he knows power. In Fleet Street, as in -other streets, the population divides itself into those who want -something and those who have something to bestow; those who are anxious -to give a lunch, and those who deign occasionally to accept a lunch; -those who have an axe to grind and those who possess the grindstone. The -change from the one position to the other was for me at first rather -disconcerting; I could not understand it; there was an apparent -unreality about it; I thought I must be mistaken; I said to myself: -"Surely this unusual ingratiating affability has nothing to do with the -accident that I am an editor." Then, like the rest of the owners of -grindstones, I grew accustomed to the ownership, and cynical withal, -cold, suspicious, and forbidding. I became bored by the excessive -complaisance that had once tickled and flattered me. (Nevertheless, -after I had ceased to be an editor I missed it; involuntarily I -continued to expect it.) The situation of the editor of a ladies' paper -is piquantly complicated, in this respect, by the fact that some women, -not many--but a few, have an extraordinary belief in, and make -unscrupulous use of, their feminine fascinations. The art of being "nice -to editors" is diligently practised by these few; often, I know, with -brilliant results. Sometimes I have sat in my office, with the charmer -opposite, and sardonically reflected: "You think I am revolving round -your little finger, madam, but you were never more mistaken in your -life." And yet, breathes there the man with soul so uniformly cold that -once or twice in such circumstances the woman was not right after all? I -cannot tell. The whole subject, the subject of that strange, disturbing, -distracting, emotional atmosphere of femininity which surrounds the male -in command of a group of more or less talented women, is of a supreme -delicacy. It could only be treated safely in a novel--one of the novels -which it is my fixed intention never to write. This I know and affirm, -that the average woman-journalist is the most loyal, earnest, and -teachable person under the sun. I begin to feel sentimental when I think -of her astounding earnestness, even in grasping the live coal of English -syntax. Syntax, bane of writing-women, I have spent scores of -ineffectual hours in trying to inoculate the ungrammatical sex against -your terrors! And how seriously they frowned, and how seriously I -talked; and all the while the eternal mystery of the origin and destiny -of all life lay thick and unnoticed about us! - -These syntax-sittings led indirectly to a new development of my -activities. One day a man called on me with a letter of introduction. He -was a colonial of literary tastes. I asked in what manner I might serve -him. - -"I want to know whether you would care to teach me journalism," he said. - -"Teach you journalism!" I echoed, wondering by what unperceived alchemy -I myself, but yesterday a tyro, had been metamorphosed into a professor -of the most comprehensive of all crafts. - -"I am told you are the best person to come to," he said. - -"Why not?" I thought. "Why shouldn't I?" I have never refused work when -the pay has been good. I named a fee that might have frightened him, but -it did not. And so it fell out that I taught journalism to him, and to -others, for a year or two. This vocation suited me; I had an aptitude -for it; and my fame spread abroad. Some of the greatest experts in -London complimented me on my methods and my results. Other and more -ambitious schemes, however, induced me to abandon this lucrative field, -which was threatening to grow tiresome. - - - - -XI - - -I come now to a question only less delicate than that of the conflict of -sexes in journalism--the question of reviewing, which, however, I shall -treat with more freedom. If I have an aptitude for anything at all in -letters, it is for criticism. Whenever I read a work of imagination, I -am instantly filled with ideas concerning it; I form definite views -about its merit or demerit, and having formed them, I hold those views -with strong conviction. Denial of them rouses me; I must thump the table -in support of them; I must compel people to believe that what I say is -true; I cannot argue without getting serious in spite of myself. In -literature, but in nothing else, I am a propagandist; I am not content -to keep my opinion and let others keep theirs. To have a worthless book -in my house (save in the way of business), to know that any friend of -mine is enjoying it, actually distresses me. That book must go, the -pretensions of that book must be exposed, if I am to enjoy peace of -mind. Some may suspect that I am guilty here of the affectation of a -pose. Really it is not so. I often say to myself, after the heat of an -argument, a denunciation, or a defence: "What does it matter, fool? The -great mundane movement will continue, the terrestrial ball will roll -on." But will it? Something must matter, after all, or the mundane -movement emphatically would not continue. And the triumph of a good -book, and the ignominy of a bad book, matter to me. - -The criticism of imaginative prose literature, which is my speciality, -is an over-crowded and not very remunerative field of activity. Every -intelligent mediocrity in Fleet Street thinks he can appraise a novel, -and most of them, judging from the papers, seem to make the attempt. And -so quite naturally the pay is as a rule contemptible. To enter this -field, therefore, with the intention of tilling it to a profitable -fiscal harvest is an enterprise in the nature of a forlorn hope. I -undertook it in innocence and high spirits, from a profound instinct. I -had something to say. Of late years I have come to the conclusion that -the chief characteristic of all bad reviewing is the absence of genuine -conviction, of a message, of a clear doctrine; the incompetent reviewer -has to invent his opinions. - -I succeeded at first by dint of ignoring one of the elementary laws of -journalism, to-wit, that editors do not accept reviews from casual -outsiders. I wrote a short review of a French work and sent it to "The -Illustrated London News," always distinguished for its sound literary -criticism. Any expert would have told me that I was wasting labour and -postage. Nevertheless the review was accepted, printed, and handsomely -paid for. I then sent a review of a new edition of Edward Carpenter's -"Towards Democracy" to an evening paper, and this, too, achieved -publicity. After that, for some months, I made no progress. And then I -had the chance of a literary _causerie_ in a weekly paper: eight hundred -words a week, thirty pounds a year. I wrote a sample article--and I well -remember the incredible pains I took to show that Mrs. Lynn Linton's "In -Haste and at Leisure" was thoroughly bad--but my article was too -"literary." The editor with thirty pounds a year to spend on literary -criticism went in search of a confection less austere than mine. But I -was not baulked for long. The literary column of my own paper (of which -I was then only assistant-editor) was presented to me on my assurance -that I could liven it up: seven hundred words a week, at twelve and -sixpence. The stuff that I wrote was entirely unsuited to the taste of -our public; but it attracted attention from the seats of the mighty, and -it also attracted--final triumph of the despised reviewer!--publishers' -advertisements. I wrote this column every week for some years. And I got -another one to do, by asking for it. Then I selected some of my best and -wittiest reviews, and sent them to the editor of a well-known organ of -culture with a note suggesting that my pen ought to add to the charms of -his paper. An editor of sagacity and perspicacity, he admitted the -soundness of my suggestion without cavil, and the result was mutually -satisfactory. At the present time.[2] I am continually refusing critical -work. I reckon that on an average I review a book and a fraction of a -book every day of my life, Sundays included. - -"Then," says the man in the street inevitably, "you must spend a very -large part of each day in reading new books." Not so. I fit my reviewing -into the odd unoccupied corners of my time, the main portions of which -are given to the manufacture of novels, plays, short stories, and longer -literary essays. I am an author of several sorts. I have various strings -to my bow. And I know my business. I write half a million words a year. -That is not excessive; but it is passable industry, and nowadays I make -a point of not working too hard. The half million words contain one or -two books, one or two plays, and numerous trifles not connected with -literary criticism; only about a hundred and fifty thousand words are -left for reviewing. - -The sense of justice of the man in the street is revolted. "You do not -read through all the books that you pretend to criticize?" he hints. I -have never known a reviewer to answer this insinuation straightforwardly -in print, but I will answer it: No, I do not. - -And the man in the street says, shocked: "You are unjust." - -And I reply: "Not at all. I am merely an expert." - -The performances of the expert in any craft will surprise and amaze the -inexpert. Come with me into my study and I will surprise and amaze you. -Have I been handling novels for bread-and-cheese all these years and not -learnt to judge them by any process quicker than that employed by you -who merely pick up a novel for relaxation after dinner? Assuming that -your taste is fairly sound, let us be confronted with the same new -novel, and I will show you, though you are a quick reader, that I can -anticipate your judgment of that novel by a minimum of fifty-five -minutes. The title-page--that conjunction of the title, the name of the -author, and the name of the publisher--speaks to me, telling me all -sorts of things. The very chapter-headings deliver a message of style. -The narrative everywhere discloses to me the merits and defects of the -writer; no author ever lived who could write a page without giving -himself away. The whole book, open it where I will, is murmurous with -indications for me. In the case of nine books of ten, to read them -through would be not a work of supererogation--it would be a sinful -waste of time on the part of a professional reviewer. The majority of -novels--and all these remarks apply only to novels--hold no surprise for -the professional reviewer. He can foretell them as the nautical almanac -foretells astronomical phenomena. The customary established popular -author seldom or never deviates from his appointed track, and it is the -customary established popular author upon whom chiefly the reviewer is a -parasite. New authors occasionally cause the reviewer to hesitate in his -swift verdicts, especially when the verdict is inclined to be -favourable. Certain publishers (that is to say, their "readers") have a -knack of acquiring new authors who can imitate real excellence in an -astonishing manner. In some cases the reviewer must needs deliberately -"get into" the book, in order not to be deceived by appearances, in -order to decide positively whether the author has genuine imaginative -power, and if so, whether that power is capable of a sustained effort. -But these difficult instances are rare. There remains the work of the -true artist, the work that the reviewer himself admires and enjoys: say -one book in fifty, or one in a hundred. The reviewer reads that through. - -Brief reflection will convince any one that it would be economically -impossible for the reviewer to fulfil this extraordinary behest of the -man of the street to read every book through. Take your London morning -paper, and observe the column devoted to fiction of the day. It -comprises some fifteen hundred words, and the reviewer receives, if he -is well paid, three guineas for it. Five novels are discussed. Those -novels will amount to sixteen hundred pages of printed matter. Reading -at the rate of eight words a second, the reviewer would accomplish two -pages a minute, and sixteen hundred pages in thirteen hours and twenty -minutes. Add an hour and forty minutes for the composition, and we have -fifteen hours, or two days' work. Do you imagine that the reviewer of a -London morning paper is going to hire out his immortal soul, his -experience, his mere skill, at the rate of thirty-one and sixpence per -day on irregular jobs? Scarcely. He will earn his three guineas inside -three hours, and it will be well and truly earned. As a journeyman -author, with the ability and inclination to turn my pen in any direction -at request, I long ago established a rule never to work for less than -ten shillings an hour on piecework. If an editor commissioned an -article, he received from me as much fundamental brain-power and as much -time as the article demanded--up to the limit of his pay in terms of -hours at ten shillings apiece. But each year I raise my price per hour. -Of course, when I am working on my own initiative, for the sole -advancement of my artistic reputation, I ignore finance and think of -glory alone. It cannot, however, be too dearly understood that the -professional author, the man who depends entirely on his pen for the -continuance of breath, and whose income is at the mercy of an illness or -a headache, is eternally compromising between glory and something more -edible and warmer at nights. He labours in the first place for food, -shelter, tailors, a woman, European travel, horses, stalls at the opera, -good cigars, ambrosial evenings in restaurants; and he gives glory the -best chance he can. I am not speaking of geniuses with a mania for -posterity; I am speaking of human beings. - -To return and to conclude this chapter. I feel convinced--nay, I -know--that on the whole novelists get a little more than justice at the -hands of their critics. I can recall many instances in which my praise -has, in the light of further consideration, exceeded the deserts of a -book; but very, very few in which I have cast a slur on genuine merit. -Critics usually display a tendency towards a too generous kindness, -particularly Scottish reviewers; it is almost a rule of the vocation. -Most authors, I think, recognize this pleasing fact. It is only the -minority, rabid for everlasting laudation, who carp; and, carping, -demand the scalps of multiple-reviewers as a terrible example and -warning to the smaller fry. - - -[Footnote 2: 1900.] - - - - -XII - - -Serial fiction is sold and bought just like any other fancy goods. It -has its wholesale houses, its commercial travellers--even its trusts and -"corners." An editor may for some reason desire the work of a particular -author; he may dangle gold before that author or that author's agent; -but if a corner has been established he will be met by polite regrets -and the information that Mr. So-and-So, or the Such-and-Such Syndicate, -is the proper quarter to apply to; then the editor is aware that he will -get what he wants solely by one method of payment--through the nose. A -considerable part of the fiction business is in the hand of a few large -syndicates--syndicates in name only, and middlemen in fact. They perform -a useful function. They will sell to the editor the entire rights of a -serial, or they will sell him the rights for a particular district--the -London district, the Manchester district, the John-o'-Groats -district--the price varying in direct ratio with the size of the -district. Many London papers are content to buy the London rights only -of a serial, or to buy the English rights as distinct from the Scottish -rights, or to buy the entire rights minus the rights of one or two large -provincial districts. Thus a serial may make its original appearance in -London only; or it may appear simultaneously in London and Manchester -only, or in London only in England and throughout Scotland, or in fifty -places at once in England and Scotland. And after a serial has appeared -for the first time and run its course, the weeklies of small and obscure -towns, the proud organs of all the little Pedlingtons, buy for a trifle -the right to reprint it. The serials of some authors survive in this -manner for years in the remote provinces; pick up the local sheet in a -country inn, and you may perhaps shudder again over the excitations of a -serial that you read in book form in the far-off nineties. So, all -editorial purses are suited, the syndicates reap much profit, and they -are in a position to pay their authors, both tame and wild, a just -emolument; upon occasion they can even be generous to the verge of an -imprudence. - -When I was an editor, I found it convenient, economical, and -satisfactory to buy all my fiction from a large and powerful syndicate. -I got important "names," the names that one sees on the title-pages of -railway novels, at a moderate price, and it was nothing to me that my -serial was appearing also in Killicrankie, the Knockmilly-down -Mountains, or the Scilly Isles. The representative of the syndicate, a -man clothed with authority, called regularly; he displayed his dainty -novelties, his leading lines, his old favourites, his rising stars, his -dark horses, and his dead bargains; I turned them over, like a woman on -remnant-day at a draper's; and after the inevitable Oriental chaffering, -we came to terms. I bought Christmas stories in March, and seaside -fiction in December, and good solid Baring-Gould or Le Queux or L.T. -Meade all the year round. - -Excellently as these ingenious narrative confections served their -purpose, I dreamed of something better. And in my dream a sudden and -beautiful thought accosted me: Why should all the buying be on one side? - -And the next time the representative of the syndicate called upon me, I -met his overtures with another. - -"Why should all the buying be on one side?" I said. "You know I am an -author." I added that if he had not seen any of my books, I must send -him copies. They were exquisitely different from his wares, but I said -nothing about that. - -"Ah!" he parried firmly. "We never buy serials from editors." - -I perceived that I was by no means the first astute editor who had tried -to mingle one sort of business with another. Still it was plain to me -that my good friend was finding it a little difficult to combine the -affability of a seller with the lofty disinclination of one who is -requested to buy in a crowded market. - -"I should have thought," I remarked, with a diplomatic touch of -annoyance, "that you would buy wherever you could get good stuff." - -"Oh, yes," he said, "of course we do. But----" - -"Well," I continued, "I am writing a serial, and I can tell you it will -be a good one. I merely mention it to you. If you don't care for it, I -fancy I can discover some one who will." - -Then, having caused to float between us, cloud-like, the significance of -the indisputable fact that there were other syndicates in the world, I -proceeded nonchalantly to the matter of his visit and gave him a good -order. He was an able merchant, but I had not moved in legal circles for -nothing. Business is business: and he as well as I knew that arbitrary -rules to the exclusion of editors must give way before this great and -sublime truth, the foundation of England's glory. - -The next thing was to concoct the serial. I had entered into a compact -with myself that I would never "write down" to the public in a long -fiction. I was almost bound to pander to the vulgar taste, or at any -rate to a taste not refined, in my editing, in my articles, and in my -short stories, but I had sworn solemnly that I would keep the novel-form -unsullied for the pure exercise of the artist in me. What became of this -high compact? I merely ignored it. I tore it up and it was forgotten, -the instant I saw a chance of earning the money of shame. I devised -excuses, of course. I said that my drawing-room wanted new furniture; I -said that I might lift the sensational serial to a higher place, thus -serving the cause of art; I said--I don't know what I said, all to my -conscience. But I began the serial. - -As an editor, I knew the qualities that a serial ought to possess. And I -knew specially that what most serials lacked was a large, central, -unifying, vivifying idea. I was very fortunate in lighting upon such an -idea for my first serial. There are no original themes; probably no -writer ever did invent an original theme; but my theme was a brilliant -imposture of originality. It had, too, grandeur and passion, and -fantasy, and it was inimical to none of the prejudices of the serial -reader. In truth it was a theme worthy of much better treatment than I -accorded to it. Throughout the composition of the tale, until nearly the -end, I had the uneasy feeling, familiar to all writers, that I was -frittering away a really good thing. But as the climax approached, the -situa-took hold of me, and in spite of myself I wrote my best. The tale -was divided into twelve instalments of five thousand words each, and I -composed it in twenty-four half-days. Each morning, as I walked down the -Thames Embankment, I contrived a chapter of two thousand five hundred -words, and each afternoon I wrote the chapter. An instinctive sense of -form helped me to plan the events into an imposing shape, and it needed -no abnormal inventive faculty to provide a thrill for the conclusion of -each section. Further, I was careful to begin the story on the first -page, without preliminaries, and to finish it abruptly when it was -finished. For the rest, I put in generous quantities of wealth, luxury, -feminine beauty, surprise, catastrophe, and genial, incurable optimism. -I was as satisfied with the result as I had been with the famous poem on -Courage. I felt sure that the syndicate had never supplied me with a -sensational serial half as good as mine, and I could conceive no plea -upon which they would be justified in refusing mine. - -They bought it. We had a difference concerning the price. They offered -sixty pounds; I thought I might as well as not try to get a hundred, but -when I had lifted them up to seventy-five, the force of bluff would no -further go, and the bargain was closed. I saw that by writing serials I -could earn three guineas per half-day; I saw myself embarking upon a -life of what Ebenezer Jones called "sensation and event"; I saw my -prices increasing, even to three hundred pounds for a sixty thousand -word yarn--my imagination stopped there. - -The lingering remains of an artistic conscience prompted me to sign this -eye-smiting work with a pseudonym. The syndicate, since my name was -quite unknown in their world, made no objection, and I invented several -aliases, none of which they liked. Then a friend presented me with a -gorgeous pseudonym--"Sampson Death." Surely, I thought, the syndicate -will appreciate the subtle power of that! But no! They averred that -their readers would be depressed by Sampson Death at the head of every -instalment. - -"Why not sign your own name?" they suggested. - -And I signed my own name. I, apprentice of Flaubert et Cie., stood forth -to the universe as a sensation-monger. - -The syndicate stated that they would like to have the refusal of another -serial from my pen. - -In correcting the proofs of the first one, I perceived all the -opportunities I had missed in it, and I had visions of a sensational -serial absolutely sublime in those qualities that should characterize a -sensational serial. I knew all about Eugène Sue, and something about -Wilkie Collins; but my ecstatic contemplation of an ideal serial soared -far beyond these. I imagined a serial decked with the profuse ornament -of an Eastern princess, a serial at once grandiose and witty, at once -modern and transcendental, a serial of which the interest should -gradually close on the reader like a vice until it became intolerable. I -saw the whole of London preoccupied with this serial instead of with -cricket and politics. I heard the dandiacal City youths discussing in -first-class compartments on the Underground what would happen next in -it. I witnessed a riot in Fleet Street because I had, accidentally on -purpose, delayed my copy for twenty-four hours, and the editor of the -"Daily----" had been compelled to come out with an apology. Lastly, I -heard the sigh of relief exhaled to heaven by a whole people, when in -the final instalment I solved the mystery, untied the knot, relieved the -cruel suspense. - -Suck was my dream--a dream that I never realized, but which I believe to -be capable of realization. It is decades since even a second-class -imaginative genius devoted itself entirely to the cult of the literary -_frisson_. Sue excited a nation by admirable sensationalism. The feat -might be accomplished again, and in this era so prolific in Napoleons of -the press, it seems strange that no Napoleon has been able to organize -the sensational serial on a Napoleonic scale. - -I did not realize my dream, but I was inspired by it. Once more I -received from the gods a plot scintillating with possibilities. It was -less fine than the previous one; it was of the earth earthly; but it -began with a scene quite unique in the annals of syndicates, and by this -time I knew a little better how to keep the fire burning. I lavished wit -and style on the thing, and there is no material splendour of modern -life that I left out. I plunged into it with all my energy and -enthusiasm, and wrote the fifteen instalments in fifteen days; I tried -to feel as much like Dumas _père_ as I could. But when I had done I -felt, physically, rather more like the fragile Shelley or some wan -curate than Dumas. I was a wreck. - -The syndicate were willing to buy this serial, but they offered me no -increase of rates. I declined to accept the old terms, and then the -syndicate invited me to lunch. I made one of the greatest financial -mistakes of my life on that accurst day, and my only excuse is that I -was unaccustomed to being invited out to lunch by syndicates. I ought to -have known, with all my boasted knowledge of the world of business, that -syndicates do not invite almost unknown authors to lunch without -excellent reason. I had refused the syndicate's offer, and the syndicate -asked me to name a price for the entire rights of my tale. I named a -price; it was a good price for me, then; but the words were scarcely out -of my mouth before I saw that I had blundered. Too late! My terms were -quietly accepted. Let me cast no slightest aspersion upon the methods of -the syndicate: the bargain was completed before lunch had commenced. - -The syndicate disposed of the whole first serial rights of my tale to a -well-known London weekly. The proprietors of the paper engaged a -first-class artist to illustrate it, they issued a special circular -about it, they advertised it every week on 800 railway stations. The -editor of the paper wrote me an extremely appreciative letter as to the -effect of the serial from his point of view. The syndicate informed a -friend of mine that it was the best serial they had ever had. After -running in London it overran the provincial press like a locust-swarm. -It was, in a word, a boom. It came out in volume form, and immediately -went into a second edition; it still sells. It was the first of my books -that "The Times" ever condescended to review; the "Spectator" took it -seriously in a column and a quarter; and my friends took it seriously. I -even received cables from foreign lands with offers to buy translation -rights. I became known as the author of that serial. And all this, save -for an insignificant trifle, to the profit of an exceedingly astute -syndicate! - -Subsequently I wrote other serials, but never again with the same verve. -I found an outlet for my energies more amusing and more remunerative -than the concoction of serials; and I am a serialist no longer. - - - - -XIII - - -While yet an assistant-editor, I became a dramatic critic through the -unwillingness of my chief to attend a theatrical matinée performance -given, by some forlorn little society, now defunct, for the rejuvenation -of the English drama. My notice of the performance amused him, and soon -afterwards he suggested that I should do our dramatic column in his -stead. Behold me a "first-nighter"! When, with my best possible air of -nonchalance and custom, I sauntered into my stall on a Lyceum first -night, I glanced at the first rows of the pit with cold and aloof -disdain. "Don't you wish you were me?" I thought behind that -supercilious mask. "You have stood for hours imprisoned between parallel -iron railings. Many times I have stood with you. But never again, -miserable pittites!" Nevertheless I was by no means comfortable in my -stall. Around me were dozens of famous or notorious faces, the leading -representatives of all that is glittering and factitious in the city of -wealth, pleasure, and smartness. And everybody seemed to know everybody -else. I alone seemed to be left out in the cold. My exasperated -self-conscious fancy perceived in every haughty stare the enquiry: "Who -is this whipper-snapper in the dress-suit that obviously cost four -guineas in Cheapside?" I knew not a soul in that brilliant resort. -During the intervals I went into the foyer and listened to the phrases -which the critics tossed to each other over their liqueur-glasses. Never -was such a genial confusion of "Old Chap," "Old Man," "Old Boy," "Dear -Old Pal"! "Are they all blood-brothers?" I asked myself. The banality, -the perfect lack of any sort of aesthetic culture, which characterized -their remarks on the piece, astounded me. I said arrogantly: "If I don't -know more about the art of the theatre than the whole crowd of you put -together, I will go out and hang myself." Yet I was unspeakably proud to -be among them. In a corner I caught sight of a renowned novelist whose -work I respected. None noticed him, and he looked rather sorry for -himself. "You and I . . .!" I thought. I had not attended many first -nights before I discovered that the handful of theatrical critics whose -articles it is possible to read without fatigue, made a point of never -leaving their stalls. They were nobody's old chap, and nobody's old pal. -I copied their behaviour. - -First on my own paper, and subsequently on two others, I practised -dramatic criticism for five or six years. Although I threw it up in the -end mainly from sheer lassitude, I enjoyed the work. It means late -nights, and late nights are perdition; but there is a meretricious -glamour about it that attracts the foolish moth in me, and this I am -bound to admit. My trifling influence over the public was decidedly on -the side of the angels. I gradually found that I possessed a coherent -theory of the drama, definite critical standards, and all the rest of -the apparatus; in short, that I had something to say. And my verdicts -had a satisfactory habit of coinciding with those of the two foremost -theatrical critics in London--perhaps in Europe (I need not name them). -It is a somewhat strange fact that I made scarcely any friends in the -theatre. After all those years of assiduous first-nighting, I was almost -as solitary in the auditorium on the evening when I bade a _blase_ adieu -to the critical bench as when I originally entered it. I fancied I had -wasted my time and impaired my constitution in emulating the -achievements of Théophile Gautier, Hazlitt, Francisque Sarcey and M. -Jules Lemaître, to say nothing of Dutton Cook and Mr. Clement Scott. My -health may have suffered; but, as it happened, I had not quite wasted my -time. - -"Why don't you write a play yourself?" - -This blunt question was put to me by a friend, an amateur actor, whom I -had asked to get up some little piece or other for an entertainment in -the Theatre Royal back-drawing-room of my house. - -"Quite out of my line," I replied, and I was absolutely sincere. I had -no notion whatever of writing for the stage. I felt sure that I had not -the aptitude. - -"Nonsense!" he Exclaimed. "It's as easy as falling off a log." - -We argued, and I was on the point of refusing the suggestion, when the -spirit of wild adventure overcame me, and I gravely promised my friend -that I would compose a duologue if he and his wife would promise to -perform it at my party. The affair was arranged. I went to bed with the -conviction that in the near future I stood a fair chance of looking an -ass. However, I met with what I thought to be an amusing idea for a -curtain-raiser the next morning, and in the afternoon I wrote the piece -complete. I enjoyed writing it, and as I read it aloud to myself I -laughed at it. I discovered that I had violated the great canon of -dramatic art,--Never keep your audience in the dark, and this troubled -me (Paul Hervieu had not then demonstrated by his "L'Enigme" that -canon may be broken with impunity); but I could not be at the trouble of -reconstructing the whole play for the sake of an Aristotelian maxim. I -at once posted the original draft to my friend with this note: "Dear -----, Here is the play which last night I undertook to write for you." - -The piece was admirably rendered to an audience of some thirty immortal -souls--of course very sympathetic immortal souls. My feelings, as the -situation which I had invented gradually developed into something alive -on that tiny make-shift stage, were peculiar and, in a way, alarming. -Every one who has driven a motor-car knows the uncanny sensation that -ensues when for the first time in your life you pull the starting lever, -and the Thing beneath you begins mysteriously and formidably to move. It -is at once an astonishment, a terror, and a delight. I felt like that as -I watched the progress of my first play. It was as though I had -unwittingly liberated an energy greater than I knew, actually created -something vital. This illusion of physical vitality is the exclusive -possession of the dramatist; the novelist, the poet, cannot share it. -The play was a delicious success. People laughed so much that some of my -most subtle jocosities were drowned in the appreciative cachinnation. -The final applause was memorable, at any rate to me. No mere good-nature -can simulate the unique ring of genuine applause, and this applause was -genuine. It was a microscopic triumph for me, but it was a triumph. -Every one said to me: "But you are a dramatist!" "Oh, no!" I replied -awkwardly; "this trifle is really nothing." But the still small voice of -my vigorous self-confidence said: "Yes, you are, and you ought to have -found it out years ago!" Among my audience was a publisher. He invited -me to write for him a little book of one-act farces for amateurs; his -terms were agreeable. I wrote three such farces, giving two days to -each, and the volume was duly published; no book of mine has cost me -less trouble. The reviews of it were lavish in praise of my "unfailing -wit"; the circulation was mediocre. I was asked by companies of amateur -actors up and down the country to assist at rehearsals of these pieces; -but I could never find the energy to comply, save once. I hankered after -the professional stage. By this time I could see that I was bound to -enter seriously into the manufacture of stage-plays. My readers will -have observed that once again in my history the inducement to embark for -a fresh port had been quite external and adventitious. - -I had a young friend with an extraordinary turn for brilliant epigram -and an equally extraordinary gift for the devising of massive themes. He -showed me one day the manuscript of a play. My faith in my instinct for -form, whether in drama or fiction, was complete, and I saw instantly -that what this piece lacked was form, which means intelligibility. It -had everything except intelligibility. "Look here!" I said to him, "we -will write a play together, you and I. We can do something that will -knock spots off----" etc., etc. We determined upon a grand drawing-room -melodrama which should unite style with those qualities that make for -financial success on the British stage. In a few days my friend produced -a list of about a dozen "ideas" for the piece. I chose the two largest -and amalgamated them. In the confection of the plot, and also throughout -the entire process of manufacture, my experience as a dramatic critic -proved valuable. I believe my friend had only seen two plays in his -life. We accomplished our first act in a month or so, and when this was -done and the scenario of the other three written out, we informed each -other that the stuff was exceedingly good. - -Part of my share in the play was to sell it. I knew but one man of any -importance in the theatrical world; he gave me an introduction to the -manager of a West End theatre second to none in prestige and wealth. The -introduction had weight; the manager intimated by letter that his sole -object in life was to serve me, and in the meantime he suggested an -appointment. I called one night with our first act and the scenario, and -amid the luxuriousness of the managerial room, the aroma of coffee, the -odour of Turkish cigarettes, I explained to that manager the true -greatness of our play. I have never been treated with a more distinguished -politeness; I might have been Victorien Sardou, or Ibsen . . . (no, -not Ibsen). In quite a few days the manager telephoned to my -office and asked me to call the same evening. He had read the -manuscript; he thought very highly of it, very highly. "But----" Woe! -Desolation! Dissipation of airy castles! It was preposterous on our part -to expect that our first play should be commissioned by a leading -theatre. But indeed we had expected this miracle. The fatal "But" arose -from a difficulty of casting the principal part; so the manager told me. -He was again remarkably courteous, and he assuaged the rigour of his -refusal by informing me that he was really in need of a curtain-raiser -with a part for a certain actress of his company; he fancied that we -could supply him with the desired _bibelot_; but he wanted it at once, -within a week. Within a week my partner and I had each written a one-act -play, and in less than a fortnight I received a third invitation to -discuss coffee, Turkish cigarettes, and plays. The manager began to talk -about the play which was under my own signature. - -"Now, what is your idea of terms?" he said, walking to and fro. - -"Can it be true," I thought, "that I have actually sold a play to this -famous manager?" In a moment my simple old ambitions burst like a Roman -candle into innumerable bright stars. I had been content hitherto with -the prospect of some fame, a thousand a year, and a few modest luxuries. -But I knew what the earnings of successful dramatists were. My thousand -increased tenfold; my mind dwelt on all the complex sybaritism of -European capitals; and I saw how I could make use of the unequalled -advertisement of theatrical renown to find a ready market for the most -artistic fiction that I was capable of writing. This new scheme of -things sprang into my brain instantaneously, full-grown. - -I left the theatre an accepted dramatist. - -It never rains but it pours. My kind manager mentioned our stylistic -drawing-room melodrama to another manager with such laudation that the -second manager was eager to see it. Having seen it, he was eager to buy -it. He gave us a hundred down to finish it in three months, and when we -had finished it he sealed a contract for production with another cheque -for a hundred. At the same period, through the mediation of the friend -who had first introduced me to this world where hundreds were thrown -about like fivers, I was commissioned by the most powerful theatrical -manager on earth to assist in the dramatization of a successful novel; -and this led to another commission of a similar nature, on more -remunerative terms. Then a certain management telegraphed for me (in the -theatre all business is done by telegraph and cable), and offered me a -commission to compress a five-act Old English comedy into three acts. - -"We might have offered this to So-and-So or So-and-So," they said, -designating persons of importance. "But we preferred to come to you." - -"I assume my name is to appear?" I said. - -But my name was not to appear, and I begged to be allowed to decline the -work. - -I suddenly found myself on terms of familiarity with some of the great -ones of the stage. I found myself invited into the Garrick Club, and -into the more Bohemian atmosphere of the Green Room Club. I became -accustomed to hearing the phrase: "You are the dramatist of the future." -One afternoon I was walking down Bedford Street when a hand was placed -on my shoulder, and a voice noted for its rich and beautiful quality -exclaimed: "How the d----l are you, my dear chap?" The speaker bears a -name famous throughout the English-speaking world. - -"You are arriving!" I said to myself, naïvely proud of this greeting. I -had always understood that the theatrical "ring" was impenetrable to an -outsider; and yet I had stepped into the very middle of it without the -least trouble. - -My collaborator and I then wrote a farce. "We can't expect to sell -everything," I said to him warningly, but I sold it quite easily. Indeed -I sold it, repurchased it, and sold it again, within the space of three -months. - -Reasons of discretion prevent me from carrying my theatrical record -beyond this point. - -I have not spoken of the artistic side of this play-concoction, because -it scarcely has any. My aim in writing plays, whether alone or in -collaboration, has always been strictly commercial.[3] I wanted money in -heaps, and I wanted advertisement for my books. Here and there, in the -comedies and farces in which I have been concerned, a little genuine -dramatic art has, I fancy, been introduced; but surreptitiously, and -quite unknown to the managers. I have never boasted of it in managerial -apartments. That I have amused myself while constructing these -arabesques of intrigue and epigram is indubitable, whether to my credit -or discredit as a serious person. I laugh constantly in writing a farce. -I have found it far easier to compose a commercial play than an artistic -novel. How our princes of the dramatic kingdom can contrive to spend two -years over a single piece, as they say they do, I cannot imagine. The -average play contains from eighteen to twenty thousand words; the -average novel contains eighty thousand; after all, writing is a question -of words. At the rate of a thousand words a day, one could write a play -three times over in a couple of months; prefix a month--thirty solid -days of old Time!--for the perfecting of the plot, and you will be able -to calculate the number of plays producible by an expert craftsman in a -year. And unsuccessful plays are decidedly more remunerative than many -successful novels. I am quite certain that the vast majority of failures -produced in the West End mean to their authors a minimum remuneration of -ten pounds per thousand words. In the fiction-mart ten pounds per -thousand is gilded opulence. I am neither Sardou, Sudermann, nor George -R. Sims, but I know what I am talking about, and I say that dramatic -composition for the market is child's play compared to the writing of -decent average fiction--provided one has an instinct for stage effect. - - -[Footnote 3: Once more written in 1900.] - - - - -XIV - - -It cuts me to the heart to compare English with American publishers to -the disadvantage, however slight, of the former; but the exigencies of a -truthful narrative demand from me this sacrifice of personal feeling to -the god in "the sleeping-car emblematic of British enterprise." The -representative of a great American firm came over to England on a -mission to cultivate personal relations with authors of repute and -profitableness. Among other documents of a similar nature, he had an -introduction to myself; I was not an author of repute and -profitableness, but I was decidedly in the movement and a useful sort of -person to know. We met and became friends, this ambassador and I; he -liked my work, a sure avenue to my esteem; I liked his genial -shrewdness. Shortly afterwards, there appeared in a certain paper an -unsigned article dealing, in a broad survey alleged to be masterly, with -the evolution of the literary market during the last thirty years. My -American publisher read the article--he read everything--and, -immediately deciding in his own mind that I was the author of it, he -wrote me an enthusiastic letter of appreciation. He had not been -deceived; I was the author of the article. Within the next few days it -happened that he encountered an English publisher who complained that he -could not find a satisfactory "reader." He informed the English -publisher of my existence, referred eulogistically to my article, and -gave his opinion that I was precisely the man whom the English publisher -needed. The English publisher had never heard of me (I do not blame him, -I merely record), but he was so moved by the American's oration that he -invited me to lunch at his club. I lunched at his club, in a discreet -street off Piccadilly (an aged and a sound wine!), and after lunch, my -host drew me out to talk at large on the subject of authors, publishers, -and cash, and the interplay of these three. I talked. I talked for a -very long while, enjoying it. The experience was a new one for me. The -publisher did not agree with all that I said, but he agreed with a good -deal of it, and at the close of the somewhat exhausting assize, in which -between us we had judged the value of nearly every literary reputation -in England, he offered me the post of principal reader to his firm, and -I accepted it. - -It is, I believe, an historical fact that authors seldom attend the -funeral of a publisher's reader. They approve the sepulture, but do not, -save sometimes in a spirit of ferocious humour, lend to the procession -the dignity of their massive figures. Nevertheless, the publisher's -reader is the most benevolent person on earth. He is so perforce. He may -begin his labours in the slaughterous vein of the "Saturday Review"; but -time and the extraordinary level mediocrity of manuscripts soon cure him -of any such tendency. He comes to refuse but remains to accept. He must -accept something--or where is the justification of his existence? Often, -after a prolonged run of bad manuscripts, I have said to myself: "If I -don't get a chance to recommend something soon I shall be asked to -resign." I long to look on a manuscript and say that it is good, or that -there are golden sovereigns between the lines. Instead of searching for -faults I search for hidden excellences. No author ever had a more -lenient audience than I. If the author would only believe it, I want, I -actually desire, to be favourably impressed by his work. When I open the -parcel of typescript I beam on it with kindly eyes, and I think: -"Perhaps there is something really good here"; and in that state of mind -I commence the perusal. But there never is anything really good there. -In an experience not vast, but extending over some years, only one book -with even a touch of genius has passed through my hands; that book was -so faulty and so wilfully wild, that I could not unreservedly advise its -publication and my firm declined it; I do not think that the book has -been issued elsewhere. I have "discovered" only two authors of talent; -one of these is very slowly achieving a reputation; of the other I have -heard nothing since his first book, which resulted in a financial loss. -Time and increasing knowledge of the two facts have dissipated for me -the melancholy and affecting legend of literary talent going a-begging -because of the indifference of publishers. O young author of talent, -would that I could find you and make you understand how the publisher -yearns for you as the lover for his love! _Qua_ publisher's reader, I am -a sad man, a man confirmed in disappointment, a man in whom the -phenomenon of continued hope is almost irrational. When I look back -along the frightful vista of dull manuscripts that I have refused or -accepted, I tremble for the future of English literature (or should -tremble, did I not infallibly know that the future of English literature -is perfectly safe after all)! And yet I have by no means drunk the worst -of the cup of mediocrity. The watery milk of the manuscripts sent to my -employer has always been skimmed for me by others; I have had only the -cream to savour. I am asked sometimes why publishers publish so many bad -books; and my reply is: "Because they can't get better." And this is a -profound truth solemnly enunciated. - -People have said to me: "_But you are so critical; you condemn -everything_." Such is the complaint of the laity against the initiate, -against the person who has diligently practised the cultivation of his -taste. And, roughly speaking, it is a well-founded and excusable -complaint. The person of fine taste does condemn nearly everything. He -takes his pleasure in a number of books so limited as to be almost -nothing in comparison with the total mass of production. Out of two -thousand novels issued in a year, he may really enjoy half-a-dozen at -the outside. And the one thousand nine hundred and ninety-four he lumps -together in a wholesale contempt which draws no distinctions. This is -right. This contributes to the preservation of a high standard. But the -laity will never be persuaded that it is just. The point I wish to make, -however, is that when I sit down to read for my publisher I first of all -forget my literary exclusiveness. I sink the aesthetic aristocrat and -become a plain man. By a deliberate act of imagination, I put myself in -the place, not of the typical average reader--for there is no such -person--but of a composite of the various _genera_ of average reader -known to publishing science. I _am_ that composite for the time; and, -being so, I remain quiescent and allow f the book to produce its own -effect on me. I employ no canons, rules, measures. Does the book bore -me--that condemns it. Does it interest me, ever so slightly--that is -enough to entitle it to further consideration. When I have decided that -it interests the imaginary composite whom I represent, then I become -myself again, and proceed scientifically to enquire why it has -interested, and why it has not interested more intensely; I proceed to -catalogue its good and bad qualities, to calculate its chances, to assay -its monetary worth. - -The first gift of a publisher's reader should be imagination; without -imagination, the power to put himself in a position in which actually he -is not, fine taste is useless--indeed, it is worse than useless. The -ideal publisher's reader should have two perfections--perfect taste and -perfect knowledge of what the various kinds of other people deem to be -taste. Such qualifications, even in a form far from perfect, are rare. A -man is born with them; though they may be cultivated, they cannot either -of them be acquired. The remuneration of the publisher's reader ought, -therefore, to be high, lavish, princely. It it not. It has nothing -approaching these characteristics. Instead of being regarded as the -ultimate seat of directing energy, the brain within the publisher's -brain, the reader often exists as a sort of offshoot, an accident, an -external mechanism which must be employed because it is the custom to -employ it. As one reflects upon the experience and judgment which -readers must possess, the responsibility which weighs on them, and the -brooding hypochondriasis engendered by their mysterious calling, one -wonders that their salaries do not enable them to reside in Park Lane or -Carlton House Terrace. The truth is, that they exist precariously in -Walham Green, Camberwell, or out in the country where rents are low. - -I have had no piquant adventures as a publisher's reader. The vocation -fails in piquancy: that is precisely where it does fail. Occasionally -when a manuscript comes from some established author who has been deemed -the private property of another house, there is the excitement of -discovering from the internal evidence of the manuscript, or from the -circumstantial evidence of public facts carefully collated, just why -that manuscript has been offered to my employer; and the discovered -reason is always either amusing or shameful. But such excitements are -rare, and not very thrilling after all. No! Reading for a publisher does -not foster the joy of life. I have never done it with enthusiasm; and, -frankly, I continue to do it more from habit than from inclination. One -learns too much in the rôle. The gilt is off the gingerbread, and the -bloom is off the rye, for a publisher's reader. The statistics of -circulations are before him; and no one who is aware of the actual -figures which literary advertisements are notoriously designed to -conceal can be called happy until he is dead. - - - - -XV - - -When I had been in London a decade, I stood aside from myself and -reviewed my situation with the god-like and detached impartiality of a -trained artistic observer. And what I saw was a young man who -pre-eminently knew his way about, and who was apt to be rather too -complacent over this fact; a young man with some brilliance but far more -shrewdness; a young man with a highly developed faculty for making a -little go a long way; a young man who was accustomed to be listened to -when he thought fit to speak, and who was decidedly more inclined to -settle questions than to raise them. - -This young man had invaded the town as a clerk at twenty-five shillings -a week, paying six shillings a week for a bed-sitting room, threepence -for his breakfast, and sixpence for his vegetarian dinner. The curtain -falls on the prologue. Ten years elapse. The curtain rises on the figure -of an editor, novelist, dramatist, critic, connoisseur of all arts. See -him in his suburban residence, with its poplar-shaded garden, its -bicycle-house at the extremity thereof, and its horizon composed of the -District Railway Line. See the study, lined with two thousand books, -garnished with photogravures, and furnished with a writing-bureau and a -chair and nothing else. See the drawing-room with its artistic -wall-paper, its Kelmscotts, its water-colours of a pallid but -indubitable distinction, its grand piano on which are a Wagnerian score -and Bach's Two-part Inventions. See the bachelor's bedroom, so austere -and precise, wherein Boswell's "Johnson" and Baudelaire's "Fleurs du -Mal" exist peaceably together on the night-table. The entire machine -speaks with one voice, and it tells you that there are no flies on that -young man, that young man never gives the wrong change. He is in -the movement, he is correct; but at the same time he is not so simple as -not to smile with contemptuous toleration at all movements and all -correctness. He knows. He is a complete guide to art and life. His -innocent foible is never to be at a loss, and never to be carried -away--save now and then, because an occasional ecstasy is good for the -soul. His knowledge of the _coulisses_ of the various arts is wonderful. -He numbers painters, sculptors, musicians, architects, among his -intimate friends; and no artistic manifestation can possibly occur that -he is unable within twenty-four hours to assess at its true value. He is -terrible against _cabotins_, no matter where he finds them, and this -seems to be his hobby: to expose _cabotins_. - -He is a young man of method; young men do not arrive without method at -the condition of being encyclopædias; his watch is as correct as his -judgments. He breakfasts at eight sharp, and his housekeeper sets the -kitchen clock five minutes fast, for he is a terrible Ivan at breakfast. -He glances at a couple of newspapers, first at the list of "publications -received," and then at the news. Of course he is not hoodwinked by -newspapers. He will meet the foreign editor of the "Daily ----" at lunch -and will learn the true inwardness of that exploded canard from Berlin. -Having assessed the newspapers, he may interpret to his own satisfaction -a movement from a Mozart piano sonata, and then he will brush his hat, -pick up sundry books, and pass sedately to the station. The -station-master is respectfully cordial, and quite ready to explain to -him the secret causation of delays, for his season-ticket is a white -one. He gets into a compartment with a stockbroker, a lawyer, or a -tea-merchant, and immediately falls to work; he does his minor reviewing -in the train, fostering or annihilating reputations while the antique -engine burrows beneath the squares of the West End; but his brain is not -so fully occupied that he cannot spare a corner of it to meditate upon -the extraordinary ignorance and simplicity of stockbrokers, lawyers, and -tea-merchants. He reaches his office, and for two or three hours -practises that occupation of watching other people work which is called -editing: a process always of ordering, of rectifying, of laying down the -law, of being looked up to, of showing how a thing ought to be done and -can be done, of being flattered and cajoled, of dispensing joy or -gloom--in short, the Jupiter and Shah of Persia business. He then -departs, as to church, to his grill-room, where for a few moments -himself and the cook hold an anxious consultation to decide which -particular chop or which particular steak out of a mass of chops and -steaks shall have the honour of sustaining him till tea-time. The place -is full of literary shahs and those about to be shahs. They are all in -the movement; they constitute the movement. They ride the comic-opera -whirlwinds of public opinion and direct the tea-cup storms of -popularity. The young man classes most of them with the stockbroker, the -lawyer, and the tea-merchant. With a few he fraternises, and these few -save their faces by appreciating the humour of the thing. Soon -afterwards he goes home, digging _en route_ the graves of more -reputations, and, surrounded by the two thousand volumes, he works in -seclusion at his various activities that he may triumph openly. He -descends to dinner stating that he has written so many thousand words, -and excellent words too--stylistic, dramatic, tender, witty. There may -be a theatrical first-night toward, in which case he returns to town and -sits in the seat of the languid for a space. Or he stays within doors -and discusses with excessively sophisticated friends the longevity of -illusions in ordinary people. At length he retires and reads himself to -sleep. His last thoughts are the long, long thoughts of his perfect -taste and tireless industry, and of the aesthetic darkness which covers -the earth. . . . - -Such was the young man I inimically beheld. And I was not satisfied with -him. He was gorgeous, but not sufficiently gorgeous. He had done much in -ten years, and I excused his facile pride, but he had not done enough. -The curtain had risen on the first act of the drama of life, but the -action, the intrigue, the passion seemed to hesitate and halt. Was this -the artistic and creative life, this daily round? Was this the reality -of that which I had dreamed? Where was the sense of romance, the -consciousness of felicity? I felt that I had slipped into a groove which -wore deeper every day. It seemed to me that I was fettered and tied -down. I had grown weary of journalism. The necessity of being at a -certain place at a certain hour on so many days of the week grew irksome -to me; I regarded it as invasive of my rights as a freeborn Englishman, -as shameful and scarcely tolerable. Was I a horse that I should be -ridden on the curb by a Board of Directors? I objected to the theory of -proprietors. The occasional conferences with the Board, though conducted -with all the ritual of an extreme punctilio, were an indignity. The -suave requests of the chairman: "Will you kindly tell us----?" And my -defensive replies, and then the dismissal: "Thank you, Mr.----, I think -we need trouble you no further this morning." And my exit, irritated by -the thought that I was about to be discussed with the freedom that -Boards in conclave permit themselves. It was as bad as being bullied by -London University at an examination. I longed to tell this Board, with -whom I was so amicable on unofficial occasions, that they were using a -razor to cut firewood. I longed to tell them that the nursing of their -excellent and precious organ was seriously interfering with the -composition of great works and the manufacture of a dazzling reputation. -I longed to point out to them that the time would come when they would -mention to their friends with elaborate casualness and covert pride that -they had once employed me, the unique me, at a salary measurable in -hundreds. - -Further, I was ill-pleased with literary London. "You have a literary -life here," an American editor once said to me. "There is a literary -circle, an atmosphere. . . . We have no such thing in New York." I -answered that no doubt we had; but I spoke without enthusiasm. I suppose -that if any one "moved in literary circles," I did, then. Yet I derived -small satisfaction from my inclusion within those circumferences. To me -there was a lack of ozone in the atmosphere which the American editor -found so invigorating. Be it understood that when I say "literary -circles," I do not in the least mean genteel Bohemia, the world of -informal At-Homes that are all formality, where the little lions growl -on their chains in a row against a drawing-room wall, and the hostess -congratulates herself that every single captive in the salon has "done -something." Such polite racketting, such discreet orgies of the higher -intellectuality, may suit the elegant triflers, the authors of -monographs on Velasquez, golf, Dante, asparagus, royalties, ping-pong, -and Empire; but the business men who write from ten to fifty thousands -words a week without chattering about it, have no use for the literary -menagerie. I lived among the real business men--and even so I was -dissatisfied. I believe too that they were dissatisfied, most of them. -There is an infection in the air of London, a zymotic influence which is -the mysterious cause of unnaturalness, pose, affectation, artificiality, -moral neuritis, and satiety. One loses grasp of the essentials in an -undue preoccupation with the vacuities which society has invented. The -distractions are too multiform. One never gets a chance to talk -common-sense with one's soul. - -Thirdly, the rate at which I was making headway did not please me. My -reputation was growing, but only like a coral-reef. Many people had an -eye on me, as on one for whom the future held big things. Many people -took care to read almost all that I wrote. But my name had no -significance for the general public. The mention of my name would have -brought no recognizing smile to the average person who is "fond of -reading." I wanted to do something large, arresting, and decisive. And I -saw no chance of doing this. I had too many irons in the fire. I was -frittering myself away in a multitude of diverse activities of the pen. - -I pondered upon these considerations for a long while. I saw only one -way out, and, at last, circumstances appearing to conspire to lead me -into that way, I wrote a letter to my Board of Directors and resigned my -editorial post. I had decided to abandon London, that delectable -paradise of my youthful desires. A To-let notice flourished suddenly in -my front-garden, and my world became aware that I was going to desert -it. The majority thought me rash and unwise, and predicted an -ignominious return to Fleet Street. But the minority upheld my -resolution. I reached down a map of England, and said that I must live -on a certain main-line at a certain minimum distance from London. This -fixed the neighbourhood of my future home. The next thing was to find -that home, and with the aid of friends and a bicycle I soon found it. -One fine wet day I stole out of London in a new quest of romance. No one -seemed to be fundamentally disturbed over my exodus. I remarked to -myself: "Either you are a far-seeing and bold fellow, or you are a fool. -Time will show which." And that night I slept, or failed to sleep, in a -house that was half a mile from the next house, three miles from a -station, and three miles from a town. I had left the haunts of men with -a vengeance, and incidentally I had left a regular income. - -I ran over the list of our foremost writers: they nearly all lived in -the country. - - - - -XVI - - -When I had settled down into the landscape, bought my live-stock, -studied manuals on horses, riding, driving, hunting, dogs, poultry, and -wildflowers, learned to distinguish between wheat and barley and between -a six-year-old and an aged screw, shot a sparrow on the fence only to -find it was a redbreast, drunk the cherry-brandy of the Elizabethan inn, -played in the village cricket team, and ceased to feel self-conscious in -riding-breeches, I perceived with absolute certainty that I had made no -error; I knew that, come poverty or the riches of Indian short stories, -I should never again live permanently in London. I expanded, and in my -expansion I felt rather sorry for Londoners. I perceived, too, that the -country possessed commercial advantages which I had failed to appreciate -before. When you live two and a half miles from a railway you can cut a -dash on an income which in London spells omnibus instead of cab. For -myself I have a profound belief in the efficacy of cutting a dash. You -invite an influential friend down for the week-end. You meet him at the -station with a nice little grey mare in a phaeton, and an unimpeachable -Dalmatian running behind. The turn-out is nothing alone, but the -pedigree printed in the pinkiness of that dog's chaps and in the -exiguity of his tail, spotted to the last inch, would give tone to a -coster's cart. You see that your influential friend wishes to comment, -but as you gather up the reins you carefully begin to talk about the -weather and prices per thousand. You rush him home in twelve minutes, -skimming gate posts. On Monday morning, purposely running it fine, you -hurry him into a dog-cart behind a brown cob fresh from a pottle of -beans, and you whirl him back to the station in ten minutes, up-hill -half the way. You fling him into the train, with ten seconds to spare. -"This is how we do it in these parts," your studiously nonchalant face -says to him. He thinks. In a few hours Fleet Street becomes aware that -young So-and-so, who lately buried himself in the country, is alive and -lusty. Your stock rises. You go up one. You extort respect. You are -ticketed in the retentive brains of literary shahs as a success. And you -still have the dog left for another day. - -In the country there is plenty of space and plenty of time, and no -damnable fixed relation between these two; in other words, a particular -hour does not imply a particular spot for you, and this is something to -an author. I found my days succeeding each other with a leisurely and -adorable monotony. I lingered over breakfast like a lord, perusing the -previous evening's papers with as much gusto as though they were hot -from the press. I looked sideways at my work, with a non-committal air, -as if saying; "I may do you or I may not. I shall see how I feel." I -went out for a walk, followed by dogs less spectacular than the -Dalmatian, to collect ideas. I had nothing to think about but my own -direct productiveness. I stopped to examine the progress of trees, to -discuss meteorology with roadmenders, to wonder why lambs always waggled -their tails during the act of taking sustenance. All was calmness, -serenity. The embryo of the article or the chapter faintly adumbrated -itself in my mind, assumed a form. One idea, then another; then an -altercation with the dogs, ending in castigation, disillusion, and -pessimism for them. Suddenly I exclaimed: "I think I've got enough to go -on with!" And I turned back homewards. I reached my study and sat down. -From my windows I beheld a magnificent panorama of hills. Now the -contemplation of hills is uplifting to the soul; it leads to inspiration -and induces nobility of character, but it has a tendency to interfere -with actual composition. I stared long at those hills. Should I work, -should I not work? A brief period always ensued when the odds were -tremendous against any work being done that day. Then I seized the pen -and wrote the title. Then another dreadful and disconcerting pause, all -ideas having scuttled away like mice to their holes. Well, I must put -something down, however ridiculous. I wrote a sentence, feeling first -that it would not serve and then that it would have to serve, anyway. I -glanced at the clock. Ten twenty-five! I watched the clock in a sort of -hypnotism that authors know of, till it showed ten-thirty. Then with a -horrible wrench I put the pen in the ink again . . . . Jove! Eleven -forty-five, and I had written seven hundred words. Not bad stuff that! -Indeed, very good! Time for a cigarette and a stroll round to hear -wisdom from the gardener. I resumed at twelve, and then in about two -minutes it was one o'clock and lunch time. After lunch, rest for the -weary and the digesting; slumber; another stroll. Arrival of the second -post on a Russian pony that cost fifty shillings. Tea, and perusal of -the morning paper. Then another spell of work, and the day was gone, -vanished, distilled away. And about five days made a week, and -forty-eight weeks a year. - -No newspaper-proprietors, contributors, circulations, placards, -tape-machines, theatres, operas, concerts, picture-galleries, clubs, -restaurants, parties, Undergrounds! Nothing artificial, except myself -and my work! And nothing, save the fear of rent-day, to come between -myself and my work! - -It was dull, you will tell me. But I tell you it was magnificent. -Monotony, solitude, are essential to the full activity of the artist. -Just as a horse is seen best when coursing alone over a great plain, so -the fierce and callous egotism of the artist comes to its perfection in -a vast expanse of custom, leisure, and apparently vacuous reverie. To -insist on forgetting his work, to keep his mind a blank until the work, -no longer to be held in check, rushes into that emptiness and fills it -up--that is one of the secrets of imaginative creation. Of course it is -not a recipe for every artist. I have known artists, and genuine ones, -who could keep their minds empty and suck in the beauty of the world for -evermore without the slightest difficulty; who only wrote, as the early -Britons hunted, when they were hungry and there was nothing in the pot. -But I was not of that species. On the contrary, the incurable habit of -industry, the itch for the pen, was my chiefest curse. To be -unproductive for more than a couple of days or so was to be miserable. -Like most writers I was frequently the victim of an illogical, -indefensible and causeless melancholy; but one kind of melancholy could -always be explained, and that was the melancholy of idleness. I could -never divert myself with hobbies. I did not read much, except in the way -of business. Two hours reading, even of Turgenev or Balzac or Montaigne, -wearied me out. An author once remarked to me; "_I know enough. I don't -read books, I write 'em_." It was a haughty and arrogant saying, but -there is a sense in which it was true. Often I have felt like that: "I -know enough, I feel enough. If my future is as long as my past, I shall -still not be able to put down the tenth part of what I have already -acquired." The consciousness of this, of what an extraordinary and -wonderful museum of perceptions and emotions my brain was, sustained me -many a time against the chagrins, the delays, and the defeats of the -artistic career. Often have I said inwardly: "World, when I talk with -you, dine with you, wrangle with you, love you, and hate you, I -condescend!" Every artist has said that. People call it conceit; people -may call it what they please. One of the greatest things a great man -said, is:-- - - - I know I am august - I do not trouble my spirit to indicate itself or to be - understood . . . - I exist as I am, that is enough. - If no other in the world be aware I sit content. - And if each and all be aware I sit content. - - -Nevertheless, for me, the contentment of the ultimate line surpassed the -contentment of the penultimate. And therefore it was, perhaps, that I -descended on London from time to time like a wolf on the fold, and made -the world aware, and snatched its feverish joys for a space, and then, -surfeited and advertised, went back and relapsed into my long monotony. -And sometimes I would suddenly halt and address myself: - -"You may be richer or you may be poorer; you may live in greater pomp -and luxury, or in less. The point is that you will always be, -essentially, what you are now. You have no real satisfaction to look -forward to except the satisfaction of continually inventing, fancying, -imagining, scribbling. Say another thirty years of these emotional -ingenuities, these interminable variations on the theme of beauty. Is it -good enough?" - -And I answered: Yes. - -But who knows? 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Truth about an Author</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Arnold Bennett</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: November 4, 2021 [eBook #66661]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRUTH ABOUT AN AUTHOR ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/author_cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h1>THE TRUTH ABOUT -<br /> -AN AUTHOR</h1> - - - - - -<h4>NEW EDITION WITH PREFACE</h4> - - - - -<h4>BY </h4> - -<h2>ARNOLD BENNETT</h2> - -<h4>Author of "How to Live on 24 Hours a Day,"<br /> -"The Old Wives' Tale," etc.</h4> - - - - -<h4>GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY</h4> - -<h4>PUBLISHERS</h4> - -<h4>NEW YORK</h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h5><i>Copyright, 1911</i><br /> -By George H. Doran Company</h5> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> -<p class="nind"><a href="#PREFACE">PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#I">I</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#II">II</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#III">III</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#IV">IV</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#V">V</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#VI">VI</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#VII">VII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#VIII">VIII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#IX">IX</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#X">X</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XI">XI</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XII">XII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XIII">XIII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XIV">XIV</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XV">XV</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XVI">XVI</a></p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - - -<h4><a id="PREFACE">PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION</a></h4> - -<p> -Sometime in the last century I was for several years one of the most -regular contributors to "The Academy," under the editorship of Mr. Lewis -Hind and the ownership of Mr. Morgan Richards. The work was constant; -but the pay was bad, as it too often is where a paper has ideals. I well -remember the day when, by dint of amicable menaces, I got the rate -raised in my favor from ten to fifteen shillings a column, with a -minimum of two guineas an article for exposing the fatuity of popular -idols. One evening I met Mr. Lewis Hind at the first performance of some -very important play, whose name I forget, in the stalls of some theatre -whose name I forget. (However, the theatre has since been demolished.) -We began to talk about the "Academy", and as I was an editor myself, I -felt justified in offering a little advice to a fellow-creature. "What -you want in the 'Academy,'" I said, "is a sensational serial." "Yes, I -know," he replied, with that careful laziness of tone which used to mark -his more profound utterances, "and I should like you to write your -literary autobiography for us!" In this singular manner was the notion -of the following book first presented to me. It was not in the least my -own notion. -</p> - -<p> -I began to write the opening chapters immediately, for I was fascinated -by this opportunity to tell the truth about the literary life, and my -impatience would not wait. I had been earning a living by my pen for a -number of years, and my experience of the business did not at all -correspond with anything that I had ever read in print about the -literary life, whether optimistic or pessimistic. I took a malicious and -frigid pleasure, as I always do, in setting down facts which are opposed -to accepted sentimental falsities; and certainly I did not spare myself. -It did not occur to me, even in the midst of my immense conceit, to -spare myself. But even had I been tempted to spare myself I should not -have done so, because there is no surer way of damping the reader's -interest than to spare oneself in a recital which concerns oneself. -</p> - -<p> -The sensational serial ran in "The Academy" for about three months, but -I had written it all in the spare hours of a very much shorter period -than that. It was issued anonymously, partly from discretion, and partly -in the hope that the London world of letters would indulge in conjecture -as to its authorship, which in theory was to be kept a dark secret. The -London world of letters, however, did nothing of the kind. Everybody who -had any interest in such a matter seemed to know at once the name of the -author. Mr. Andrew Chatto, whose acquaintance I made just then, assured -me that he was certain of the authorship of the first article, on -stylistic evidence; and I found him tearing out the pages of the -"Academy" and keeping them. I found also a number of other people doing -the same. In fact I do not exaggerate in saying that the success of the -serial was terrific—among about a hundred people. It happened to me -to see quite sane and sober writing persons gurgle with joy over the mere -recollection of sundry scenes in my autobiography. But Mr. Andrew -Chatto, an expert of immense experience, gave me his opinion, with -perhaps even more than his customary blandness, that the public would -have no use for my autobiography. I could scarcely adopt his view. It -seemed to me impossible that so honest a disclosure, which had caused -such unholy joy in some of the most weary hearts that London contains, -should pass unheeded by a more general public. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Andrew Chatto did not publish this particular book of mine. I cannot -remember if it was offered to him. But I know that it was offered to -sundry other publishers before at last it found a sponsor. There was no -wild competition for it, and there was no excitement in the press when -it appeared. On the other hand, there was a great deal of excitement -among my friends. The book divided my friends into two camps. A few were -extraordinarily enthusiastic and delighted. But the majority were -shocked. Some—and among these the most intimate and -beloved—were so shocked that they could not bear to speak to me -about the book, and to this day have never mentioned it to me. Frankly, -I was startled. I suppose the book was too true. Many fine souls can -only take the truth in very small doses, when it is the truth about some -one or something they love. One of my friends—nevertheless a -realistic novelist of high rank—declined to credit that I had been -painting myself; he insisted on treating the central character as -fictional, while admitting the events described were factual. -</p> - -<p> -The reviews varied from the flaccid indifferent to the ferocious. No -other book of mine ever had such a bad press, or anything like such a -bad press. Why respectable and dignified organs should have been moved -to fury by the publication of a work whose veracity cannot be impugned, -I have never been quite able to understand; for I attacked no financial -interests; I did not attack any interest; I merely destroyed a few -illusions and make-believes. Yet such organs as "The Athenaeum" and -"Blackwood's" dragged forward their heaviest artillery against the -anonymous author. In its most virulent days "Blackwood's" could scarcely -have been more murderous. Its remarks upon me will bear comparison even -with its notorious attack, by the same well-known hand, on Mr. Bernard -Shaw. I had, of course, ample opportunities for adjusting the balance -between myself and the well-known hand, which opportunities I did not -entirely neglect. Also I was convinced that the time had arrived for -avowing the authorship, and I immediately included the book in the -official list of my publications. Till then the dark secret had only -once been divulged in the press—by Sir W. Robertson Nicoll. But this -journalist, whose interest in the literary life is probably unsurpassed, -refrained from any criticism. -</p> - -<p> -I have purposely forgotten the number of copies sold. It was the -smallest in my experience of infinitesimal numbers. In due season the -publishers—to my regret, and conceivably now to -theirs—'remaindered' the poor red-and-green volume. And The Times -Book Club, having apparently become possessed of a large stock of the -work, offered it, with my name but without my authority, at a really low -price. I think the first bargain was fivepence, but later sixpence was -demanded. As The Times Book Club steadily continued to advertise the -book, I suppose that at sixpence it must have had quite a vogue. At any -rate it has been quoted from with more freedom than any other book of -mine, and has indeed obviously formed the basis of dozens of -articles—especially in the United States—of which the -writers have omitted to offer me any share in their remuneration. I have -myself bought copies of it at as high as a shilling a piece, as a -speculation. And now here, after about a dozen years, is a new edition, -reproducing word for word the original text in all its ingenuous -self-complacency. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="I">I</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -I who now reside permanently on that curious fourth-dimensional planet -which we call the literary world; I, who follow the incredible parasitic -trade of talking about what people have done, who am a sort of public -weighing-machine upon which bookish wares must halt before passing from -the factory to the consumer; I, who habitually think in articles, who -exist by phrases; I, who seize life at the pen's point and callously -wrest from it the material which I torture into confections styled -essays, short stories, novels, and plays; who perceive in passion -chiefly a theme, and in tragedy chiefly a "situation"; who am so -morbidly avaricious of beauty that I insist on finding it where even it -is not; I, in short, who have been victimized to the last degree by a -literary temperament, and glory in my victimhood, am going to trace as -well as I can the phenomena of the development of that idiosyncrasy from -its inception to such maturity as it has attained. To explain it, to -explain it away, I shall make no attempt; I know that I cannot. I lived -for a quarter of a century without guessing that I came under the -category of Max Nordau's polysyllabic accusations; the trifling foolish -mental discipline which stands to my credit was obtained in science -schools, examination rooms, and law offices. I grew into a good man of -business; and my knowledge of affairs, my faculty for the nice conduct -of negotiations, my skill in suggesting an escape from a dilemma, were -often employed to serve the many artists among whom, by a sheer and -highly improbable accident, I was thrown. While sincerely admiring and -appreciating these people, in another way I condescended to them as -beings apart and peculiar, and unable to take care of themselves on the -asphalt of cities; I felt towards them as a policeman at a crossing -feels towards pedestrians. Proud of my hard, cool head, I used to twit -them upon the disadvantages of possessing an artistic temperament. Then, -one day, one of them retorted: "You've got it as badly as any of us, if -you only knew it." I laughed tolerantly at the remark, but it was like a -thunderclap in my ears, a sudden and disconcerting revelation. Was I, -too, an artist? I lay awake at night asking myself this question. -Something hitherto dormant stirred mysteriously in me; something -apparently foreign awoke in my hard, cool head, and a duality henceforth -existed there. On a certain memorable day I saw tears in the eyes of a -woman as she read some verses which, with journalistic versatility, I -had written to the order of a musical composer. I walked straight out -into the street, my heart beating like a horrid metronome. Am I an -artist? I demanded; and the egotist replied: Can you doubt it? -</p> - -<p> -From that moment I tacitly assumed a quite new set of possibilities, and -deliberately ordered the old ruse self to exploit the self just born. -And so, by encouragement and fostering, by intuition and imitation, and -perhaps affectation, I gradually became the thing I am, the <i>djinn</i> -that performs tricks with, some emotions, a pen, and paper. And now, -having shadowed forth the tale, as Browning did in the prologue to <i>The -Ring and the Book</i>, I will proceed to amplify it. -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Let this old woe step on the stage again!</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Act itself o'er anew for men to judge.</span> -</div></div> - - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="II">II</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -My dealings with literature go back, I suppose, some thirty and three -years. We came together thus, literature and I. It was in a kitchen at -midday, and I was waiting for my dinner, hungry and clean, in a tartan -frock with a pinafore over it. I had washed my own face, and dried it, -and I remember that my eyes smarted with lingering soap, and my skin was -drawn by the evaporation of moisture on a cold day. I held in my hand a -single leaf which had escaped from a printed book. How it came into that -chubby fist I cannot recall. The reminiscence begins with it already -there. I gazed hard at the paper, and pretended with all my powers to be -completely absorbed in its contents; I pretended to ignore some one who -was rattling saucepans at the kitchen range. On my left a very long and -mysterious passage led to a pawnshop all full of black bundles. I heard -my brother crying at the other end of the passage, and his noisy -naughtiness offended me. For myself, I felt excessively "good" with my -paper; never since have I been so filled with the sense of perfect -righteousness. Here was I, clean, quiet, sedate, studious; and there was -my brother, the illiterate young Hooligan, disturbing the sacrosanct shop, -and—what was worse—ignorant of his inferiority to me. Disgusted -with him, I passed through the kitchen into another shop on the right, -still conning the page with soapy, smarting eyes. At this point the -light of memory is switched off. The printed matter, which sprang out of -nothingness, vanishes back into the same. -</p> - -<p> -I could not read, I could not distinguish one letter from another. I -only knew that the signs and wonders constituted print, and I played at -reading with intense earnestness. I actually felt learned, serious, -wise, and competently superior, something like George Meredith's "Dr. -Middleton." Would that I could identify this my very first literature! I -review three or four hundred books annually now;<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> out of crass, -saccharine, sentimentality, I would give a year's harvest for the volume -from which that leaf was torn, nay, for the leaf alone, as though it -might be a Caxton. I remember that the paper was faintly bluish in tint, -veined, and rather brittle. The book was probably printed in the -eighteenth century. Perhaps it was Lavater's Physiognomy or Blair's -Sermons, or Burnet's Own Time. One of these three, I fancy, it must -surely have been. -</p> - -<p> -After the miraculous appearance and disappearance of that torn leaf, I -remember almost nothing of literature for several years. I was six or so -when The Ugly Duckling aroused in me the melancholy of life, gave me to -see the deep sadness which pervades all romance, beauty, and adventure. -I laughed heartily at the old henbird's wise remark that the world -extended past the next field and much further; I could perceive the -humour of that. But when the ugly duckling at last flew away on his -strong pinions, and when he met the swans and was accepted as an equal, -then I felt sorrowful, agreeably sorrowful. It seemed to me that nothing -could undo, atone for, the grief and humiliations of the false -duckling's early youth. I brooded over the injustice of his misfortunes -for days, and the swans who welcomed him struck me as proud, cold, and -supercilious in their politeness. I have never read The Ugly Duckling -since those days. It survives in my memory as a long and complex -narrative, crowded with vague and mysterious allusions, and wet with the -tears of things. No novel—it was a prodigious novel for -me—has more deliciously disturbed me, not even "On the Eve" or -"Lost Illusions." Two years later I read "Hiawatha." The picture which I -formed of Minnehaha remains vividly and crudely with me; it resembles a -simpering waxen doll of austere habit. Nothing else can I recall of -"Hiawatha," save odd lines, and a few names such as Gitchee-Gumee. I did -not much care for the tale. Soon after I read it, I see a vision of a -jolly-faced house-painter graining a door. "What do you call that?" I -asked him, pointing to some very peculiar piece of graining, and he -replied, gravely: "That, young sir, is a wigwam to wind the moon up -with." I privately decided that he must have read, not "Hiawatha," but -something similar and stranger, something even more wig-wammy. I dared -not question him further, because he was so witty. -</p> - -<p> -I remember no other literature for years. But at the age of eleven I -became an author. I was at school under a master who was entirely at the -mercy of the new notions that daily occurred to him. He introduced games -quite fresh to us, he taught us to fence and to do the lesser circle on -the horizontal bar; he sailed model yachts for us on the foulest canal -in Europe; he played us into school to a march of his own composing -performed on a harmonium by himself; he started a debating society and -an amateur dramatic club. He even talked about our honour, and, having -mentioned it, audaciously left many important things to its care—with -what frightful results I forget. Once he suffered the spell of -literature, read us a poem of his own, and told us that any one who -tried could write poetry. As it were to prove his statement, he ordered -us all to write a poem on the subject of Courage within a week, and -promised to crown the best poet with a rich gift. Having been commanded -to produce a poem on the subject of Courage, I produced a poem on the -subject of Courage in, what seemed to me, the most natural manner in the -world. I thought of lifeboats and fire-engines, and decided on lifeboats -for the mere reason that "wave" and "save" would rhyme together. A -lifeboat, then, was to save the crew of a wrecked ship. Next, what -<i>was</i> poetry? I desired a model structure which I might copy. Turning -to a school hymn-book I found— -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">A little ship was on the sea,</span><br /> -<span class="i4">It was a pretty sight;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">It sailed along so pleasantly</span><br /> -<span class="i4">And all was calm and bright</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -That stanza I adopted, and slavishly imitated. In a brief space a poem -of four such stanzas was accomplished. I wrote it in cold blood, -hammered it out word after word, and was much pleased with the result. -On the following day I read the poem aloud to myself, and was thrilled -with emotion. The dashing cruel wave that rhymed with save appeared to -me intensely realistic. I failed to conceive how any poem could be -better than mine. The sequel is that only one other boy besides myself -had even attempted verse. One after another, each sullenly said that he -had nothing to show. (How clever <i>I</i> felt!) Then I saw my rival's -composition; it dealt with a fire in New York and many fire-engines; I -did not care for it; I could not make sense of much of it; but I saw -with painful clearness that it was as far above mine as the heaven was -above the earth. . . . -</p> - -<p> -"Did you write this yourself?" The master was addressing the creator of -New York fire-engines. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, sir." -</p> - -<p> -"All of it?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, sir." -</p> - -<p> -"You lie, sir." -</p> - -<p> -It was magnificent for me. The fool, my rival, relying too fondly on the -master's ignorance of modern literature, had simply transcribed entire -the work of some great American recitation-monger. I received the -laurel, which I fancy amounted to a shilling. -</p> - -<p> -Nothing dashed by the fiasco of his poetry competition, the schoolmaster -immediately instituted a competition in prose. He told us about M. -Jourdain, who talked prose without knowing it, and requested us each to -write a short story upon any theme we might choose to select. I produced -the story with the same ease and certainty as I had produced the verse. -I had no difficulty in finding a plot which satisfied me; it was -concerned with a drowning accident at the seaside, and it -culminated—with a remorse—less naturalism that even thus early -proclaimed the elective affinity between Flaubert and myself—in an -inquest. It described the wonders of the deep, and I have reason to -remember that it likened the gap between the fin and the side of a fish -to a pocket. In this competition I had no competitor. I, alone, had -achieved fiction. I watched the master as he read my work, and I could -see from his eyes and gestures that he thought it marvellously good for -the boy. He spoke to me about it in a tone which I had never heard from -him before and never heard again, and then, putting the manuscript in a -drawer, he left us to ourselves for a few minutes. -</p> - -<p> -"I'll just read it to you," said the big boy of the form, a daring but -vicious rascal. He usurped the pedagogic armchair, found the manuscript, -rapped the ruler on the desk, and began to read. I protested in vain. -The whole class roared with laughter, and I was overcome with shame. I -know that I, eleven, cried. Presently the reader stopped and scratched -his head; the form waited. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Fishes have pockets! Fishes have pockets!" -</p> - -<p> -The phrase was used as a missile against me for months. -</p> - -<p> -The master returned with his assistant, and the latter also perused the -tale. -</p> - -<p> -"Very remarkable!" he sagely commented—to be sage was his foible, -"very remarkable, indeed!" -</p> - -<p> -Yet I can remember no further impulse to write a story for at least ten -years. Despite this astonishing success, martyrdom, and glory, I -forthwith abandoned fiction and went mad on water-colours. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>Written in 1900.</p></div> - - - - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="III">III</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The insanity of water-colours must have continued for many years. I say -insanity, because I can plainly perceive now that I had not the -slightest genuine aptitude for graphic art. In the curriculum of South -Kensington as taught at a provincial art school I never got beyond the -stage known technically as "third-grade freehand," and even in that my -"lining-in" was considered to be a little worse than mediocre. O floral -forms, how laboriously I deprived you of the grace of your Hellenic -convention! As for the "round" and the "antique," as for pigments, these -mysteries were withheld from me by South Kensington. It was at home, -drawn on by a futile but imperious fascination, that I practised them, -and water-colours in particular. I never went to nature; I had not the -skill, nor do I remember that I felt any sympathetic appreciation of -nature. I was content to copy. I wasted the substance of uncles and -aunts in a complicated and imposing apparatus of easels, mahlsticks, -boards, What-man, camel-hair, and labelled tubes. I rose early, I -cheated school and office, I outraged the sanctity of the English -Sabbath, merely to satisfy an ardour of copying. I existed on the Grand -Canal in Venice; at Toledo, Nuremburg, and Delft; and on slopes -commanding a view of Turner's ruined abbeys, those abbeys through whose -romantic windows streamed a yellow moonlight inimitable by any -combination of ochre, lemon, and gamboge in my paint-box. Every replica -that I produced was the history of a disillusion. With what a sanguine -sweep I laid on the first broad washes—the pure blue of water, the -misty rose of sun-steeped palaces, the translucent sapphire of Venetian -and Spanish skies! And then what a horrible muddying ensued, what a -fading-away of magic and defloriation of hopes, as in detail after -detail the picture gradually lost tone and clarity! It is to my credit -that I was always disgusted by the fatuity of these efforts. I have not -yet ceased to wonder what precise part of the supreme purpose was served -by seven or eight years of them. -</p> - -<p> -From fine I turned to applied art, diverted by a periodical called "The -Girl's Own Paper." For a long period this monthly, which I now regard as -quaint, but which I shall never despise, was my principal instrument of -culture. It alone blew upon the spark of artistic feeling and kept it -alive. I derived from it my first ideals of aesthetic and of etiquette. -Under its influence my brother and myself started on a revolutionary -campaign against all the accepted canons of house decoration. We -invented friezes, dadoes, and panels; we cut stencils; and we carried -out our bright designs through half a house. It was magnificent, -glaring, and immense; it foreshadowed the modern music-hall. Visitors -were shown through our rooms by parents who tried in vain to hide from -us their parental complacency. The professional house-decorator was -reduced to speechless admiration of our originality and extraordinary -enterprise; he really was struck—he could appreciate the difficulties -we had conquered. -</p> - -<p> -During all this, and with a succession of examinations continually -looming ahead, literature never occurred to me; it was forgotten. I -worked in a room lined with perhaps a couple of thousand volumes, but I -seldom opened any of them. Still, I must have read a great deal, -mechanically, and without enthusiasm: serials, and boys' books. At -twenty-one I know that I had read almost nothing of Scott, Jane Austen, -Dickens, Thackeray, the Brontës, and George Eliot. An adolescence -devoted to water-colours has therefore made it forever impossible for me -to emulate, in my functions of critic, the allusive Langism of Mr. -Andrew Lang; but on the other hand, it has conferred on me the rare -advantage of being in a position to approach the classics and the -alleged classics with a mind entirely unprejudiced by early -recollections. Thus I read David Copperfield for the first time at -thirty, after I had written a book or two and some hundreds of articles -myself. The one author whom as a youth I "devoured" was Ouida, creator -of the incomparable Strathmore, the Strathmore upon whose wrath the sun -unfortunately went down. I loved Ouida much for the impassioned nobility -of her style, but more for the scenes of gilded vice into which she -introduced me. She it was who inspired me with that taste for liaisons -under pink lampshades which I shall always have, but which, owing to a -puritanical ancestry and upbringing, I shall never be able to satisfy. -Not even the lesson of Prince Io's martyrdom in "Friendship" could cure -me of this predilection that I blush for. Yes, Ouida was the unique -fountain of romance for me. Of poetry, save "Hiawatha" and the enforced -and tedious Shakespeare of schools, I had read nothing. -</p> - -<p> -The principal local daily offered to buy approved short stories from -local readers at a guinea apiece. Immediately I wrote one. What, beyond -the chance of a guinea, made me turn so suddenly to literature I cannot -guess; it was eight years since I had sat down as a creative artist. But -I may mention here that I have never once produced any literary work -without a preliminary incentive quite other than the incentive of -ebullient imagination. I have never "wanted to write," until the -extrinsic advantages of writing had presented themselves to me. I cannot -recall that I found any difficulty in concocting the story. The heroine -was named Leonora, and after having lost sight of her for years, the -hero discovered her again as a great actress in a great play. (Miss -Ellen Terry in "Faust" had passed disturbingly athwart my existence.) I -remember no more. The story was refused. But I firmly believe that for a -boy of nineteen it was something of an achievement. No one saw it except -myself and the local editor; it was a secret, and now it is a lost -secret. Soon afterwards another local newspaper advertised for a short -serial of local interest. Immediately I wrote the serial, again without -difficulty. It was a sinister narrative to illustrate the evils of -marrying a drunken woman. (I think I had just read "L'Assommoir" in -Vizetelly's original edition of Zola.) There was a street in our town -named Commercial Street. I laid the scene there, and called it -Speculation Street. I know not what satiric criticism of modern life was -involved in that change of name. This serial too was refused; I suspect -that it was entirely without serial interest. -</p> - -<p> -I had matriculated at London University three years before, and was then -working, without heart, for a law degree (which I never won); instead of -Ouida my nights were given to Austin's Jurisprudence, the Institutes of -Justinian and of Gaius, and Maine's Ancient Law; the last is a great and -simple book, but it cannot be absorbed and digested while the student is -pre-occupied with the art of fiction. Out of an unwilling respect for -the University of London, that august negation of the very idea of a -University, I abandoned literature. As to water-colours, my tubes had -dried up long since; and house-decoration was at a standstill. -</p> - -<p> -The editor of the second newspaper, after a considerable interval, wrote -and asked me to call on him, for all the world as though I were the -impossible hero of a journalistic novel. The interview between us was -one of these plagiarisms of fiction which real life is sometimes guilty -of. The editor informed me that he had read my sinister serial with deep -interest, and felt convinced, his refusal of it notwithstanding, that I -was marked out for the literary vocation. He offered me a post on his -powerful organ as a regular weekly contributor, without salary. He said -that he was sure I could write the sort of stuff he wanted, and I -entirely agreed with him. My serene confidence in my ability, pen in -hand, to do anything that I wished to do, was thus manifest in the -beginning. Glory shone around as I left the editorial office. The -romantic quality of this episode is somewhat impaired by the fact, which -I shall nevertheless mention, that the editor was a friend of the -family, and that my father was one of several optimistic persons who -were dropping money on the powerful organ every week. The interview, -however, was indeed that peculiar phenomenon (so well-known to all -readers of biography) styled the "turning-point in one's career." But I -lacked the wit to perceive this for several years. -</p> - -<p> -The esteemed newspaper to which I was now attached served several fairly -large municipalities which lay so close together as to form in reality -one very large town divided against itself. Each wilful cell in this -organism was represented by its own special correspondent on the -newspaper, and I was to be the correspondent for my native town. I had -nothing to do with the news department; menial reporters attended to -that. My task was to comment weekly upon the town's affairs to the -extent of half a column of paragraphic notes. -</p> - -<p> -"Whatever you do, you must make your pars bright," said the editor, and -he repeated the word—"Bright!" -</p> - -<p> -Now I was entirely ignorant of my town's affairs. I had no suspicion of -the incessant comedy of municipal life. For two days I traversed our -stately thoroughfares in search of material, wondering what, in the -names of Horace Greeley, James Gordon Bennett, and Mr. Delane, my first -contribution was going to consist of. Law went to the devil, its natural -home. Then I happened to think of tram-lines. The tram-lines, under the -blessing of Heaven, were badly laid, and constituted a menace to all -wheeled traffic save trams; also the steam-engines of the trams were -offensive. I wrote sundry paragraphs on that topic, and having thus -acquired momentum, I arrived safely at the end of my half column by the -aid of one or two minor trifles. -</p> - -<p> -In due course I called at the office to correct proof, and I -was put into the hands of the sub-editor. It was one of those -quarters-of-an-hour that make life worth living; for the sub-editor -appreciated me; nay, he regarded me as something of a journalistic -prodigy, and his adjectives as he ran through the proof were extremely -agreeable. Presently he came to a sentence in which I had said that -such-and-such a proceeding "smacked of red tape." -</p> - -<p> -"'Smacked of red tape'?" He looked up at me doubtfully. "Rather a mixed -metaphor, isn't it?" -</p> - -<p> -I didn't in the least know what he meant, but I knew that sentence -was my particular pet. "Not at all!" I answered with feeling. "Nothing -of the sort! It <i>does</i> smack of red tape—you must admit that." -</p> - -<p> -And the sentence stood. I had awed the sub-editor. -</p> - -<p> -My notes enjoyed a striking success. Their brightness scintillated -beyond the brightness of the comments from any other town. People -wondered who this caustic, cynical, and witty anonymous wag was. I -myself was vastly well satisfied; I read the stuff over and over again; -but at the same time I perceived that I could make my next contribution -infinitely more brilliant. And I did. I mention this matter, less -because it was my first appearance in print, than because it first -disclosed to me the relation between literature and life. In writing my -stories I had never thought for a moment of life. I had made something, -according to a model, not dreaming that fiction was supposed to reflect -real life. I had regarded fiction as—fiction, a concoction on the -plane of the Grand Canal, or the Zocodover at Toledo. But in this other -literature I was obliged to begin with life itself. The wheel of a -dog-cart spinning off as it jammed against a projecting bit of -tram-line; a cyclist overset: what was there in that? Nothing. Yet I had -taken that nothing and transformed it into something—something that -seemed important, permanent, <i>literary</i>. I did not comprehend the -process, but I saw its result. I do not comprehend it now. The man who -could explain it could answer the oft-repeated cry: What is Art? -</p> - -<p> -Soon afterwards I had a delightful illustration of the power of the -press. That was the era of coffee-houses, when many excellent persons -without too much humour tried all over the country to wean the populace -from beer by the superior attractions of coffee and cocoa; possibly they -had never tasted beer. Every town had its coffee-house company, limited. -Our coffee-house happened to be a pretty bad one, while the coffee-house -of the next town was conspicuously good. I said so in print, with my -usual display of verbal pyrotechny. The paper had not been published an -hour before the aggrieved manager of our coffee-house had seen his -directors on the subject. He said I lied, that I was unpatriotic, and -that he wanted my head on a charger; or words to that effect. He asked -my father, who was a director of both newspaper and coffee-house, -whether he could throw any light on the identity of the scurrilous and -cowardly scribe, and my father, to his eternal credit, said that he -could not. Again I lived vividly and fully. As for our coffee-house, it -mended its ways. -</p> - -<p> -The County Council Bill had just become law, and our town enjoyed the -diversions of electing its first County Councillor. The rival candidates -were a brewer and a prominent lay religionist. My paper supported the -latter, and referred to the conflict between the forces of civilization -and the forces of barbarism. It had a magnificent heading across two -columns: "Brains versus Beer," and expressed the most serene confidence -as to the result. Of course, my weekly notes during the campaign were a -shield and a buckler to the religionist, who moreover lived next door. -</p> - -<p> -The result of the poll was to be announced late on the night before the -paper went to press. The editor gave me instructions that <i>if</i> we -lost, I was to make fun of the brewer, and in any case to deliver my -copy by eleven o'clock next morning. We lost heavily, disastrously; the -forces of civilization were simply nowhere. I attended the declaration -of the poll, and as the elated brewer made his speech of ceremony in -front of the town hall, I observed that his hat was stove-in and askew. -I fastened on that detail, and went to bed in meditation upon the -facetious notes which I was to write early on the morrow. In the middle -of the night I was wakened up. My venerable grandfather, who lived at -the other end of the town, had been taken suddenly ill and was dying. As -his eldest grandson, my presence at the final scene was indispensable. I -went, and talked in low tones with my elders. Upstairs the old man was -fighting for every breath. The doctor descended at intervals and said -that it was only a question of hours. I was absolutely obsessed by a -delicious feeling of the tyranny of the press. Nothing domestic could be -permitted to interfere with my duty as a journalist. -</p> - -<p> -"I must write those facetious comments while my grandfather is dying -upstairs!" This thought filled my brain. It seemed to me to be fine, -splendid. I was intensely proud of being laid under a compulsion so -startlingly dramatic. Could I manufacture jokes while my grandfather -expired? Certainly: I was a journalist. And never since have I been more -ardently a journalist than I was that night and morning. With a strong -sense of the theatrical, I wrote my notes at dawn. They delicately -excoriated the brewer. -</p> - -<p> -The curious thing is that my grandfather survived not only that, but -several other fatal attacks. -</p> - -<p> -A few weeks later, my newspaper was staggering under the blow of my -migration to London. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="IV">IV</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -I came to London at the age of twenty-one, with no definite ambition, -and no immediate object save to escape from an intellectual and artistic -environment which had long been excessively irksome to me. Some -achievement of literature certainly lay in the abyss of my desires, but -I allowed it to remain there, vague and almost unnoticed. As for -provincial journalism, without meed in coin, it had already lost the -charm of novelty, and I had been doing it in a perfunctory manner. I -made no attempt to storm Fleet Street. The fact is that I was too much -engaged in making a meal off London, swallowing it, to attend to -anything else; this repast continued for over two years. I earned a -scanty living as shorthand clerk, at first, in a solicitor's office; but -a natural gift for the preparation of bills of costs for taxation, that -highly delicate and complicated craft, and an equally natural gift for -advancing my own interests, soon put me in receipt of an income that -many "admitted" clerks would have envied: to be exact and prosaic, two -hundred a year. Another clerk in the office happened to be an ardent -bibliophile. We became friends, and I owe him much. He could chatter in -idiomatic French like a house on fire, and he knew the British Museum -Reading Room from its centre to its periphery. He first taught me to -regard a book, not as an instrument for obtaining information or -emotion, but as a <i>book</i>, printed at such a place in such a year by -so-and-so, bound by so-and-so, and carrying colophons, registers, -water-marks, and <i>fautes d'impression</i>. He was acquainted, I think, -with every second-hand bookstall in the metropolis; and on Saturday -afternoons we visited most of them. We lived for bargains and rarities. -We made it a point of honour to buy one book every day, and when -bargains failed we used to send out the messengers for a Camelot Classic -or so—ninepence net; this series was just then at the height of its -vogue. We were for ever bringing into the office formidable tomes—the -choice productions of the presses of Robert and Henry Stephen, Elzevir, -Baskerville, Giunta, Foulis, and heaven knows whom. My discovery of the -Greek <i>editio princeps</i> of Plutarch, printed by Philip Giunta at -Florence in 1517, which I bought in Whitechapel for two shillings, -nearly placed me on a level with my preceptor. We decidedly created a -sensation in the office. The "admitted" clerks and the articled clerks, -whom legal etiquette forbids as a rule to fraternize with the -"unadmitted," took a naïve and unaffected pleasure in our society. One -day I was examining five enormous folios full-bound in yellow calf, in -the clients' waiting-room, when the senior partner surprised me thus -wasting the firm's time. -</p> - -<p> -"What's all this?" he inquired politely. He was far too polite to -remonstrate. -</p> - -<p> -"This, sir? Bayle's 'Dictionaire Historique et Critique,'" I replied. -</p> - -<p> -"Is it yours?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, sir. I bought it in the lunch-hour at Hodgson's." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" -</p> - -<p> -He retired abashed. He was a gentle fellow, and professed an admiration -for Browning; but the chief thing of which he had the right to be proud -was his absolutely beautiful French accent. -</p> - -<p> -I had scarcely been in London a year when my friend and I decided to -collaborate in a bibliographical dictionary of rare and expensive books -in all European languages. Such a scheme sounds farcical, but we were -perfectly serious over it; and the proof of our seriousness is that we -worked at it every morning before breakfast. I may mention also that we -lunched daily at the British Museum, much to the detriment of our -official duties. For months we must have been quite mad—obsessed. We -got about as far as the New English Dictionary travelled in the first -twenty years of its life, that is to say, two-thirds through A; and then -suddenly, irrationally, without warning, we dropped it. The mere -conception of this dictionary was so splendid that there was a grandeur -even in dropping it. -</p> - -<p> -Soon after this, the managing clerk of the office, a university man, -autocratic, but kindly and sagacious, bought a country practice and left -us. He called me into his room to say good-bye. -</p> - -<p> -"You'd no business to be here," he said, sharply. "You ought to be doing -something else. If I find you here when I visit town next, I shall look -on you as a d——d fool. Don't forget what I say." -</p> - -<p> -I did not. On the contrary, his curt speech made a profound impression -on me. He was thirty, and a man of the world; I was scarcely -twenty-three. My self-esteem, always vigorous, was flattered into all -sorts of new developments. I gradually perceived that, quite without -intending it, I had acquired a reputation. As what? Well, as a learned -youth not lacking in brilliance. And this reputation had, I am -convinced, sprung solely from the habit of buying books printed mainly -in languages which neither myself nor my acquaintances could read. I -owned hundreds of books, but I seldom read any of them, except the -bibliographical manuals; I had no leisure to read. I scanned. I can only -remember, in this period, that I really studied one book—Plato's -"Republic," which I read because I thought I was doing the correct -thing. Beyond this, and a working knowledge of French, and an entirely -sterile apparatus of bibliographical technique, I had mastered nothing. -Three qualities I did possess, and on these three qualities I have -traded ever since. First, an omnivorous and tenacious memory (now, alas, -effete!)—the kind of memory that remembers how much London spends per -day in cab fares just as easily as the order of Shakespeare's plays or -the stock anecdotes of Shelley and Byron. Second, a naturally sound -taste in literature. And third, the invaluable, despicable, disingenuous -journalistic faculty of seeming to know much more than one does know. -None knew better than I that, in any exact, scholarly sense, I knew -nothing of literature. Nevertheless, I should have been singularly blind -not to see that I knew far more about literature than nine-tenths of the -people around me. These people pronounced me an authority, and I -speedily accepted myself as an authority: were not my shelves a silent -demonstration? By insensible degrees I began to assume the pose of an -authority. I have carried that pose into newspaper offices and the very -arcana of literary culture, and never yet met with a disaster. Yet in -the whole of my life I have not devoted one day to the systematic study -of literature. In truth, it is absurdly easy to impress even persons who -in the customary meaning of the term have the right to call themselves -well-educated. I remember feeling very shy one night in a drawing-room -rather new to me. My host had just returned from Venice, and was -describing the palace where Browning lived; but he could not remember -the name of it. -</p> - -<p> -"Rezzonico," I said at once, and I chanced to intercept the look of -astonishment that passed between host and hostess. -</p> - -<p> -I frequented that drawing-room a great deal afterwards, and was always -expected to speak <i>ex cathedra</i> on English literature. -</p> - -<p> -London the entity was at least as good as my dreams of it, but the -general mass of the persons composing it, considered individually, were -a sad disappointment. "What duffers!" I said to myself again and again. -"What duffers!" I had come prepared to sit provincially at the feet of -these Londoners! I was humble enough when I arrived, but they soon cured -me of that—they were so ready to be impressed! What struck me was the -extraordinary rarity of the men who really could "do their job." And -when I found them, they were invariably provincials like me who had come -up with the same illusions and suffered the same enlightenment. All who -were successfully performing that feat known as "getting on" were -provincials. I enrolled myself in their ranks. I said that I would get -on. The "d——d fool" phrase of the Chancery clerk rang in my -ears like a bugle to march. -</p> - -<p> -And for about a year I didn't move a step. I read more than I have ever -read before or since. But I did nothing. I made no effort, nor did I -subject myself to any mental discipline. I simply gorged on English and -French literature for the amusement I could extract from such gluttony, -and found physical exercise in becoming the champion of an excessively -suburban lawn-tennis club. I wasted a year in contemplating the -magnificence of my future doings. Happily I never spoke these dreams -aloud! They were only the private solace of my idleness. Now it was that -I at last decided upon the vocation of letters; not scholarship, not the -dilettantism of belles-lettres, but sheer constructive journalism and -possibly fiction. London, however, is chiefly populated by grey-haired -men who for twenty years have been about to become journalists and -authors. And but for a fortunate incident—the thumb of my Fate has -always been turned up—I might ere this have fallen back into that -tragic rearguard of Irresolutes. -</p> - -<p> -Through the good offices of my appreciative friends who had forgotten -the name of the Palazzo Rezzonico, I was enabled to take up my quarters -in the abode of some artists at Chelsea. I began to revolve, dazzled, in -a circle of painters and musicians who, without the least affectation, -spelt Art with the majuscule; indeed, it never occurred to them that -people existed who would spell it otherwise. I was compelled to set to -work on the reconstruction of nearly all my ideals. I had lived in a -world where beauty was not mentioned, seldom thought of. I believe I had -scarcely heard the adjective "beautiful" applied to anything whatever, -save confections like Gounod's "There is a green hill far away." Modern -oak sideboards were called handsome, and Christmas cards were called -pretty; and that was about all. But now I found myself among souls that -talked of beauty openly and unashamed. On the day that I arrived at the -house in Chelsea, the drawing-room had just been papered, and the -pattern of the frieze resembled nothing in my experience. I looked at -it. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't you think our frieze is charming?" the artist said, his eyes -glistening. -</p> - -<p> -It was the man's obvious sincerity that astounded me. O muse of mahogany -and green rep! Here was a creature who took a serious interest in the -pattern of his wall-papers! I expressed my enthusiasm for the frieze. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," he replied, with simple solemnity, "<i>it is very beautiful</i>." -</p> - -<p> -This worship of beauty was continuous. The very teaspoons were banned or -blessed on their curves, and as for my rare editions, they wilted under -tests to which they were wholly unaccustomed. I possessed a -<i>rarissime</i> illustrated copy of Manon Lescaut, of which I was very -proud, and I showed it with pride to the artist. He remarked that it was -one of the ugliest books he had ever seen. -</p> - -<p> -"But," I cried, "you've no idea how scarce it is! It's worth—" -</p> - -<p> -He laughed. -</p> - -<p> -I perceived that I must begin life again, and I began it again, -sustained in my first efforts by the all-pervading atmosphere of ardour. -My new intimates were not only keenly appreciative of beauty, they were -bent on creating it. They dreamed of great art-works, lovely -compositions, impassioned song. Music and painting they were familiar -with, and from me they were serenely sure of literature. The glorious -accent with which they clothed that word—literature! Aware beforehand -of my authority, my enthusiasm, they accepted me with quick, warm -sympathy as a fellow-idealist. Then they desired to know what I was -engaged upon, what my aims were, and other facts exceedingly difficult -to furnish. -</p> - -<p> -It happened that the most popular of all popular weeklies had recently -given a prize of a thousand pounds for a sensational serial. When the -serial had run its course, the editor offered another prize of twenty -guineas for the best humorous condensation of it in two thousand words. -I thought I might try for that, but I feared that my friends would not -consider it "art." I was mistaken. They pointed out that caricature was -a perfectly legitimate form of art, often leading to much original -beauty, and they urged me to enter the lists. They read the novel in -order the better to enjoy the caricature of it, and when, after six, -evenings' labour, my work was done, they fiercely exulted in it. Out of -the fulness of technical ignorance they predicted with certainty that I -should win the prize. -</p> - -<p> -Here again life plagiarized the sentimental novel, for I did win the -guineas. My friends were delighted, but they declined to admit a -particle of surprise. Their belief in what I could do kept me awake at -nights. -</p> - -<p> -This was my first pen-money, earned within two months of my change of -air. I felt that the omen was favourable. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="V">V</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Now I come to the humiliating part of my literary career, the period of -what in Fleet Street is called "free-lancing." I use the term -"humiliating" deliberately. A false aureole of romance encircles the -head of that miserable opportunist, the free-lance. I remember I tried -to feel what a glorious thing it was to be a free-lance, dependent on -none (but dependent on all), relying always on one's own invention and -ingenuity, poised always to seize the psychological moment, and gambling -for success with the calm (so spurious) of a dicer in the eighteenth -century. Sometimes I deceived myself into complacency, but far more -often I realized the true nature of the enterprise and set my teeth to -endure the spiritual shame of it. The free-lance is a tramp touting for -odd jobs; a pedlar crying stuff which is bought usually in default of -better; a producer endeavouring to supply a market of whose conditions -he is in ignorance more or less complete; a commercial traveller liable -constantly to the insolence of an elegant West End draper's "buyer." His -attitude is in essence a fawning attitude; it must be so; he is the poor -relation, the doff-hat, the ready-for-anything. He picks up the crumbs -that fall from the table of the "staff"—the salaried, jealous, -intriguing staff—or he sits down, honoured, when the staff has -finished. He never goes to bed; he dares not; if he did, a crumb would -fall. His experience is as degrading as a competitive examination, and -only less degrading than that of the black-and-white artist who trudges -Fleet Street with a portfolio under his arm. And the shame of the -free-lance is none the less real because he alone witnesses it—he and -the postman, that postman with elongated missive, that herald of -ignominy, that dismaying process-server, who raps the rap of -apprehension and probable doom six, eight, and even twelve times per -diem! -</p> - -<p> -The popular paper that had paid me twenty guineas for being facetious -expressed a polite willingness to consider my articles, and I began to -turn the life of a law-office into literature; my provincial experience -had taught me the trick. Here was I engaged all day in drawing up bills -of costs that would impose on a taxing-master to the very last -three-and-fourpence; and there was the public in whose chaotic mind a -lawyer's bill existed as a sort of legend, hieroglyphic and -undecipherable. What more natural than a brief article—"How a bill -of costs is drawn up," a trifling essay of three hundred words over -which I laboured for a couple of evenings? It was accepted, printed, and -with a postal order for ten shillings on the ensuing Thursday I saw the -world opening before me like a flower. The pathos of my sanguine -ignorance! I followed up this startling success with a careful imitation -of it—"How a case is prepared for trial," and that too brought its -ten shillings. But the vein suddenly ceased. My fledgling fancy could do -no more with law, and I cast about in futile blindness for other -subjects. I grew conscious for the first time of my lack of technical -skill. My facility seemed to leave me, and my self-confidence. Every -night I laboured dully and obstinately, excogitating, inventing, -grinding out, bent always to the squalid and bizarre tastes of the -million, and ever striving after "catchiness" and "actuality." My soul, -in the arrogance of a certain achievement, glances back furtively, with -loathing, at that period of emotional and intellectual dishonour. The -one bright aspect of it is that I wrote everything with a nice regard -for English; I would lavish a night on a few paragraphs; and years of -this penal servitude left me with a dexterity in the handling of -sentences that still surprises the possessor of it. I have heard of -Fleet Street hacks who regularly produce sixty thousand words a week; -but I well know that there are not many men who can come fresh to a pile -of new books, tear the entrails out of them, and write a -fifteen-hundred-word <i>causerie</i> on them, passably stylistic, all -inside sixty minutes. This means skill, and I am proud of it. But my -confessions as a reviewer will come later. -</p> - -<p> -No! Free-lancing was not precisely a triumph for me. Call it my -purgatorio. I shone sometimes with a feeble flicker, in half-crown -paragraphs, and in jumpy articles under alliterative titles that now and -then flared on a pink or yellow contents-bill. But I can state with some -certainty that my earnings in the mass did not exceed threepence an -hour. During all this time I was continually spurred by the artists -around me, who naïvely believed in me, and who were cognizant only of my -successes. I never spoke of defeat; I used to retire to my room with -rejected stuff as impassive as a wounded Indian; while opening envelopes -at breakfast I had the most perfect command of my features. Mere vanity -always did and always will prevent me from acknowledging a reverse at -the moment; not till I have retrieved my position can I refer to a -discomfiture. Consequently, my small world regarded me as much more -successful than I really was. Had I to live again, which Apollo forbid, -I would pursue the same policy. -</p> - -<p> -During all this time, too, I was absorbing French fiction incessantly; -in French fiction I include the work of Turgenev, because I read him -always in French translations. Turgenev, the brothers de Goncourt, and -de Maupassant were my gods. I accepted their canons, and they filled me -with a general scorn of English fiction which I have never quite lost. -From the composition of 'bits' articles I turned to admire "Fathers and -Children" or "Une Vie," and the violence of the contrast never struck me -at the time. I did not regard myself as an artist, or as emotional by -temperament. My ambition was to be a journalist merely—cool, smart, -ingenious, equal to every emergency. I prided myself on my impassivity. -I was acquainted with men who wept at fine music—I felt sure that -Saint Cecilia and the heavenly choir could not draw a single tear from my -journalistic eye. I failed to perceive that my appreciation of French -fiction, and the harangues on fiction which I delivered to my intimates, -were essentially emotional in character, and I forgot that the sight of -a successful dramatist before the curtain on a first-night always caused -me to shake with a mysterious and profound agitation. I mention these -facts to show how I misunderstood, or ignored, the progress of my -spiritual development. A crisis was at hand. I suffered from insomnia -and other intellectual complaints, and went to consult a physician who -was also a friend. -</p> - -<p> -"You know," he said, in the course of talk, "you are one of the most -highly-strung men I have ever met." -</p> - -<p> -When I had recovered from my stupefaction, I glowed with pride. What a -fine thing to be highly-strung, nervously organized! I saw myself in a -new light; I thought better of myself; I rather looked down on cool, -ingenious journalists. Perhaps I dimly suspected that Fleet Street was -not to be the end of all things for me. It was soon afterwards that the -artists whom I had twitted about their temperament accused me of sharing -it with them to the full. Another surprise! I was in a state of ferment -then. But I had acquired such a momentum in the composition of articles -destined to rejection that I continued throughout this crisis to produce -them with a regularity almost stupid. My friends began to inquire into -the nature of my ultimate purpose. They spoke of a large work, and I -replied that I had no spare time. None could question my industry. "Why -don't you write a novel on Sundays?" one of them suggested. -</p> - -<p> -The idea was grandiose. To conceive such an idea was a proof of -imagination. And the air with which these enthusiasts said these things -was entirely splendid and magnificent. But I was just then firmly -convinced that I had no vocation for the novel; I had no trace of a -desire to emulate Turgenev. Again and again my fine enthusiasts returned -to the charge, urged on by I know not what instinct. At last, to please -them, to quieten them, I promised to try to write a short story. Without -too much difficulty I concocted one concerning an artist's model, and -sent it to a weekly which gives a guinea each week for a prize story. My -tale won the guinea. -</p> - -<p> -"There! We told you so!" was the chorus. And I stood convicted of -underestimating my own powers; fault rare enough in my career! -</p> - -<p> -However, I insisted that the story was despicably bad, a commercial -product, and the reply was that I ought next to write one for art's -sake. Instead, I wrote one for morality's sake. It was a story with a -lofty purpose, dealing with the tragedy of a courtesan's life. (No, I -had not then read "Splendeurs et Misères des Courtisanes.") A prominent -philanthropist with a tendency to faddism, who for morality's sake was -running a monthly magazine, was much impressed by my tale, and after -some trouble—the contributors were supposed to contribute <i>con -amore</i>—I got another guinea. This story only pleased me for a few -weeks; its crudity was too glaring. But I continued to write short -stories, and several of them appeared in halfpenny evening papers. -Gaining in skill, I aimed political skits in narrative form at the more -exclusive, the consciously superior, penny evening papers, and one or -two of these hit the mark. I admired the stuff greatly. Lo, I had risen -from a concocter of 'bits' articles to be the scorpion-sting of cabinet -ministers! My self-confidence began to return. -</p> - -<p> -Then, one day, one beneficent and adorable day, my brain was visited by -a Plot. I had a prevision that I was about to write a truly excellent -short story. I took incredible pains to be realistic, stylistic, and all -the other <i>istics</i>, and the result amazed me. I knew that at last I -had accomplished a good thing—I knew by the glow within me, the -emotional fatigue, the vista of sweet labour behind me. What moved me to -despatch this jewel, this bit of caviare-to-the-general, to the editor -of a popular weekly with a circulation of a quarter of a million, I -cannot explain. But so I did. The editor returned it with a note to say -that he liked the plot, but the style was below his standard. I laughed, -and, more happily inspired, sent it to the Yellow Book, where it duly -appeared. The Yellow Book was then in apogee. Several fiercely literary -papers singled out my beautiful story for especial praise. -</p> - -<p> -"By heaven!" I said, "I will write a novel." It was a tremendous -resolution. -</p> - -<p> -I saw that I could <i>write</i>. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="VI">VI</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -But before continuing the narration of my adventures in fiction, I must -proceed a little further in the dusty tracks of journalism. When I had -laboured sordidly and for the most part ineffectively as a free-lance for -two or three years, I became, with surprising suddenness, the -assistant-editor of a ladies' paper. The cause of this splendid -metamorphosis was sadly unromantic. I had not bombarded the paper, from -the shelter of a pseudonym, with articles of unexampled brilliance. The -editor had not invited his mysterious and talented contributor into the -editorial sanctum, and there informed him that his exclusive services, -at a generous salary, were deemed absolutely essential to the future -welfare of the organ which he had hitherto assisted only on occasion. I -had never written a line for the paper, nor for any ladies' paper. I -obtained the situation by "influence," and that of the grossest kind. -All that I personally did was to furnish a list of the newspapers and -periodicals to which I had contributed, and some specimens of my printed -work. These specimens proved rather more than satisfactory. The editor -adored smartness; smartness was the "note" of his paper; and he -discovered several varieties of smartness in my productions. At our -first interview, and always afterwards, his attitude towards me was full -of appreciation and kindness. The post was a good one, a hundred and -fifty a year for one whole day and four half-days a week. Yet I was -afraid to take it. I was afraid to exchange two hundred a year for a -hundred and fifty and half my time, I who ardently wished to be a -journalist and to have leisure for the imitation of our lady George -Sand! In the end I was hustled into the situation. My cowardice was -shameful; but in recording it I am not unconscious of the fact that -truth makes for piquancy. -</p> - -<p> -"I am sorry to say that I shall have to leave you at Christmas, sir." -</p> - -<p> -"Indeed!" exclaimed the lawyer who admired Browning. "How is that?" -</p> - -<p> -"I am going on to the staff of a paper." Perhaps I have never felt -prouder than when I uttered those words. My pride must have been -disgusting. This was the last time I ever said "sir" to any man under -the rank of a knight. The defection of a reliable clerk who combined -cunning in the preparation of costs with a hundred and thirty words a -minute at shorthand was decidedly a blow to my excellent; employer; good -costs clerks are rarer than true poets; but he suffered it with -impassive stoicism; I liked him for that. -</p> - -<p> -On a New Year's Day I strolled along Piccadilly to the first day's work -on my paper. "My paper"—O the joyful sound! But the boats were burnt -up; their ashes were even cool; and my mind, in the midst of all this -bliss, was vexed by grave apprehensions. Suppose the paper to expire, as -papers often did! I knew that the existence of this particular paper was -precarious; its foundations were not fixed in the dark backward and abysm -of time—it was two years old. Nevertheless, and indisputably and -solely, I was at last a journalist, and entitled so to describe myself -in parish registers, county court summonses, jury papers, and income-tax -returns. In six months I might be a tramp sleeping in Trafalgar Square, -but on that gorgeous day I was a journalist; nay, I was second in -command over a cohort of women whose cleverness, I trusted, would be -surpassed only by their charm. -</p> - -<p> -The office was in the West End—index of smartness; one arrived at ten -thirty or so, and ascended to the suite in a lift. One smoked cigars and -cigarettes incessantly. There was no discipline, and no need of -discipline, since the indoor staff consisted only of the editor, myself, -and the editor's lady-secretary. The contrast between this and the exact -ritual of a solicitor's office was marked and delightful. In an -adjoining suite on the same floor an eminent actress resided, and an -eminent actor strolled in to us, grandiosely, during the morning, -accepted a cigar and offered a cigarette (according to his frugal -custom), chatted grandiosely, and grandiosely departed. Parcels were -constantly arriving—books, proofs, process-blocks, samples of soap -and of corsets: this continuous procession of parcels impressed me as much -as anything. From time to time well-dressed and alert women called, to -correct proofs, to submit drawings, or to scatter excuses. This was -"Evadne," who wrote about the toilet; that was "Angélique," who did the -cookery; the other was "Enid," the well-known fashion artist. In each -case I was of course introduced as the new assistant-editor; they were -adorable, without exception. At one o'clock, having apparently done -little but talk and smoke, we went out, the Editor and I, to lunch at -the Cri. -</p> - -<p> -"This," I said to myself quite privately, "this may be a novel by -Balzac, but it is not my notion of journalism." -</p> - -<p> -The doings of the afternoon, however, bore a closer resemblance to my -notion of journalism. That day happened to be press-day, and I perceived -that we gradually became very busy. Messenger-boys waited while I wrote -paragraphs to accompany portraits, or while I regularized the syntax of -a recipe for sole <i>à la Normande</i>, or while I ornamented two naked -lines from the "Morning Post" with four lines of embroidery. The editor -was enchanted with my social paragraphs; he said I was born to it, and -perhaps I was. I innocently asked in what part of the paper they were to -shine. -</p> - -<p> -"Gwendolen's column," he replied. -</p> - -<p> -"Who is Gwendolen?" I demanded. Weeks before, I had admired Gwendolen's -breadth of view and worldly grasp of things, qualities rare in a woman. -</p> - -<p> -"You are," he said, "and I am. It's only an office signature." -</p> - -<p> -Now, that was what I called journalism. I had been taken in, but I was -glad to have been taken in. -</p> - -<p> -At four o'clock he began frantically to dictate the weekly London Letter -which he contributed to an Indian newspaper; the copy caught the Indian -mail at six. And this too was what I called journalism. I felt myself to -be in my element; I lived. At an hour which I forget we departed -together to the printers, and finished off. It was late when the paper -"went down." The next morning the lady-secretary handed to me the first -rough folded "pull" of the issue, and I gazed at it as a mother might -gaze at her firstborn. -</p> - -<p> -"But is this all?" ran my thoughts. The fact was, I had expected some -process of initiation. I had looked on "journalism" as a sort of temple -of mysteries into which, duly impressed, I should be ceremoniously -guided. I was called assistant-editor for the sake of grandiloquence, -but of course I knew I was chiefly a mere sub-editor, and I had -anticipated that the sub-editorial craft would be a complex technical -business requiring long study and practice. On the contrary, there -seemed to me to be almost nothing in its technique. The tricks of -making-up, making-ready, measuring blocks, running-round, cutting, -saving a line, and so on: my chief assumed in the main that I understood -all these, and I certainly did grasp them instinctively; they appeared -childishly simple. Years afterwards, a contributor confided to me that -the editor had told her that he taught me nothing after the first day, -and that I was a born journalist. I do not seriously think that I was a -born journalist, and I mention this detail, not from any vain-glory over -a trifle, but to show that the <i>arcana</i> of journalism partake of the -nature of an imposture. The same may be said of all professional -<i>arcana</i>, even those of politics or of the swell-mob. -</p> - -<p> -In a word, I was a journalist—but I felt just the same as before. -</p> - -<p> -I vaguely indicated my feelings on this point to the chief. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" he said. "But you know you'd been through the mill before you came -here." -</p> - -<p> -So I had been through the mill! Writing articles at night and getting -them back the next morning but one, for a year or two—that was going -through the mill! Let it be so, then. When other men envied my position, -and expressed their opinion that I had "got on to a soft thing," I -indicated that the present was the fruit of the past, and that I had -been through the mill. -</p> - -<p> -Journalism for women, by women under the direction of men, is an affair -at once anxious, agreeable and delicate for the men who direct. It is a -journalism by itself, apart from other journalisms. And it is the only -journalism that I intimately know. The commercial side of it, the queer -financial basis of it, have a peculiar interest, but my scheme does not -by any means include the withdrawal of those curtains. I am concerned -with letters, and letters, I fear, have little connection with women's -journalism. I learnt nothing of letters in that office, save a few of -the more obvious journalistic devices, but I learnt a good deal about -frocks, household management, and the secret nature of women, especially -the secret nature of women. As for frocks, I have sincerely tried to -forget that branch of human knowledge; nevertheless the habit, acquired -then, of glancing first at a woman's skirt and her shoes, has never left -me. My apprenticeship to frocks was studded with embarrassing -situations, of which I will mention only one. It turns upon some designs -for a layette. A layette, perhaps I ought to explain, is an outfit for a -new-born babe, and naturally it is prepared in advance of the stranger's -arrival. Underneath a page of layette illustrations I once put the -legend, correct in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of a -thousand—but this was the thousandth—<i>Cut-to-measure patterns -supplied</i>. The solecism stands to all eternity against me on the file -of the paper; and the recollection of it, like the recollection of a -<i>gaucherie</i>, is persistently haunting. -</p> - -<p> -And here I shall quit for a time the feminine atmosphere, and the path -which I began by calling dusty, but which is better called flowery. My -activity in that path showed no further development until after I had -written my first novel. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="VII">VII</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"By heaven!" I said, "I will write a novel!" -</p> - -<p> -And I sat down to my oaken bureau with the air of a man who has resolved -to commit a stupendous crime. Perhaps indeed it was a crime, this my -first serious challenge to a neglectful and careless world. At any rate -it was meant to be the beginning of the end, the end being -twofold—fame and a thousand a year. You must bear well in mind -that I was by no means the ordinary person, and my novel was by no means -to be the ordinary novel. In these cases the very essence of the -situation is always that one is not ordinary. I had just discovered that -I could write—and when I use the term "write" here, I use it in a -special sense, to be appreciated only by those elect who can themselves -"write," and difficult of comprehension by all others. I had had a -<i>conte</i>—exquisitely Gallic as to spirit and form—in the -"Yellow Book," and that <i>conte</i> had been lauded in the "South -Audley Street Gazette" or some organ of destructive criticism. My -friends believed in Art, themselves, and me. I believed in myself, Art, -and them. Could any factor be lacking to render the scene sublime and -historic? -</p> - -<p> -So I sat down to write my first novel, under the sweet influences of the -de Goncourts, Turgenev, Flaubert, and de Maupassant. It was to be -entirely unlike all English novels except those of one author, whose -name I shall not mention now, for the reason that I have afore-time made -my admiration of that author very public. I clearly remember that the -purpose uppermost in my mind was to imitate what I may call the physical -characteristics of French novels. There were to be no poetical -quotations in my novel, no titles to the chapters; the narrative was to -be divided irregularly into sections by Roman numerals only; and it was -indispensable that a certain proportion of these sections should begin -or end abruptly. As thus, for a beginning:—"Gerald suddenly -changed the conversation, and taking the final match from his match-box -at last agreed to light a cigar." And for an ending:—"Her -tremulous eyes sought his; breathing a sigh she murmured . . ." O -succession of dots, charged with significance vague but tremendous, -there were to be hundreds of you in my novel, because you play so -important a part in the literature of the country of Victor Hugo and M. -Loubet! So much for the physical characteristics. To come nearer to the -soul of it, my novel was to be a mosaic consisting exclusively of -Flaubert's <i>mots justes</i>—it was to be <i>mots justes</i> -composed into the famous <i>écriture artiste</i> of the de Goncourts. -The sentences were to perform the trick of "the rise and fall." The -adjectives were to have colour, the verbs were to have colour, and -perhaps it was a <i>sine qua non</i> that even the pronouns should be -prismatic—I forget. And all these effects were to be obtained -without the most trifling sacrifice of truth. There was to be no bowing -in the house of the Rimmon of sentimentality. Life being grey, sinister, -and melancholy, my novel must be grey, sinister, and melancholy. As a -matter of strict fact, life deserved none of these epithets; I was -having a very good time; but at twenty-seven one is captious, and liable -to err in judgment—a liability which fortunately disappears at -thirty-five or so. No startling events were to occur in my novel, nor -anything out of the way that might bring the blush of shame to the -modesty of nature; no ingenious combinations, no dramatic surprises, and -above all no coincidences. It was to be the Usual miraculously -transformed by Art into the Sublime. -</p> - -<p> -The sole liberty that I might permit myself in handling the Usual was -to give it a rhythmic contour—a precious distinction in those -Yeller-bocky days. -</p> - -<p> -All these cardinal points being settled, I passed to the business of -choosing a subject. Need I say that I chose myself? But, in obedience to -my philosophy, I made myself a failure. I regarded my hero with an air -of "There, but for the grace of God, goes me!" I decided that he should -go through most of my own experiences, but that instead of fame and a -thousand a year he should arrive ultimately at disillusion and a -desolating suburban domesticity. I said I would call my novel "In the -Shadow," a title suggested to me by the motto of Balzac's "Country -Doctor"—"For a wounded heart, shadow and silence." It was to be all -very dolorous, this Odyssey of a London clerk who—— But I must -not disclose any detail of the plot. -</p> - -<p> -So I sat down, and wrote on a fair quarto sheet, "In the Shadow," and -under that, "I." It was a religious rite, an august and imposing -ceremonial; and I was the officiating priest. In the few fleeting -instants between the tracing of the "I" and the tracing of the first -word of the narrative, I felt happy and proud; but immediately the -fundamental brain-work began, I lost nearly all my confidence. With -every stroke the illusion grew thinner, more remote. I perceived that I -could not become Flaubert by taking thought, and this rather obvious -truth rushed over me as a surprise. I knew what I wanted to do, and I -could not do it. I felt, but I could not express. My sentences would -persist in being damnably Mudiesque. The <i>mots justes</i> hid themselves -exasperatingly behind a cloud. The successions of dots looked merely -fatuous. The charm, the poetry, the distinction, the inevitableness, the -originality, the force, and the invaluable rhythmic contour—these -were anywhere save on my page. All writers are familiar with the dreadful -despair that ensues when a composition, on perusal, obstinately presents -itself as a series of little systems of words joined by conjunctions and -so forth, something like this—subject, predicate, object, <i>but</i>, -subject, predicate, object. Pronoun, <i>however</i>, predicate, negative, -infinitive verb. <i>Nevertheless</i>, participle, accusative, subject, -predicate, etc., etc., etc., for evermore. I suffered that despair. The -proper remedy is to go to the nearest bar and have a drink, or to read a -bit of "Comus" or "Urn-Burial," but at that time I had no skill in -weathering anti-cyclones, and I drove forward like a sinking steamer in -a heavy sea. -</p> - -<p> -And this was what it was, in serious earnest, to be an author! For I -reckon that in writing the first chapter of my naturalistic novel, I -formally became an author; I had undergone a certain apprenticeship. I -didn't feel like an author, no more than I had felt like a journalist on -a similar occasion. Indeed, far less: I felt like a fool, an incompetent -ass. I seemed to have an idea that there was no such thing as -literature, that literature was a mirage, or an effect of hypnotism, or -a concerted fraud. After all, I thought, what in the name of common -sense is the use of telling this silly ordinary story of everyday life? -Where is the point? What <i>is</i> art, anyway, and all this chatter about -truth to life, and all this rigmarole of canons? -</p> - -<p> -I finished the chapter that night, hurriedly, perfunctorily, and only -because I had sworn to finish it. Then, in obedience to an instinct -which all Grub Street has felt, I picked out the correct "Yellow Book" -from a shelf and read my beautiful story again. That enheartened me a -little, restored my faith in the existence of art, and suggested the -comfortable belief that things were not perhaps as bad as they seemed. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, how's the novel getting on?" my friend the wall-paper enthusiast -inquired jovially at supper. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, fine!" I said. "It's going to be immense." -</p> - -<p> -Why one should utter these frightful and senseless lies, I cannot guess. -I might just as well have spoken the precise truth to him, for his was a -soul designed by providence for the encouragement of others. Still, -having made that remark, I added in my private ear that either the novel -must be immense or I must perish in the attempt to make it so. -</p> - -<p> -In six months I had written only about thirty thousand words, and I felt -the sort of elation that probably succeeds six months on a treadmill. -But one evening, in the midst of a chapter, a sudden and mysterious -satisfaction began to warm my inmost being. I knew that chapter was -good and going to be good. I experienced happiness in the very act of -work. Emotion and technique were reconciled. It was as if I had -surprisingly come upon the chart with the blood-red cross showing where -the Spanish treasure was buried. I dropped my pen, and went out for a -walk, and decided to give the book an entirely fresh start. I carefully -read through all that I had written. It was bad, but viewed in the mass -it produced on me a sort of culminating effect which I had not -anticipated. Conceive the poor Usual at the bottom of a flight of -stairs, and the region of the Sublime at the top: it seemed to me that I -had dragged the haggard thing halfway up, and that it lay there, inert -but safe, awaiting my second effort. The next night I braced myself to -this second effort, and I thought that I succeeded. -</p> - -<p> -"We're doing the trick, Charlie," Edmund Kean whispered into the ear of -his son during a poignant scene of "Brutus." And in the very crisis of -my emotional chapters, while my hero was rushing fatally to the nether -greyness of the suburbs and all the world was at its most sinister and -most melancholy, I said to myself with glee: "We're doing the trick." My -moods have always been a series of violent contrasts, and I was now just -as uplifted as I had before been depressed. There were interludes of -doubt and difficulty, but on the whole I was charmed with my novel. It -would be a despicable affectation to disguise the fact that I deemed it -a truly distinguished piece of literature, idiosyncratic, finely -imaginative, and of rhythmic contour. As I approached the end, my -self-esteem developed in a <i>crescendo</i>. I finished the tale, having -sentenced my hero to a marriage infallibly disastrous, at three o'clock -one morning. I had laboured for twelve hours without intermission. It -was great, this spell; it was histrionic. It was Dumas over again, and -the roaring French forties. -</p> - -<p> -Nevertheless, to myself I did not yet dare to call myself an artist. I -lacked the courage to believe that I had the sacred fire, the inborn and -not-to-be-acquired vision. It seemed impossible that this should be so. -I have ridiculed the whole artist tribe, and, in the pursuit of my -vocation, I shall doubtless ridicule them again; but never seriously. -Nothing is more deeply rooted in me than my reverence for the artistic -faculty. And whenever I say, "The man's an artist," I say it with an -instinctive solemnity that so far as I am concerned ends all discussion. -Dared I utter this great saying to my shaving-mirror? No, I repeat that -I dared not. More than a year elapsed before the little incident -described at the commencement of these memoirs provided me with the -audacity to inform the author of "In the Shadow" that he too belonged to -the weird tribe of Benjamin. -</p> - -<p> -When my novel had been typewritten and I read it in cold blood, I was -absolutely unable to decide whether it was very good, good, medium, bad, -or very bad. I could not criticize it. All I knew was that certain -sentences, in the vein of the <i>écriture artiste</i>, persisted -beautifully in my mind, like fine lines from a favourite poet. I loosed -the brave poor thing into the world over a post-office counter. "What -chance <i>has</i> it, in the fray?" I exclaimed. My novel had become -nothing but a parcel. Thus it went in search of its fate. -</p> - -<p> -I have described the composition of my first book in detail as realistic -as I can make it, partly because a few years ago the leading novelists -of the day seemed to enter into a conspiracy to sentimentalize the -first book episode in their brilliant careers. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="VIII">VIII</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"Will you step this way?" said the publisher's manager, and after -coasting by many shelves loaded with scores of copies of the same book -laid flat in piles—to an author the most depressing sight in the -world—I was ushered into the sanctum, the star-chamber, the den, the -web of the spider. -</p> - -<p> -I beheld the publisher, whose name is a household word wherever the -English language is written for posterity. Even at that time his imprint -flamed on the title-pages of one or two works of a deathless nature. My -manuscript lay on an occasional table by his side, and I had the curious -illusion that he was posing for his photograph with my manuscript. As I -glanced at it I could not help thinking that its presence there bordered -on the miraculous. I had parted with it at a post-office. It had been -stamped, sorted, chucked into a van, whirled through the perilous -traffic of London's centre, chucked out of a van, sorted again, and -delivered with many other similar parcels at the publisher's. The -publisher had said: "Send this to So-and-so to read." Then more perils -by road and rail, more risks of extinction and disorientation. Then -So-and-so, probably a curt man, with a palate cloyed by the sickliness -of many manuscripts, and a short way with new authors, had read it or -pretended to read it. Then finally the third ordeal of locomotion. And -there it was, I saw it once more, safe! -</p> - -<p> -We discussed the weather and new reputations. I was nervous, and I think -the publisher was nervous, too. At length, in a manner mysterious and -inexplicable, the talk shifted to my manuscript. The publisher permitted -himself a few compliments of the guarded sort. - -"But there's no money in it, you know," he said. -</p> - -<p> -"I suppose not," I assented. ("You are an ass for assenting to that," I -said to myself.) -</p> - -<p> -"I invariably lose money over new authors," he remarked, as if I was to -blame. -</p> - -<p> -"You didn't lose much over Mrs.——," I replied, naming one of -his notorious successes. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, <i>well</i>!" he said, "of course——. But I didn't make so -much as you think, perhaps. Publishing is a very funny business." And then -he added: "Do you think your novel will succeed like Mrs.——'s?" -</p> - -<p> -I said that I hoped it would. -</p> - -<p> -"I'll be perfectly frank with you," the publisher exclaimed, smiling -beneficently. "My reader likes your book. I'll tell you what he says." -He took a sheet of paper that lay on the top of the manuscript and read. -</p> - -<p> -I was enchanted, spell-bound. The nameless literary adviser used phrases -of which the following are specimens (I am recording with exactitude): -"Written with great knowledge and a good deal of insight." "Character -delineated by a succession of rare and subtle touches." "Living, -convincing." "Vigour and accuracy." "The style is good." -</p> - -<p> -I had no idea that publishers' readers were capable of such laudation. -</p> - -<p> -The publisher read on: "I do not think it likely to be a striking -success!" -</p> - -<p> -"Oh!" I murmured, shocked by this bluntness. -</p> - -<p> -"There's no money in it," the publisher repeated, firmly. "First books -are too risky. . . . I should like to publish it." -</p> - -<p> -"Well?" I said, and paused. I felt that he had withdrawn within himself -in order to ponder upon the chances of this terrible risk. So as not to -incommode him with my gaze, I examined the office, which resembled a -small drawing-room rather than an office. I saw around me signed -portraits of all the roaring lions on the sunny side of Grub Street. -</p> - -<p> -"I'll publish it," said the publisher, and I believe he made an honest -attempt not to look like a philanthropist; however, the attempt failed. -"I'll publish it. But of course I can only give you a small royalty." -</p> - -<p> -"What royalty?" I asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Five per cent.—on a three-and-six-penny book." -</p> - -<p> -"Very well. Thank you!" I said. -</p> - -<p> -"I'll give you fifteen per cent, after the sale of five thousand -copies," he added kindly. -</p> - -<p> -O ironist! -</p> - -<p> -I emerged from the web of the spider triumphant, an accepted author. -Exactly ten days had elapsed since I had first parted with my -manuscript. Once again life was plagiarizing fiction. I could not -believe that this thing was true. I simply could not believe it. "Oh!" I -reflected, incredulous, "Something's bound to happen. It can't really -come off. The publisher might die, and then——" -</p> - -<p> -Protected by heaven on account of his good deeds, the publisher -felicitously survived; and after a delay of twelve months (twelve -centuries—during which I imagined that the universe hung motionless -and expectant in the void!) he accomplished his destiny by really and -truly publishing my book. -</p> - -<p> -The impossible had occurred. I was no longer a mere journalist; I was an -author. -</p> - -<p> -"After all, it's nothing!" I said, with that intense and unoriginal -humanity which distinguishes all of us. And in a blinding flash I saw -that an author was in essence the same thing as a grocer or a duke. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="IX">IX</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -My novel, under a new title, was published both in England and America. -I actually collected forty-one reviews, of it, and there must have been -many that escaped me. Of these forty-one, four were unfavourable, eleven -mingled praise and blame in about equal proportions, and twenty-six were -unmistakably favourable, a few of them being enthusiastic. -</p> - -<p> -Yet I had practically no friends on the press. One friend I had, a man -of power, and he reviewed my book with an appreciation far too kind; but -his article came as a complete surprise to me. Another friend I had, -sub-editor of a society weekly, and he asked me for a copy of my book so -that he might "look after it" in the paper. Here is part of the result: -</p> - -<p> -"He has all the young novelist's faults. . . . These are glaring faults; -for, given lack of interest, and unpleasant scenes, how can a book be -expected to be popular?" -</p> - -<p> -A third friend I had, who knew the chief fiction-reviewer on a great -morning paper. He asked me for a special copy of my book, and quite on -his own initiative, undertook to arrange the affair. Here is part of the -result: -</p> - -<p> -"There is not much to be said either for or against—— by -Mr.——" -</p> - -<p> -I had no other friends on the press, or friends who had friends on the -press. -</p> - -<p> -I might easily butcher the reviews for your amusement, but this practice -is becoming trite. I will quote a single sentence which pleased me as -much as any:—"What our hero's fate was let those who care to know -find out, but let us assure them that in its discovery they will read of -London life and labour as it is, not as the bulk of romances paint it." -All the principal organs were surprisingly appreciative. And the -majority of the reviewers agreed that my knowledge of human nature was -exceptionally good, that my style was exceptionally good, that I had in -me the makings of a novelist, and that my present subject was weak. My -subject was not weak; but let that pass. When I reflect how my book -flouted the accepted canons of English fiction, and how many aspects of -it must have annoyed nine reviewers out of ten, I am compelled to the -conclusion that reviewers are a very good-natured class of persons. I -shall return to this interesting point later—after I have described -how I became a reviewer myself. The fact to be asserted is that I, quite -obscure and defenceless, was treated very well. I could afford to smile -from a high latitude at the remark of "The New York——" that -"the story and characters are commonplace in the extreme." I felt that I -had not lived in vain, and that kindred spirits were abroad in the land. -</p> - -<p> -My profits from this book with the exceptional style and the exceptional -knowledge of human nature, exceeded the cost of having it typewritten by -the sum of one sovereign. Nor was I, nor am I, disposed to grumble at -this. Many a first book has cost its author a hundred pounds. I got a -new hat out of mine. -</p> - -<p> -What I did grumble at was the dishonour of the prophet in his own -county. Here I must delicately recall that my novel was naturalistic, -and that it described the career of a young man alone in London. It had -no "realism" in the vulgar sense, as several critics admitted, but still -it was desperately exact in places, and I never surrounded the head of a -spade with the aureole of a sentimental implement. The organ of a great -seaport remarked: "We do not consider the book a healthy one. We say no -more." Now you must imagine this excessively modern novel put before a -set of estimable people whose ideas on fiction had been formed under the -influence of Dickens and Mrs. Henry Wood, and who had never changed -those ideas. Some of them, perhaps, had not read a novel for ten years -before they read mine. The result was appalling, frightful, tragical. -For months I hesitated to visit the town which had the foresight to bear -me, and which is going to be famous on that score. I was castigated in -the local paper. My nearest and dearest played nervously with their -bread when my novel was mentioned at dinner. A relative in a distant -continent troubled himself to inform me that the book was fragmentary -and absolutely worthless. The broader-minded merely wished that I had -never written the book. The discreet received it in silence. One -innocent person, for whom I have the warmest regard, thought that my -novel might be a suitable birthday present for his adolescent son. By -chance he perused the book himself on the birthday eve. I was told that -neither on that night nor on the next did he get a wink of sleep. His -adolescent son certainly never got my book. -</p> - -<p> -Most authors, I have learnt on enquiry, have to suffer from this strange -lack of appreciation in the very circle where appreciation should be -kindest; if one fault isn't found, another is; but they draw a veil -across that dark aspect of the bright auctorial career. I, however, am -trying to do without veils, and hence I refer to the matter. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="X">X</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -My chief resigned his position on the paper with intent to enliven other -spheres of activity. The news of his resignation was a blow to me. It -often happens that when an editor walks out of an office in the exercise -of free-will, the staff follows him under compulsion. In Fleet Street -there is no security of tenure unless one is ingenious enough to be the -proprietor of one's paper. -</p> - -<p> -"I shall never get on with any one as I have got on with you," I said to -the chief. -</p> - -<p> -"You needn't," he answered. "I'm sure they'll have the sense to give you -my place if you ask for it." "They" were a board of directors. -</p> - -<p> -And they had the sense; they even had the sense not to wait until I -asked. I have before remarked that the thumb of my Fate has always been -turned up. Still on the glorious side of thirty, still young, -enthusiastic, and a prey to delightful illusions, I suddenly found -myself the editor of a London weekly paper. It was not a leading organ, -but it was a London weekly paper, and it had pretensions; at least I -had. My name was inscribed in various annuals of reference. I dined as -an editor with other editors. I remember one day sitting down to table -in a populous haunt of journalists with no less than four editors. -"Three years ago," I said to myself, "I should have deemed this an -impossible fairy tale." I know now that there are hundreds of persons in -London and elsewhere who regard even editors with gentle and -condescending toleration. One learns. -</p> - -<p> -I needed a sub-editor, and my first act was to acquire one. I had the -whole world of struggling lady-journalists to select from: to choose was -an almost sublime function. For some months previously we had been -receiving paragraphs and articles from an outside contributor whose -<i>flair</i> in the discovery of subjects, whose direct simplicity of style -and general tidiness of "copy," had always impressed me. I had never -seen her, and I knew nothing about her; but I decided that, if she -pleased, this lady should be my sub-editor. I wrote desiring her to -call, and she called. Without much preface I offered her the situation; -she accepted it. -</p> - -<p> -"Who recommended me to you?" she asked. -</p> - -<p> -"No one," I replied, in the rôle of Joseph Pulitzer; "I liked your -stuff." -</p> - -<p> -It was a romantic scene. I mention it because I derived a child-like -enjoyment from that morning. Vanity was mixed up in it; but I -argued—If you are an editor, be an editor imaginatively. I seemed -to resemble Louis the Fifteenth beginning to reign after the death of -the Regent, but with no troublesome Fleury in the background. -</p> - -<p> -"Now," I cried, "up goes the circulation!" -</p> - -<p> -But circulations are not to be bullied into ascension. They will only -rise on the pinions of a carefully constructed policy. I thought I knew -all about journalism for women, and I found that I knew scarcely the -fringe of it. A man may be a sub-editor, or even an assistant-editor, -for half a lifetime, and yet remain ignorant of the true significance of -journalism. Those first months were months of experience in a very -poignant sense. The proprietary desired certain modifications in the -existing policy. O that mysterious "policy," which has to be created and -built up out of articles, paragraphs, and pictures! That -thrice-mysterious "public taste" which has to be aimed at in the dark -and hit! I soon learnt the difference between legislature and executive. -I could "execute" anything, from a eulogy of a philanthropic duchess to -a Paris fashion letter. I could instruct a fashion-artist as though I -knew what I was talking about. I could play Blucher at the Waterloo of -the advertisement-manager. I could interview a beauty and make her say -the things that a beauty must say in an interview. But to devise the -contents of an issue, to plan them, to balance them; to sail with this -wind and tack against that; to keep a sensitive cool finger on the -faintly beating pulse of the terrible many-headed patron; to walk in a -straight line through a forest black as midnight; to guess the riddle of -the circulation-book week by week; to know by instinct why Smiths sent -in a repeat-order, or why Simpkins' was ten quires less; to keep one eye -on the majestic march of the world, and the other on the vagaries of a -bazaar-reporter who has forgotten the law of libel: these things, and -seventy-seven others, are the real journalism. It is these things that -make editors sardonic, grey, unapproachable. -</p> - -<p> -Unique among all suspenses is the suspense that occupies the editorial -mind between the moment of finally going to press and the moment of -examining the issue on the morning of publication. Errors, appalling and -disastrous errors, will creep in; and they are irremediable then. These -mishaps occur to the most exalted papers, to all papers, except perhaps -the "Voce della Verità," which, being the organ of the Pope, is -presumably infallible. Tales circulate in Fleet Street that make the -hair stand on end; and every editor says: "This might have happened to -<i>me</i>." Subtle beyond all subtleties is the magic and sinister change -that happens to your issue in the machine-room at the printers. -You pass the final page and all seems fair, attractive, clever, -well-designed. . . . Ah! But what you see is not what is on the paper; it -is the reflection of the bright image in your mind of what you intended! -When the last thousand is printed and the parcels are in the vans, then you -gaze at the unalterable thing, and you see it coldly as it actually is. -You see not what you intended, but what you have accomplished. And the -difference! It is like the chill, steely dawn after the vague poetry of -a moonlit night. -</p> - -<p> -There is no peace for an editor. He may act the farce of taking a -holiday, but the worm of apprehension is always gnawing at the root of -pleasure. I once put my organ to bed and went off by a late train in a -perfect delirium of joyous anticipation of my holiday. I was recalled by -a telegram that a fire with a strong sense of ironic humour had burnt -the printing office to the ground and destroyed five-sixths of my entire -issue. In such crises something has to be done, and done quickly. You -cannot say to your public next week: "Kindly excuse the absence of the -last number, as there was a fire at the printers." Your public recks not -of fires, no more than the General Post Office, in its attitude towards -late clerks, recognizes the existence of fogs in winter. And herein -lies, for the true journalist, one of the principal charms of Fleet -Street. Herein lies the reason why an editor's life is at once -insufferable and worth living. There are no excuses. Every one knows -that if the crater of Highgate Hill were to burst and bury London in -lava to-morrow, the newspapers would show no trace of the disaster -except an account of it. That thought is fine, heroic, when an editor -thinks of it. -</p> - -<p> -And if an editor knows not peace, he knows power. In Fleet Street, as in -other streets, the population divides itself into those who want -something and those who have something to bestow; those who are anxious -to give a lunch, and those who deign occasionally to accept a lunch; -those who have an axe to grind and those who possess the grindstone. The -change from the one position to the other was for me at first rather -disconcerting; I could not understand it; there was an apparent -unreality about it; I thought I must be mistaken; I said to myself: -"Surely this unusual ingratiating affability has nothing to do with the -accident that I am an editor." Then, like the rest of the owners of -grindstones, I grew accustomed to the ownership, and cynical withal, -cold, suspicious, and forbidding. I became bored by the excessive -complaisance that had once tickled and flattered me. (Nevertheless, -after I had ceased to be an editor I missed it; involuntarily I -continued to expect it.) The situation of the editor of a ladies' paper -is piquantly complicated, in this respect, by the fact that some women, -not many—but a few, have an extraordinary belief in, and make -unscrupulous use of, their feminine fascinations. The art of being "nice -to editors" is diligently practised by these few; often, I know, with -brilliant results. Sometimes I have sat in my office, with the charmer -opposite, and sardonically reflected: "You think I am revolving round -your little finger, madam, but you were never more mistaken in your -life." And yet, breathes there the man with soul so uniformly cold that -once or twice in such circumstances the woman was not right after all? I -cannot tell. The whole subject, the subject of that strange, disturbing, -distracting, emotional atmosphere of femininity which surrounds the male -in command of a group of more or less talented women, is of a supreme -delicacy. It could only be treated safely in a novel—one of the -novels which it is my fixed intention never to write. This I know and -affirm, that the average woman-journalist is the most loyal, earnest, and -teachable person under the sun. I begin to feel sentimental when I think -of her astounding earnestness, even in grasping the live coal of English -syntax. Syntax, bane of writing-women, I have spent scores of -ineffectual hours in trying to inoculate the ungrammatical sex against -your terrors! And how seriously they frowned, and how seriously I -talked; and all the while the eternal mystery of the origin and destiny -of all life lay thick and unnoticed about us! -</p> - -<p> -These syntax-sittings led indirectly to a new development of my -activities. One day a man called on me with a letter of introduction. He -was a colonial of literary tastes. I asked in what manner I might serve -him. -</p> - -<p> -"I want to know whether you would care to teach me journalism," he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Teach you journalism!" I echoed, wondering by what unperceived alchemy -I myself, but yesterday a tyro, had been metamorphosed into a professor -of the most comprehensive of all crafts. -</p> - -<p> -"I am told you are the best person to come to," he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Why not?" I thought. "Why shouldn't I?" I have never refused work when -the pay has been good. I named a fee that might have frightened him, but -it did not. And so it fell out that I taught journalism to him, and to -others, for a year or two. This vocation suited me; I had an aptitude -for it; and my fame spread abroad. Some of the greatest experts in -London complimented me on my methods and my results. Other and more -ambitious schemes, however, induced me to abandon this lucrative field, -which was threatening to grow tiresome. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XI">XI</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -I come now to a question only less delicate than that of the conflict of -sexes in journalism—the question of reviewing, which, however, I -shall treat with more freedom. If I have an aptitude for anything at all -in letters, it is for criticism. Whenever I read a work of imagination, I -am instantly filled with ideas concerning it; I form definite views -about its merit or demerit, and having formed them, I hold those views -with strong conviction. Denial of them rouses me; I must thump the table -in support of them; I must compel people to believe that what I say is -true; I cannot argue without getting serious in spite of myself. In -literature, but in nothing else, I am a propagandist; I am not content -to keep my opinion and let others keep theirs. To have a worthless book -in my house (save in the way of business), to know that any friend of -mine is enjoying it, actually distresses me. That book must go, the -pretensions of that book must be exposed, if I am to enjoy peace of -mind. Some may suspect that I am guilty here of the affectation of a -pose. Really it is not so. I often say to myself, after the heat of an -argument, a denunciation, or a defence: "What does it matter, fool? The -great mundane movement will continue, the terrestrial ball will roll -on." But will it? Something must matter, after all, or the mundane -movement emphatically would not continue. And the triumph of a good -book, and the ignominy of a bad book, matter to me. -</p> - -<p> -The criticism of imaginative prose literature, which is my speciality, -is an over-crowded and not very remunerative field of activity. Every -intelligent mediocrity in Fleet Street thinks he can appraise a novel, -and most of them, judging from the papers, seem to make the attempt. And -so quite naturally the pay is as a rule contemptible. To enter this -field, therefore, with the intention of tilling it to a profitable -fiscal harvest is an enterprise in the nature of a forlorn hope. I -undertook it in innocence and high spirits, from a profound instinct. I -had something to say. Of late years I have come to the conclusion that -the chief characteristic of all bad reviewing is the absence of genuine -conviction, of a message, of a clear doctrine; the incompetent reviewer -has to invent his opinions. -</p> - -<p> -I succeeded at first by dint of ignoring one of the elementary laws of -journalism, to-wit, that editors do not accept reviews from casual -outsiders. I wrote a short review of a French work and sent it to "The -Illustrated London News," always distinguished for its sound literary -criticism. Any expert would have told me that I was wasting labour and -postage. Nevertheless the review was accepted, printed, and handsomely -paid for. I then sent a review of a new edition of Edward Carpenter's -"Towards Democracy" to an evening paper, and this, too, achieved -publicity. After that, for some months, I made no progress. And then I had -the chance of a literary <i>causerie</i> in a weekly paper: eight hundred -words a week, thirty pounds a year. I wrote a sample article—and I -well remember the incredible pains I took to show that Mrs. Lynn Linton's -"In Haste and at Leisure" was thoroughly bad—but my article was too -"literary." The editor with thirty pounds a year to spend on literary -criticism went in search of a confection less austere than mine. But I -was not baulked for long. The literary column of my own paper (of which -I was then only assistant-editor) was presented to me on my assurance -that I could liven it up: seven hundred words a week, at twelve and -sixpence. The stuff that I wrote was entirely unsuited to the taste of -our public; but it attracted attention from the seats of the -mighty, and it also attracted—final triumph of the despised -reviewer!—publishers' advertisements. I wrote this column every week -for some years. And I got another one to do, by asking for it. -Then I selected some of my best and wittiest reviews, and -sent them to the editor of a well-known organ of culture with -a note suggesting that my pen ought to add to the charms of his -paper. An editor of sagacity and perspicacity, he admitted the -soundness of my suggestion without cavil, and the result was mutually -satisfactory. At the present time.<a name="FNanchor_2_1" id="FNanchor_2_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_1" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> I am continually refusing critical -work. I reckon that on an average I review a book and a fraction of a -book every day of my life, Sundays included. -</p> - -<p> -"Then," says the man in the street inevitably, "you must spend a very -large part of each day in reading new books." Not so. I fit my reviewing -into the odd unoccupied corners of my time, the main portions of which -are given to the manufacture of novels, plays, short stories, and longer -literary essays. I am an author of several sorts. I have various strings -to my bow. And I know my business. I write half a million words a year. -That is not excessive; but it is passable industry, and nowadays I make -a point of not working too hard. The half million words contain one or -two books, one or two plays, and numerous trifles not connected with -literary criticism; only about a hundred and fifty thousand words are -left for reviewing. -</p> - -<p> -The sense of justice of the man in the street is revolted. "You do not -read through all the books that you pretend to criticize?" he hints. I -have never known a reviewer to answer this insinuation straightforwardly -in print, but I will answer it: No, I do not. -</p> - -<p> -And the man in the street says, shocked: "You are unjust." -</p> - -<p> -And I reply: "Not at all. I am merely an expert." -</p> - -<p> -The performances of the expert in any craft will surprise and amaze the -inexpert. Come with me into my study and I will surprise and amaze you. -Have I been handling novels for bread-and-cheese all these years and not -learnt to judge them by any process quicker than that employed by you -who merely pick up a novel for relaxation after dinner? Assuming that -your taste is fairly sound, let us be confronted with the same new -novel, and I will show you, though you are a quick reader, that I can -anticipate your judgment of that novel by a minimum of fifty-five -minutes. The title-page—that conjunction of the title, the name of -the author, and the name of the publisher—speaks to me, telling me -all sorts of things. The very chapter-headings deliver a message of -style. The narrative everywhere discloses to me the merits and defects -of the writer; no author ever lived who could write a page without -giving himself away. The whole book, open it where I will, is murmurous -with indications for me. In the case of nine books of ten, to read them -through would be not a work of supererogation—it would be a sinful -waste of time on the part of a professional reviewer. The majority of -novels—and all these remarks apply only to novels—hold no -surprise for the professional reviewer. He can foretell them as the -nautical almanac foretells astronomical phenomena. The customary -established popular author seldom or never deviates from his appointed -track, and it is the customary established popular author upon whom -chiefly the reviewer is a parasite. New authors occasionally cause the -reviewer to hesitate in his swift verdicts, especially when the verdict -is inclined to be favourable. Certain publishers (that is to say, their -"readers") have a knack of acquiring new authors who can imitate real -excellence in an astonishing manner. In some cases the reviewer must -needs deliberately "get into" the book, in order not to be deceived by -appearances, in order to decide positively whether the author has -genuine imaginative power, and if so, whether that power is capable of a -sustained effort. But these difficult instances are rare. There remains -the work of the true artist, the work that the reviewer himself admires -and enjoys: say one book in fifty, or one in a hundred. The reviewer -reads that through. -</p> - -<p> -Brief reflection will convince any one that it would be economically -impossible for the reviewer to fulfil this extraordinary behest of the -man of the street to read every book through. Take your London morning -paper, and observe the column devoted to fiction of the day. It -comprises some fifteen hundred words, and the reviewer receives, if he -is well paid, three guineas for it. Five novels are discussed. Those -novels will amount to sixteen hundred pages of printed matter. Reading -at the rate of eight words a second, the reviewer would accomplish two -pages a minute, and sixteen hundred pages in thirteen hours and twenty -minutes. Add an hour and forty minutes for the composition, and we have -fifteen hours, or two days' work. Do you imagine that the reviewer of a -London morning paper is going to hire out his immortal soul, his -experience, his mere skill, at the rate of thirty-one and sixpence per -day on irregular jobs? Scarcely. He will earn his three guineas inside -three hours, and it will be well and truly earned. As a journeyman -author, with the ability and inclination to turn my pen in any direction -at request, I long ago established a rule never to work for less than -ten shillings an hour on piecework. If an editor commissioned an -article, he received from me as much fundamental brain-power and as much -time as the article demanded—up to the limit of his pay in terms of -hours at ten shillings apiece. But each year I raise my price per hour. -Of course, when I am working on my own initiative, for the sole -advancement of my artistic reputation, I ignore finance and think of -glory alone. It cannot, however, be too dearly understood that the -professional author, the man who depends entirely on his pen for the -continuance of breath, and whose income is at the mercy of an illness or -a headache, is eternally compromising between glory and something more -edible and warmer at nights. He labours in the first place for food, -shelter, tailors, a woman, European travel, horses, stalls at the opera, -good cigars, ambrosial evenings in restaurants; and he gives glory the -best chance he can. I am not speaking of geniuses with a mania for -posterity; I am speaking of human beings. -</p> - -<p> -To return and to conclude this chapter. I feel convinced—nay, I -know—that on the whole novelists get a little more than justice at -the hands of their critics. I can recall many instances in which my praise -has, in the light of further consideration, exceeded the deserts of a -book; but very, very few in which I have cast a slur on genuine merit. -Critics usually display a tendency towards a too generous kindness, -particularly Scottish reviewers; it is almost a rule of the vocation. -Most authors, I think, recognize this pleasing fact. It is only the -minority, rabid for everlasting laudation, who carp; and, carping, -demand the scalps of multiple-reviewers as a terrible example and -warning to the smaller fry. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a name="Footnote_2_1" id="Footnote_2_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_1"><span class="label">[2]</span></a>1900.</p></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XII">XII</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Serial fiction is sold and bought just like any other fancy goods. It -has its wholesale houses, its commercial travellers—even its -trusts and "corners." An editor may for some reason desire the work of a -particular author; he may dangle gold before that author or that -author's agent; but if a corner has been established he will be met by -polite regrets and the information that Mr. So-and-So, or the -Such-and-Such Syndicate, is the proper quarter to apply to; then the -editor is aware that he will get what he wants solely by one method of -payment—through the nose. A considerable part of the fiction -business is in the hand of a few large syndicates—syndicates in -name only, and middlemen in fact. They perform a useful function. They -will sell to the editor the entire rights of a serial, or they will sell -him the rights for a particular district—the London district, the -Manchester district, the John-o'-Groats district—the price varying -in direct ratio with the size of the district. Many London papers are -content to buy the London rights only of a serial, or to buy the English -rights as distinct from the Scottish rights, or to buy the entire rights -minus the rights of one or two large provincial districts. Thus a serial -may make its original appearance in London only; or it may appear -simultaneously in London and Manchester only, or in London only in -England and throughout Scotland, or in fifty places at once in England -and Scotland. And after a serial has appeared for the first time and run -its course, the weeklies of small and obscure towns, the proud organs of -all the little Pedlingtons, buy for a trifle the right to reprint it. -The serials of some authors survive in this manner for years in the -remote provinces; pick up the local sheet in a country inn, and you may -perhaps shudder again over the excitations of a serial that you read in -book form in the far-off nineties. So, all editorial purses are suited, -the syndicates reap much profit, and they are in a position to pay their -authors, both tame and wild, a just emolument; upon occasion they can -even be generous to the verge of an imprudence. -</p> - -<p> -When I was an editor, I found it convenient, economical, and -satisfactory to buy all my fiction from a large and powerful syndicate. -I got important "names," the names that one sees on the title-pages of -railway novels, at a moderate price, and it was nothing to me that my -serial was appearing also in Killicrankie, the Knockmilly-down -Mountains, or the Scilly Isles. The representative of the syndicate, a -man clothed with authority, called regularly; he displayed his dainty -novelties, his leading lines, his old favourites, his rising stars, his -dark horses, and his dead bargains; I turned them over, like a woman on -remnant-day at a draper's; and after the inevitable Oriental chaffering, -we came to terms. I bought Christmas stories in March, and seaside -fiction in December, and good solid Baring-Gould or Le Queux or L.T. -Meade all the year round. -</p> - -<p> -Excellently as these ingenious narrative confections served their -purpose, I dreamed of something better. And in my dream a sudden and -beautiful thought accosted me: Why should all the buying be on one side? -</p> - -<p> -And the next time the representative of the syndicate called upon me, I -met his overtures with another. -</p> - -<p> -"Why should all the buying be on one side?" I said. "You know I am an -author." I added that if he had not seen any of my books, I must send -him copies. They were exquisitely different from his wares, but I said -nothing about that. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" he parried firmly. "We never buy serials from editors." -</p> - -<p> -I perceived that I was by no means the first astute editor who had tried -to mingle one sort of business with another. Still it was plain to me -that my good friend was finding it a little difficult to combine the -affability of a seller with the lofty disinclination of one who is -requested to buy in a crowded market. -</p> - -<p> -"I should have thought," I remarked, with a diplomatic touch of -annoyance, "that you would buy wherever you could get good stuff." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, yes," he said, "of course we do. But——" -</p> - -<p> -"Well," I continued, "I am writing a serial, and I can tell you it will -be a good one. I merely mention it to you. If you don't care for it, I -fancy I can discover some one who will." -</p> - -<p> -Then, having caused to float between us, cloud-like, the significance of -the indisputable fact that there were other syndicates in the world, I -proceeded nonchalantly to the matter of his visit and gave him a good -order. He was an able merchant, but I had not moved in legal circles for -nothing. Business is business: and he as well as I knew that arbitrary -rules to the exclusion of editors must give way before this great and -sublime truth, the foundation of England's glory. -</p> - -<p> -The next thing was to concoct the serial. I had entered into a compact -with myself that I would never "write down" to the public in a long -fiction. I was almost bound to pander to the vulgar taste, or at any -rate to a taste not refined, in my editing, in my articles, and in my -short stories, but I had sworn solemnly that I would keep the novel-form -unsullied for the pure exercise of the artist in me. What became of this -high compact? I merely ignored it. I tore it up and it was forgotten, -the instant I saw a chance of earning the money of shame. I devised -excuses, of course. I said that my drawing-room wanted new furniture; I -said that I might lift the sensational serial to a higher place, thus -serving the cause of art; I said—I don't know what I said, all to my -conscience. But I began the serial. -</p> - -<p> -As an editor, I knew the qualities that a serial ought to possess. And I -knew specially that what most serials lacked was a large, central, -unifying, vivifying idea. I was very fortunate in lighting upon such an -idea for my first serial. There are no original themes; probably no -writer ever did invent an original theme; but my theme was a brilliant -imposture of originality. It had, too, grandeur and passion, and -fantasy, and it was inimical to none of the prejudices of the serial -reader. In truth it was a theme worthy of much better treatment than I -accorded to it. Throughout the composition of the tale, until nearly the -end, I had the uneasy feeling, familiar to all writers, that I was -frittering away a really good thing. But as the climax approached, the -situa-took hold of me, and in spite of myself I wrote my best. The tale -was divided into twelve instalments of five thousand words each, and I -composed it in twenty-four half-days. Each morning, as I walked down the -Thames Embankment, I contrived a chapter of two thousand five hundred -words, and each afternoon I wrote the chapter. An instinctive sense of -form helped me to plan the events into an imposing shape, and it needed -no abnormal inventive faculty to provide a thrill for the conclusion of -each section. Further, I was careful to begin the story on the first -page, without preliminaries, and to finish it abruptly when it was -finished. For the rest, I put in generous quantities of wealth, luxury, -feminine beauty, surprise, catastrophe, and genial, incurable optimism. -I was as satisfied with the result as I had been with the famous poem on -Courage. I felt sure that the syndicate had never supplied me with a -sensational serial half as good as mine, and I could conceive no plea -upon which they would be justified in refusing mine. -</p> - -<p> -They bought it. We had a difference concerning the price. They offered -sixty pounds; I thought I might as well as not try to get a hundred, but -when I had lifted them up to seventy-five, the force of bluff would no -further go, and the bargain was closed. I saw that by writing serials I -could earn three guineas per half-day; I saw myself embarking upon a -life of what Ebenezer Jones called "sensation and event"; I saw my -prices increasing, even to three hundred pounds for a sixty thousand -word yarn—my imagination stopped there. -</p> - -<p> -The lingering remains of an artistic conscience prompted me to sign this -eye-smiting work with a pseudonym. The syndicate, since my name was -quite unknown in their world, made no objection, and I invented several -aliases, none of which they liked. Then a friend presented me with a -gorgeous pseudonym—"Sampson Death." Surely, I thought, the syndicate -will appreciate the subtle power of that! But no! They averred that -their readers would be depressed by Sampson Death at the head of every -instalment. -</p> - -<p> -"Why not sign your own name?" they suggested. -</p> - -<p> -And I signed my own name. I, apprentice of Flaubert et Cie., stood forth -to the universe as a sensation-monger. -</p> - -<p> -The syndicate stated that they would like to have the refusal of another -serial from my pen. -</p> - -<p> -In correcting the proofs of the first one, I perceived all the -opportunities I had missed in it, and I had visions of a sensational -serial absolutely sublime in those qualities that should characterize a -sensational serial. I knew all about Eugène Sue, and something about -Wilkie Collins; but my ecstatic contemplation of an ideal serial soared -far beyond these. I imagined a serial decked with the profuse ornament -of an Eastern princess, a serial at once grandiose and witty, at once -modern and transcendental, a serial of which the interest should -gradually close on the reader like a vice until it became intolerable. I -saw the whole of London preoccupied with this serial instead of with -cricket and politics. I heard the dandiacal City youths discussing in -first-class compartments on the Underground what would happen next in -it. I witnessed a riot in Fleet Street because I had, accidentally on -purpose, delayed my copy for twenty-four hours, and the editor of the -"Daily——" had been compelled to come out with an apology. -Lastly, I heard the sigh of relief exhaled to heaven by a whole people, -when in the final instalment I solved the mystery, untied the knot, -relieved the cruel suspense. -</p> - -<p> -Suck was my dream—a dream that I never realized, but which I believe -to be capable of realization. It is decades since even a second-class -imaginative genius devoted itself entirely to the cult of the literary -<i>frisson</i>. Sue excited a nation by admirable sensationalism. The feat -might be accomplished again, and in this era so prolific in Napoleons of -the press, it seems strange that no Napoleon has been able to organize -the sensational serial on a Napoleonic scale. -</p> - -<p> -I did not realize my dream, but I was inspired by it. Once more I -received from the gods a plot scintillating with possibilities. It was -less fine than the previous one; it was of the earth earthly; but it -began with a scene quite unique in the annals of syndicates, and by this -time I knew a little better how to keep the fire burning. I lavished wit -and style on the thing, and there is no material splendour of modern -life that I left out. I plunged into it with all my energy and -enthusiasm, and wrote the fifteen instalments in fifteen days; I tried -to feel as much like Dumas <i>père</i> as I could. But when I had done I -felt, physically, rather more like the fragile Shelley or some wan -curate than Dumas. I was a wreck. -</p> - -<p> -The syndicate were willing to buy this serial, but they offered me no -increase of rates. I declined to accept the old terms, and then the -syndicate invited me to lunch. I made one of the greatest financial -mistakes of my life on that accurst day, and my only excuse is that I -was unaccustomed to being invited out to lunch by syndicates. I ought to -have known, with all my boasted knowledge of the world of business, that -syndicates do not invite almost unknown authors to lunch without -excellent reason. I had refused the syndicate's offer, and the syndicate -asked me to name a price for the entire rights of my tale. I named a -price; it was a good price for me, then; but the words were scarcely out -of my mouth before I saw that I had blundered. Too late! My terms were -quietly accepted. Let me cast no slightest aspersion upon the methods of -the syndicate: the bargain was completed before lunch had commenced. -</p> - -<p> -The syndicate disposed of the whole first serial rights of my tale to a -well-known London weekly. The proprietors of the paper engaged a -first-class artist to illustrate it, they issued a special circular -about it, they advertised it every week on 800 railway stations. The -editor of the paper wrote me an extremely appreciative letter as to the -effect of the serial from his point of view. The syndicate informed a -friend of mine that it was the best serial they had ever had. After -running in London it overran the provincial press like a locust-swarm. -It was, in a word, a boom. It came out in volume form, and immediately -went into a second edition; it still sells. It was the first of my books -that "The Times" ever condescended to review; the "Spectator" took it -seriously in a column and a quarter; and my friends took it seriously. I -even received cables from foreign lands with offers to buy translation -rights. I became known as the author of that serial. And all this, save -for an insignificant trifle, to the profit of an exceedingly astute -syndicate! -</p> - -<p> -Subsequently I wrote other serials, but never again with the same verve. -I found an outlet for my energies more amusing and more remunerative -than the concoction of serials; and I am a serialist no longer. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XIII">XIII</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -While yet an assistant-editor, I became a dramatic critic through the -unwillingness of my chief to attend a theatrical matinée performance -given, by some forlorn little society, now defunct, for the rejuvenation -of the English drama. My notice of the performance amused him, and soon -afterwards he suggested that I should do our dramatic column in his -stead. Behold me a "first-nighter"! When, with my best possible air of -nonchalance and custom, I sauntered into my stall on a Lyceum first -night, I glanced at the first rows of the pit with cold and aloof -disdain. "Don't you wish you were me?" I thought behind that -supercilious mask. "You have stood for hours imprisoned between parallel -iron railings. Many times I have stood with you. But never again, -miserable pittites!" Nevertheless I was by no means comfortable in my -stall. Around me were dozens of famous or notorious faces, the leading -representatives of all that is glittering and factitious in the city of -wealth, pleasure, and smartness. And everybody seemed to know everybody -else. I alone seemed to be left out in the cold. My exasperated -self-conscious fancy perceived in every haughty stare the enquiry: "Who -is this whipper-snapper in the dress-suit that obviously cost four -guineas in Cheapside?" I knew not a soul in that brilliant resort. -During the intervals I went into the foyer and listened to the phrases -which the critics tossed to each other over their liqueur-glasses. Never -was such a genial confusion of "Old Chap," "Old Man," "Old Boy," "Dear -Old Pal"! "Are they all blood-brothers?" I asked myself. The banality, -the perfect lack of any sort of aesthetic culture, which characterized -their remarks on the piece, astounded me. I said arrogantly: "If I don't -know more about the art of the theatre than the whole crowd of you put -together, I will go out and hang myself." Yet I was unspeakably proud to -be among them. In a corner I caught sight of a renowned novelist whose -work I respected. None noticed him, and he looked rather sorry for -himself. "You and I . . .!" I thought. I had not attended many first -nights before I discovered that the handful of theatrical critics whose -articles it is possible to read without fatigue, made a point of never -leaving their stalls. They were nobody's old chap, and nobody's old pal. -I copied their behaviour. -</p> - -<p> -First on my own paper, and subsequently on two others, I practised -dramatic criticism for five or six years. Although I threw it up in the -end mainly from sheer lassitude, I enjoyed the work. It means late -nights, and late nights are perdition; but there is a meretricious -glamour about it that attracts the foolish moth in me, and this I am -bound to admit. My trifling influence over the public was decidedly on -the side of the angels. I gradually found that I possessed a coherent -theory of the drama, definite critical standards, and all the rest of -the apparatus; in short, that I had something to say. And my verdicts -had a satisfactory habit of coinciding with those of the two foremost -theatrical critics in London—perhaps in Europe (I need not name -them). It is a somewhat strange fact that I made scarcely any friends in -the theatre. After all those years of assiduous first-nighting, I was -almost as solitary in the auditorium on the evening when I bade a -<i>blase</i> adieu to the critical bench as when I originally entered -it. I fancied I had wasted my time and impaired my constitution in -emulating the achievements of Théophile Gautier, Hazlitt, Francisque -Sarcey and M. Jules Lemaître, to say nothing of Dutton Cook and Mr. -Clement Scott. My health may have suffered; but, as it happened, I had -not quite wasted my time. -</p> - -<p> -"Why don't you write a play yourself?" -</p> - -<p> -This blunt question was put to me by a friend, an amateur actor, whom I -had asked to get up some little piece or other for an entertainment in -the Theatre Royal back-drawing-room of my house. -</p> - -<p> -"Quite out of my line," I replied, and I was absolutely sincere. I had -no notion whatever of writing for the stage. I felt sure that I had not -the aptitude. -</p> - -<p> -"Nonsense!" he Exclaimed. "It's as easy as falling off a log." -</p> - -<p> -We argued, and I was on the point of refusing the suggestion, when the -spirit of wild adventure overcame me, and I gravely promised my friend -that I would compose a duologue if he and his wife would promise to -perform it at my party. The affair was arranged. I went to bed with the -conviction that in the near future I stood a fair chance of looking an -ass. However, I met with what I thought to be an amusing idea for a -curtain-raiser the next morning, and in the afternoon I wrote the piece -complete. I enjoyed writing it, and as I read it aloud to myself I -laughed at it. I discovered that I had violated the great canon of -dramatic art,—Never keep your audience in the dark, and this troubled -me (Paul Hervieu had not then demonstrated by his "L'Enigme" that -canon may be broken with impunity); but I could not be at the trouble of -reconstructing the whole play for the sake of an Aristotelian maxim. I -at once posted the original draft to my friend with this note: -"Dear ——, Here is the play which last night I undertook to -write for you." -</p> - -<p> -The piece was admirably rendered to an audience of some thirty immortal -souls—of course very sympathetic immortal souls. My feelings, as the -situation which I had invented gradually developed into something alive -on that tiny make-shift stage, were peculiar and, in a way, alarming. -Every one who has driven a motor-car knows the uncanny sensation that -ensues when for the first time in your life you pull the starting lever, -and the Thing beneath you begins mysteriously and formidably to move. It -is at once an astonishment, a terror, and a delight. I felt like that as -I watched the progress of my first play. It was as though I had -unwittingly liberated an energy greater than I knew, actually created -something vital. This illusion of physical vitality is the exclusive -possession of the dramatist; the novelist, the poet, cannot share it. -The play was a delicious success. People laughed so much that some of my -most subtle jocosities were drowned in the appreciative cachinnation. -The final applause was memorable, at any rate to me. No mere good-nature -can simulate the unique ring of genuine applause, and this applause was -genuine. It was a microscopic triumph for me, but it was a triumph. -Every one said to me: "But you are a dramatist!" "Oh, no!" I replied -awkwardly; "this trifle is really nothing." But the still small voice of -my vigorous self-confidence said: "Yes, you are, and you ought to have -found it out years ago!" Among my audience was a publisher. He invited -me to write for him a little book of one-act farces for amateurs; his -terms were agreeable. I wrote three such farces, giving two days to -each, and the volume was duly published; no book of mine has cost me -less trouble. The reviews of it were lavish in praise of my "unfailing -wit"; the circulation was mediocre. I was asked by companies of amateur -actors up and down the country to assist at rehearsals of these pieces; -but I could never find the energy to comply, save once. I hankered after -the professional stage. By this time I could see that I was bound to -enter seriously into the manufacture of stage-plays. My readers will -have observed that once again in my history the inducement to embark for -a fresh port had been quite external and adventitious. -</p> - -<p> -I had a young friend with an extraordinary turn for brilliant epigram -and an equally extraordinary gift for the devising of massive themes. He -showed me one day the manuscript of a play. My faith in my instinct for -form, whether in drama or fiction, was complete, and I saw instantly -that what this piece lacked was form, which means intelligibility. It -had everything except intelligibility. "Look here!" I said to him, "we -will write a play together, you and I. We can do something that will -knock spots off——" etc., etc. We determined upon a grand -drawing-room melodrama which should unite style with those qualities -that make for financial success on the British stage. In a few days my -friend produced a list of about a dozen "ideas" for the piece. I chose -the two largest and amalgamated them. In the confection of the plot, and -also throughout the entire process of manufacture, my experience as a -dramatic critic proved valuable. I believe my friend had only seen two -plays in his life. We accomplished our first act in a month or so, and -when this was done and the scenario of the other three written out, we -informed each other that the stuff was exceedingly good. -</p> - -<p> -Part of my share in the play was to sell it. I knew but one man of any -importance in the theatrical world; he gave me an introduction to the -manager of a West End theatre second to none in prestige and wealth. The -introduction had weight; the manager intimated by letter that his sole -object in life was to serve me, and in the meantime he suggested an -appointment. I called one night with our first act and the scenario, and -amid the luxuriousness of the managerial room, the aroma of coffee, the -odour of Turkish cigarettes, I explained to that manager the true -greatness of our play. I have never been treated with a more distinguished -politeness; I might have been Victorien Sardou, or Ibsen . . . (no, -not Ibsen). In quite a few days the manager telephoned to my -office and asked me to call the same evening. He had read the -manuscript; he thought very highly of it, very highly. -"But——" Woe! Desolation! Dissipation of airy castles! It was -preposterous on our part to expect that our first play should be -commissioned by a leading theatre. But indeed we had expected this -miracle. The fatal "But" arose from a difficulty of casting the -principal part; so the manager told me. He was again remarkably -courteous, and he assuaged the rigour of his refusal by informing me -that he was really in need of a curtain-raiser with a part for a certain -actress of his company; he fancied that we could supply him with the -desired <i>bibelot</i>; but he wanted it at once, within a week. Within -a week my partner and I had each written a one-act play, and in less -than a fortnight I received a third invitation to discuss coffee, -Turkish cigarettes, and plays. The manager began to talk about the play -which was under my own signature. - -</p> - -<p> -"Now, what is your idea of terms?" he said, walking to and fro. -</p> - -<p> -"Can it be true," I thought, "that I have actually sold a play to this -famous manager?" In a moment my simple old ambitions burst like a Roman -candle into innumerable bright stars. I had been content hitherto with -the prospect of some fame, a thousand a year, and a few modest luxuries. -But I knew what the earnings of successful dramatists were. My thousand -increased tenfold; my mind dwelt on all the complex sybaritism of -European capitals; and I saw how I could make use of the unequalled -advertisement of theatrical renown to find a ready market for the most -artistic fiction that I was capable of writing. This new scheme of -things sprang into my brain instantaneously, full-grown. -</p> - -<p> -I left the theatre an accepted dramatist. -</p> - -<p> -It never rains but it pours. My kind manager mentioned our stylistic -drawing-room melodrama to another manager with such laudation that the -second manager was eager to see it. Having seen it, he was eager to buy -it. He gave us a hundred down to finish it in three months, and when we -had finished it he sealed a contract for production with another cheque -for a hundred. At the same period, through the mediation of the friend -who had first introduced me to this world where hundreds were thrown -about like fivers, I was commissioned by the most powerful theatrical -manager on earth to assist in the dramatization of a successful novel; -and this led to another commission of a similar nature, on more -remunerative terms. Then a certain management telegraphed for me (in the -theatre all business is done by telegraph and cable), and offered me a -commission to compress a five-act Old English comedy into three acts. -</p> - -<p> -"We might have offered this to So-and-So or So-and-So," they said, -designating persons of importance. "But we preferred to come to you." -</p> - -<p> -"I assume my name is to appear?" I said. -</p> - -<p> -But my name was not to appear, and I begged to be allowed to decline the -work. -</p> - -<p> -I suddenly found myself on terms of familiarity with some of the great -ones of the stage. I found myself invited into the Garrick Club, and -into the more Bohemian atmosphere of the Green Room Club. I became -accustomed to hearing the phrase: "You are the dramatist of the future." -One afternoon I was walking down Bedford Street when a hand was placed -on my shoulder, and a voice noted for its rich and beautiful quality -exclaimed: "How the d——l are you, my dear chap?" The speaker -bears a name famous throughout the English-speaking world. -</p> - -<p> -"You are arriving!" I said to myself, naïvely proud of this greeting. I -had always understood that the theatrical "ring" was impenetrable to an -outsider; and yet I had stepped into the very middle of it without the -least trouble. -</p> - -<p> -My collaborator and I then wrote a farce. "We can't expect to sell -everything," I said to him warningly, but I sold it quite easily. Indeed -I sold it, repurchased it, and sold it again, within the space of three -months. -</p> - -<p> -Reasons of discretion prevent me from carrying my theatrical record -beyond this point. -</p> - -<p> -I have not spoken of the artistic side of this play-concoction, because -it scarcely has any. My aim in writing plays, whether alone or in -collaboration, has always been strictly commercial.<a name="FNanchor_3_1" id="FNanchor_3_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_1" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> I wanted money in -heaps, and I wanted advertisement for my books. Here and there, in the -comedies and farces in which I have been concerned, a little genuine -dramatic art has, I fancy, been introduced; but surreptitiously, and -quite unknown to the managers. I have never boasted of it in managerial -apartments. That I have amused myself while constructing these -arabesques of intrigue and epigram is indubitable, whether to my credit -or discredit as a serious person. I laugh constantly in writing a farce. -I have found it far easier to compose a commercial play than an artistic -novel. How our princes of the dramatic kingdom can contrive to spend two -years over a single piece, as they say they do, I cannot imagine. The -average play contains from eighteen to twenty thousand words; the -average novel contains eighty thousand; after all, writing is a question -of words. At the rate of a thousand words a day, one could write a play -three times over in a couple of months; prefix a month—thirty solid -days of old Time!—for the perfecting of the plot, and you will be -able to calculate the number of plays producible by an expert craftsman in -a year. And unsuccessful plays are decidedly more remunerative than many -successful novels. I am quite certain that the vast majority of failures -produced in the West End mean to their authors a minimum remuneration of -ten pounds per thousand words. In the fiction-mart ten pounds per -thousand is gilded opulence. I am neither Sardou, Sudermann, nor George -R. Sims, but I know what I am talking about, and I say that dramatic -composition for the market is child's play compared to the writing of -decent average fiction—provided one has an instinct for stage -effect. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="nind"><a name="Footnote_3_1" id="Footnote_3_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_1"><span class="label">[3]</span></a>Once more written in 1900.</p></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XIV">XIV</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -It cuts me to the heart to compare English with American publishers to -the disadvantage, however slight, of the former; but the exigencies of a -truthful narrative demand from me this sacrifice of personal feeling to -the god in "the sleeping-car emblematic of British enterprise." The -representative of a great American firm came over to England on a -mission to cultivate personal relations with authors of repute and -profitableness. Among other documents of a similar nature, he had an -introduction to myself; I was not an author of repute and -profitableness, but I was decidedly in the movement and a useful sort of -person to know. We met and became friends, this ambassador and I; he -liked my work, a sure avenue to my esteem; I liked his genial -shrewdness. Shortly afterwards, there appeared in a certain paper an -unsigned article dealing, in a broad survey alleged to be masterly, with -the evolution of the literary market during the last thirty years. My -American publisher read the article—he read everything—and, -immediately deciding in his own mind that I was the author of it, he -wrote me an enthusiastic letter of appreciation. He had not been -deceived; I was the author of the article. Within the next few days it -happened that he encountered an English publisher who complained that he -could not find a satisfactory "reader." He informed the English -publisher of my existence, referred eulogistically to my article, and -gave his opinion that I was precisely the man whom the English publisher -needed. The English publisher had never heard of me (I do not blame him, -I merely record), but he was so moved by the American's oration that he -invited me to lunch at his club. I lunched at his club, in a discreet -street off Piccadilly (an aged and a sound wine!), and after lunch, my -host drew me out to talk at large on the subject of authors, publishers, -and cash, and the interplay of these three. I talked. I talked for a -very long while, enjoying it. The experience was a new one for me. The -publisher did not agree with all that I said, but he agreed with a good -deal of it, and at the close of the somewhat exhausting assize, in which -between us we had judged the value of nearly every literary reputation -in England, he offered me the post of principal reader to his firm, and -I accepted it. -</p> - -<p> -It is, I believe, an historical fact that authors seldom attend the -funeral of a publisher's reader. They approve the sepulture, but do not, -save sometimes in a spirit of ferocious humour, lend to the procession -the dignity of their massive figures. Nevertheless, the publisher's -reader is the most benevolent person on earth. He is so perforce. He may -begin his labours in the slaughterous vein of the "Saturday Review"; but -time and the extraordinary level mediocrity of manuscripts soon cure him -of any such tendency. He comes to refuse but remains to accept. He must -accept something—or where is the justification of his existence? -Often, after a prolonged run of bad manuscripts, I have said to myself: -"If I don't get a chance to recommend something soon I shall be asked to -resign." I long to look on a manuscript and say that it is good, or that -there are golden sovereigns between the lines. Instead of searching for -faults I search for hidden excellences. No author ever had a more -lenient audience than I. If the author would only believe it, I want, I -actually desire, to be favourably impressed by his work. When I open the -parcel of typescript I beam on it with kindly eyes, and I think: -"Perhaps there is something really good here"; and in that state of mind -I commence the perusal. But there never is anything really good there. -In an experience not vast, but extending over some years, only one book -with even a touch of genius has passed through my hands; that book was -so faulty and so wilfully wild, that I could not unreservedly advise its -publication and my firm declined it; I do not think that the book has -been issued elsewhere. I have "discovered" only two authors of talent; -one of these is very slowly achieving a reputation; of the other I have -heard nothing since his first book, which resulted in a financial loss. -Time and increasing knowledge of the two facts have dissipated for me -the melancholy and affecting legend of literary talent going a-begging -because of the indifference of publishers. O young author of talent, -would that I could find you and make you understand how the publisher -yearns for you as the lover for his love! <i>Qua</i> publisher's reader, I -am a sad man, a man confirmed in disappointment, a man in whom the -phenomenon of continued hope is almost irrational. When I look back -along the frightful vista of dull manuscripts that I have refused or -accepted, I tremble for the future of English literature (or should -tremble, did I not infallibly know that the future of English literature -is perfectly safe after all)! And yet I have by no means drunk the worst -of the cup of mediocrity. The watery milk of the manuscripts sent to my -employer has always been skimmed for me by others; I have had only the -cream to savour. I am asked sometimes why publishers publish so many bad -books; and my reply is: "Because they can't get better." And this is a -profound truth solemnly enunciated. -</p> - -<p> -People have said to me: "<i>But you are so critical; you condemn -everything</i>." Such is the complaint of the laity against the -initiate, against the person who has diligently practised the -cultivation of his taste. And, roughly speaking, it is a well-founded -and excusable complaint. The person of fine taste does condemn nearly -everything. He takes his pleasure in a number of books so limited as to -be almost nothing in comparison with the total mass of production. Out -of two thousand novels issued in a year, he may really enjoy -half-a-dozen at the outside. And the one thousand nine hundred and -ninety-four he lumps together in a wholesale contempt which draws no -distinctions. This is right. This contributes to the preservation of a -high standard. But the laity will never be persuaded that it is just. -The point I wish to make, however, is that when I sit down to read for -my publisher I first of all forget my literary exclusiveness. I sink the -aesthetic aristocrat and become a plain man. By a deliberate act of -imagination, I put myself in the place, not of the typical average -reader—for there is no such person—but of a composite of the -various <i>genera</i> of average reader known to publishing science. I -<i>am</i> that composite for the time; and, being so, I remain quiescent -and allow f the book to produce its own effect on me. I employ no -canons, rules, measures. Does the book bore me—that condemns it. -Does it interest me, ever so slightly—that is enough to entitle it -to further consideration. When I have decided that it interests the -imaginary composite whom I represent, then I become myself again, and -proceed scientifically to enquire why it has interested, and why it has -not interested more intensely; I proceed to catalogue its good and bad -qualities, to calculate its chances, to assay its monetary worth. -</p> - -<p> -The first gift of a publisher's reader should be imagination; without -imagination, the power to put himself in a position in which actually he -is not, fine taste is useless—indeed, it is worse than useless. The -ideal publisher's reader should have two perfections—perfect taste -and perfect knowledge of what the various kinds of other people deem to be -taste. Such qualifications, even in a form far from perfect, are rare. A -man is born with them; though they may be cultivated, they cannot either -of them be acquired. The remuneration of the publisher's reader ought, -therefore, to be high, lavish, princely. It it not. It has nothing -approaching these characteristics. Instead of being regarded as the -ultimate seat of directing energy, the brain within the publisher's -brain, the reader often exists as a sort of offshoot, an accident, an -external mechanism which must be employed because it is the custom to -employ it. As one reflects upon the experience and judgment which -readers must possess, the responsibility which weighs on them, and the -brooding hypochondriasis engendered by their mysterious calling, one -wonders that their salaries do not enable them to reside in Park Lane or -Carlton House Terrace. The truth is, that they exist precariously in -Walham Green, Camberwell, or out in the country where rents are low. -</p> - -<p> -I have had no piquant adventures as a publisher's reader. The vocation -fails in piquancy: that is precisely where it does fail. Occasionally -when a manuscript comes from some established author who has been deemed -the private property of another house, there is the excitement of -discovering from the internal evidence of the manuscript, or from the -circumstantial evidence of public facts carefully collated, just why -that manuscript has been offered to my employer; and the discovered -reason is always either amusing or shameful. But such excitements are -rare, and not very thrilling after all. No! Reading for a publisher does -not foster the joy of life. I have never done it with enthusiasm; and, -frankly, I continue to do it more from habit than from inclination. One -learns too much in the rôle. The gilt is off the gingerbread, and the -bloom is off the rye, for a publisher's reader. The statistics of -circulations are before him; and no one who is aware of the actual -figures which literary advertisements are notoriously designed to -conceal can be called happy until he is dead. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XV">XV</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -When I had been in London a decade, I stood aside from myself and -reviewed my situation with the god-like and detached impartiality of a -trained artistic observer. And what I saw was a young man who -pre-eminently knew his way about, and who was apt to be rather too -complacent over this fact; a young man with some brilliance but far more -shrewdness; a young man with a highly developed faculty for making a -little go a long way; a young man who was accustomed to be listened to -when he thought fit to speak, and who was decidedly more inclined to -settle questions than to raise them. -</p> - -<p> -This young man had invaded the town as a clerk at twenty-five shillings -a week, paying six shillings a week for a bed-sitting room, threepence -for his breakfast, and sixpence for his vegetarian dinner. The curtain -falls on the prologue. Ten years elapse. The curtain rises on the figure -of an editor, novelist, dramatist, critic, connoisseur of all arts. See -him in his suburban residence, with its poplar-shaded garden, its -bicycle-house at the extremity thereof, and its horizon composed of the -District Railway Line. See the study, lined with two thousand books, -garnished with photogravures, and furnished with a writing-bureau and a -chair and nothing else. See the drawing-room with its artistic -wall-paper, its Kelmscotts, its water-colours of a pallid but -indubitable distinction, its grand piano on which are a Wagnerian score -and Bach's Two-part Inventions. See the bachelor's bedroom, so austere -and precise, wherein Boswell's "Johnson" and Baudelaire's "Fleurs du -Mal" exist peaceably together on the night-table. The entire machine -speaks with one voice, and it tells you that there are no flies on that -young man, that young man never gives the wrong change. He is in -the movement, he is correct; but at the same time he is not so simple as -not to smile with contemptuous toleration at all movements and all -correctness. He knows. He is a complete guide to art and life. His -innocent foible is never to be at a loss, and never to be carried -away—save now and then, because an occasional ecstasy is good for the -soul. His knowledge of the <i>coulisses</i> of the various arts is -wonderful. He numbers painters, sculptors, musicians, architects, among his -intimate friends; and no artistic manifestation can possibly occur that -he is unable within twenty-four hours to assess at its true value. He is -terrible against <i>cabotins</i>, no matter where he finds them, and this -seems to be his hobby: to expose <i>cabotins</i>. -</p> - -<p> -He is a young man of method; young men do not arrive without method at -the condition of being encyclopædias; his watch is as correct as his -judgments. He breakfasts at eight sharp, and his housekeeper sets the -kitchen clock five minutes fast, for he is a terrible Ivan at breakfast. -He glances at a couple of newspapers, first at the list of "publications -received," and then at the news. Of course he is not hoodwinked by -newspapers. He will meet the foreign editor of the "Daily -——" at lunch and will learn the true inwardness of that -exploded canard from Berlin. Having assessed the newspapers, he may -interpret to his own satisfaction a movement from a Mozart piano sonata, -and then he will brush his hat, pick up sundry books, and pass sedately -to the station. The station-master is respectfully cordial, and quite -ready to explain to him the secret causation of delays, for his -season-ticket is a white one. He gets into a compartment with a -stockbroker, a lawyer, or a tea-merchant, and immediately falls to work; -he does his minor reviewing in the train, fostering or annihilating -reputations while the antique engine burrows beneath the squares of the -West End; but his brain is not so fully occupied that he cannot spare a -corner of it to meditate upon the extraordinary ignorance and simplicity -of stockbrokers, lawyers, and tea-merchants. He reaches his office, and -for two or three hours practises that occupation of watching other -people work which is called editing: a process always of ordering, of -rectifying, of laying down the law, of being looked up to, of showing -how a thing ought to be done and can be done, of being flattered and -cajoled, of dispensing joy or gloom—in short, the Jupiter and Shah -of Persia business. He then departs, as to church, to his grill-room, -where for a few moments himself and the cook hold an anxious -consultation to decide which particular chop or which particular steak -out of a mass of chops and steaks shall have the honour of sustaining -him till tea-time. The place is full of literary shahs and those about -to be shahs. They are all in the movement; they constitute the movement. -They ride the comic-opera whirlwinds of public opinion and direct the -tea-cup storms of popularity. The young man classes most of them with -the stockbroker, the lawyer, and the tea-merchant. With a few he -fraternises, and these few save their faces by appreciating the humour -of the thing. Soon afterwards he goes home, digging <i>en route</i> the -graves of more reputations, and, surrounded by the two thousand volumes, -he works in seclusion at his various activities that he may triumph -openly. He descends to dinner stating that he has written so many -thousand words, and excellent words too—stylistic, dramatic, -tender, witty. There may be a theatrical first-night toward, in which -case he returns to town and sits in the seat of the languid for a space. -Or he stays within doors and discusses with excessively sophisticated -friends the longevity of illusions in ordinary people. At length he -retires and reads himself to sleep. His last thoughts are the long, long -thoughts of his perfect taste and tireless industry, and of the -aesthetic darkness which covers the earth. . . . -</p> - -<p> -Such was the young man I inimically beheld. And I was not satisfied with -him. He was gorgeous, but not sufficiently gorgeous. He had done much in -ten years, and I excused his facile pride, but he had not done enough. -The curtain had risen on the first act of the drama of life, but the -action, the intrigue, the passion seemed to hesitate and halt. Was this -the artistic and creative life, this daily round? Was this the reality -of that which I had dreamed? Where was the sense of romance, the -consciousness of felicity? I felt that I had slipped into a groove which -wore deeper every day. It seemed to me that I was fettered and tied -down. I had grown weary of journalism. The necessity of being at a -certain place at a certain hour on so many days of the week grew irksome -to me; I regarded it as invasive of my rights as a freeborn Englishman, -as shameful and scarcely tolerable. Was I a horse that I should be -ridden on the curb by a Board of Directors? I objected to the theory of -proprietors. The occasional conferences with the Board, though conducted -with all the ritual of an extreme punctilio, were an indignity. The -suave requests of the chairman: "Will you kindly tell us——?" -And my defensive replies, and then the dismissal: "Thank you, -Mr.——, I think we need trouble you no further this morning." -And my exit, irritated by the thought that I was about to be discussed -with the freedom that Boards in conclave permit themselves. It was as -bad as being bullied by London University at an examination. I longed to -tell this Board, with whom I was so amicable on unofficial occasions, -that they were using a razor to cut firewood. I longed to tell them that -the nursing of their excellent and precious organ was seriously -interfering with the composition of great works and the manufacture of a -dazzling reputation. I longed to point out to them that the time would -come when they would mention to their friends with elaborate casualness -and covert pride that they had once employed me, the unique me, at a -salary measurable in hundreds. -</p> - -<p> -Further, I was ill-pleased with literary London. "You have a literary -life here," an American editor once said to me. "There is a literary -circle, an atmosphere. . . . We have no such thing in New York." I -answered that no doubt we had; but I spoke without enthusiasm. I suppose -that if any one "moved in literary circles," I did, then. Yet I derived -small satisfaction from my inclusion within those circumferences. To me -there was a lack of ozone in the atmosphere which the American editor -found so invigorating. Be it understood that when I say "literary -circles," I do not in the least mean genteel Bohemia, the world of -informal At-Homes that are all formality, where the little lions growl -on their chains in a row against a drawing-room wall, and the hostess -congratulates herself that every single captive in the salon has "done -something." Such polite racketting, such discreet orgies of the higher -intellectuality, may suit the elegant triflers, the authors of -monographs on Velasquez, golf, Dante, asparagus, royalties, ping-pong, -and Empire; but the business men who write from ten to fifty thousands -words a week without chattering about it, have no use for the literary -menagerie. I lived among the real business men—and even so I was -dissatisfied. I believe too that they were dissatisfied, most of them. -There is an infection in the air of London, a zymotic influence which is -the mysterious cause of unnaturalness, pose, affectation, artificiality, -moral neuritis, and satiety. One loses grasp of the essentials in an -undue preoccupation with the vacuities which society has invented. The -distractions are too multiform. One never gets a chance to talk -common-sense with one's soul. -</p> - -<p> -Thirdly, the rate at which I was making headway did not please me. My -reputation was growing, but only like a coral-reef. Many people had an -eye on me, as on one for whom the future held big things. Many people -took care to read almost all that I wrote. But my name had no -significance for the general public. The mention of my name would have -brought no recognizing smile to the average person who is "fond of -reading." I wanted to do something large, arresting, and decisive. And I -saw no chance of doing this. I had too many irons in the fire. I was -frittering myself away in a multitude of diverse activities of the pen. -</p> - -<p> -I pondered upon these considerations for a long while. I saw only one -way out, and, at last, circumstances appearing to conspire to lead me -into that way, I wrote a letter to my Board of Directors and resigned my -editorial post. I had decided to abandon London, that delectable -paradise of my youthful desires. A To-let notice flourished suddenly in -my front-garden, and my world became aware that I was going to desert -it. The majority thought me rash and unwise, and predicted an -ignominious return to Fleet Street. But the minority upheld my -resolution. I reached down a map of England, and said that I must live -on a certain main-line at a certain minimum distance from London. This -fixed the neighbourhood of my future home. The next thing was to find -that home, and with the aid of friends and a bicycle I soon found it. -One fine wet day I stole out of London in a new quest of romance. No one -seemed to be fundamentally disturbed over my exodus. I remarked to -myself: "Either you are a far-seeing and bold fellow, or you are a fool. -Time will show which." And that night I slept, or failed to sleep, in a -house that was half a mile from the next house, three miles from a -station, and three miles from a town. I had left the haunts of men with -a vengeance, and incidentally I had left a regular income. -</p> - -<p> -I ran over the list of our foremost writers: they nearly all lived in -the country. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XVI">XVI</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -When I had settled down into the landscape, bought my live-stock, -studied manuals on horses, riding, driving, hunting, dogs, poultry, and -wildflowers, learned to distinguish between wheat and barley and between -a six-year-old and an aged screw, shot a sparrow on the fence only to -find it was a redbreast, drunk the cherry-brandy of the Elizabethan inn, -played in the village cricket team, and ceased to feel self-conscious in -riding-breeches, I perceived with absolute certainty that I had made no -error; I knew that, come poverty or the riches of Indian short stories, -I should never again live permanently in London. I expanded, and in my -expansion I felt rather sorry for Londoners. I perceived, too, that the -country possessed commercial advantages which I had failed to appreciate -before. When you live two and a half miles from a railway you can cut a -dash on an income which in London spells omnibus instead of cab. For -myself I have a profound belief in the efficacy of cutting a dash. You -invite an influential friend down for the week-end. You meet him at the -station with a nice little grey mare in a phaeton, and an unimpeachable -Dalmatian running behind. The turn-out is nothing alone, but the -pedigree printed in the pinkiness of that dog's chaps and in the -exiguity of his tail, spotted to the last inch, would give tone to a -coster's cart. You see that your influential friend wishes to comment, -but as you gather up the reins you carefully begin to talk about the -weather and prices per thousand. You rush him home in twelve minutes, -skimming gate posts. On Monday morning, purposely running it fine, you -hurry him into a dog-cart behind a brown cob fresh from a pottle of -beans, and you whirl him back to the station in ten minutes, up-hill -half the way. You fling him into the train, with ten seconds to spare. -"This is how we do it in these parts," your studiously nonchalant face -says to him. He thinks. In a few hours Fleet Street becomes aware that -young So-and-so, who lately buried himself in the country, is alive and -lusty. Your stock rises. You go up one. You extort respect. You are -ticketed in the retentive brains of literary shahs as a success. And you -still have the dog left for another day. -</p> - -<p> -In the country there is plenty of space and plenty of time, and no -damnable fixed relation between these two; in other words, a particular -hour does not imply a particular spot for you, and this is something to -an author. I found my days succeeding each other with a leisurely and -adorable monotony. I lingered over breakfast like a lord, perusing the -previous evening's papers with as much gusto as though they were hot -from the press. I looked sideways at my work, with a non-committal air, -as if saying; "I may do you or I may not. I shall see how I feel." I -went out for a walk, followed by dogs less spectacular than the -Dalmatian, to collect ideas. I had nothing to think about but my own -direct productiveness. I stopped to examine the progress of trees, to -discuss meteorology with roadmenders, to wonder why lambs always waggled -their tails during the act of taking sustenance. All was calmness, -serenity. The embryo of the article or the chapter faintly adumbrated -itself in my mind, assumed a form. One idea, then another; then an -altercation with the dogs, ending in castigation, disillusion, and -pessimism for them. Suddenly I exclaimed: "I think I've got enough to go -on with!" And I turned back homewards. I reached my study and sat down. -From my windows I beheld a magnificent panorama of hills. Now the -contemplation of hills is uplifting to the soul; it leads to inspiration -and induces nobility of character, but it has a tendency to interfere -with actual composition. I stared long at those hills. Should I work, -should I not work? A brief period always ensued when the odds were -tremendous against any work being done that day. Then I seized the pen -and wrote the title. Then another dreadful and disconcerting pause, all -ideas having scuttled away like mice to their holes. Well, I must put -something down, however ridiculous. I wrote a sentence, feeling first -that it would not serve and then that it would have to serve, anyway. I -glanced at the clock. Ten twenty-five! I watched the clock in a sort of -hypnotism that authors know of, till it showed ten-thirty. Then with a -horrible wrench I put the pen in the ink again . . . . Jove! Eleven -forty-five, and I had written seven hundred words. Not bad stuff that! -Indeed, very good! Time for a cigarette and a stroll round to hear -wisdom from the gardener. I resumed at twelve, and then in about two -minutes it was one o'clock and lunch time. After lunch, rest for the -weary and the digesting; slumber; another stroll. Arrival of the second -post on a Russian pony that cost fifty shillings. Tea, and perusal of -the morning paper. Then another spell of work, and the day was gone, -vanished, distilled away. And about five days made a week, and -forty-eight weeks a year. -</p> - -<p> -No newspaper-proprietors, contributors, circulations, placards, -tape-machines, theatres, operas, concerts, picture-galleries, clubs, -restaurants, parties, Undergrounds! Nothing artificial, except myself -and my work! And nothing, save the fear of rent-day, to come between -myself and my work! -</p> - -<p> -It was dull, you will tell me. But I tell you it was magnificent. -Monotony, solitude, are essential to the full activity of the artist. -Just as a horse is seen best when coursing alone over a great plain, so -the fierce and callous egotism of the artist comes to its perfection in -a vast expanse of custom, leisure, and apparently vacuous reverie. To -insist on forgetting his work, to keep his mind a blank until the work, -no longer to be held in check, rushes into that emptiness and fills it -up—that is one of the secrets of imaginative creation. Of course it -is not a recipe for every artist. I have known artists, and genuine ones, -who could keep their minds empty and suck in the beauty of the world for -evermore without the slightest difficulty; who only wrote, as the early -Britons hunted, when they were hungry and there was nothing in the pot. -But I was not of that species. On the contrary, the incurable habit of -industry, the itch for the pen, was my chiefest curse. To be -unproductive for more than a couple of days or so was to be miserable. -Like most writers I was frequently the victim of an illogical, -indefensible and causeless melancholy; but one kind of melancholy could -always be explained, and that was the melancholy of idleness. I could -never divert myself with hobbies. I did not read much, except in the way -of business. Two hours reading, even of Turgenev or Balzac or Montaigne, -wearied me out. An author once remarked to me; "<i>I know enough. I don't -read books, I write 'em</i>." It was a haughty and arrogant saying, but -there is a sense in which it was true. Often I have felt like that: "I -know enough, I feel enough. If my future is as long as my past, I shall -still not be able to put down the tenth part of what I have already -acquired." The consciousness of this, of what an extraordinary and -wonderful museum of perceptions and emotions my brain was, sustained me -many a time against the chagrins, the delays, and the defeats of the -artistic career. Often have I said inwardly: "World, when I talk with -you, dine with you, wrangle with you, love you, and hate you, I -condescend!" Every artist has said that. People call it conceit; people -may call it what they please. One of the greatest things a great man -said, is:— -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">I know I am august</span><br /> -<span class="i2">I do not trouble my spirit to indicate itself or to be</span><br /> -<span class="i3">understood . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i2">I exist as I am, that is enough.</span><br /> -<span class="i2">If no other in the world be aware I sit content.</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And if each and all be aware I sit content.</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -Nevertheless, for me, the contentment of the ultimate line surpassed the -contentment of the penultimate. And therefore it was, perhaps, that I -descended on London from time to time like a wolf on the fold, and made -the world aware, and snatched its feverish joys for a space, and then, -surfeited and advertised, went back and relapsed into my long monotony. -And sometimes I would suddenly halt and address myself: -</p> - -<p> -"You may be richer or you may be poorer; you may live in greater pomp -and luxury, or in less. The point is that you will always be, -essentially, what you are now. You have no real satisfaction to look -forward to except the satisfaction of continually inventing, fancying, -imagining, scribbling. Say another thirty years of these emotional -ingenuities, these interminable variations on the theme of beauty. Is it -good enough?" -</p> - -<p> -And I answered: Yes. -</p> - -<p> -But who knows? Who can preclude the regrets of the dying couch? -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>THE END</h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRUTH ABOUT AN AUTHOR ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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