Ethel Churchill/Chapter 37
CHAPTER II.
PUBLISHING.
Life's smallest miseries are, perhaps, its worst:
Great sufferings have great strength: there is a pride
In the bold energy that braves the worst,
And bears proud in the bearing; but the heart
Consumes with those small sorrows, and small shames,
Which crave, yet cannot ask for sympathy.
They blush that they exist, and yet how keen
The pang that they inflict!
It was one of those bright days in spring, which are very spendthrifts of sunshine, when the darkest alley in London wins a golden glimpse, and the eternal mist around St. Paul's turns to a glittering haze: but the young man who was hurrying along some of the crowded streets, seemed insensible of the genial atmosphere; he would have been equally insensible of the reverse.
Walter Maynard, for he was the hurried walker, appeared much changed; he was thin and pale, and his cheek had that worn look which tells of bodily suffering. His dress was shabby, and arranged with little of his former attention to appearance: the eyes were larger and darker than of old, while there was an unnatural lustre, which bespoke both mental and physical fever. As he passed along, nothing seemed to catch his glance. He hurried on; and yet, more than once, he came to almost a full stop, as if reluctant, although impatient.
It was with slow and languid steps that, at last, he entered a bookseller's shop: he gave in his name, and the young man, behind the counter, very civilly asked him to wait. He sat down, and, mechanically, turned over some volumes that lay beside him; but their contents swam before him. The lover may tremble while waiting for the mistress on whose lip hangs the heart's doom, but I doubt whether he feels equal anxiety with the young author waiting the fiat of his publisher. One figure after another emerged from the room behind, and at each step Walter Maynard felt a cold shudder steal over him; and then he started and coloured, lest his agitation should have been observed; but the shopboy was too used to such scenes to heed them. He never looked at the white lip, tremulous with hope, which was rather fear; he noticed not the drops that started on the forehead; what little attention he could spare from his business was given to the window; there, at least, he had the satisfaction of seeing the people passing. At last Walter Maynard's turn came: he entered a low, dark back-parlour, whose close and murky atmosphere seemed ominous; a little man was seated on a very high stool, writing at a desk before him.
"Take a seat, Mr. Maynard," said he, in a low mysterious whisper, as if the fate of nations depended on not being overheard. He went on writing, and Walter took his seat, glad of even a momentary respite.
Curl was of very small stature, with good but restless features, and a singularly undecided mouth. He might have sat for a personification of fear: if he moved, he seemed rather afraid of his own shadow following him too closely; if he laughed, he soon checked himself, quite alarmed at the sound. He began a conversation at your elbow; but, before it was finished, he had gradually backed his chair to the other end of the room. He always contrived to sit next the door, to which he paid more attention than to his hearer; his eye always wandering to it as if he meditated an escape, and yet this man was the most audacious libeller of his time. Reputation, feelings, or even chastisement, were as nothing in the balance weighed against his interest; life was to him only a long sum; his ledger was his Bible, and his religion, profit. For a little while he went on writing: this he did on principle.
"Authors," he was wont to say, "come in a direct line from Reuben; they are unstable as water, and never know exactly what it is they really do want. I always give them a little waiting, just to shew I don't care much about them, and so grow something rational in their demands."
At last Curl descended from his stool, and drew a chair towards Walter. Dividing his looks between him and the door, he began:—
"I having been looking at your pamphlet, and shewing it, but I mention no names. I don't see the use of names, for my part, unless it be to put in asterisks. It is—yes—very, indeed."
"What!" exclaimed Walter.
"Yes, extremely so," replied Curl.
"You think it, then, clever," returned the anxious listener.
"Why, my good young friend," exclaimed the publisher, glancing suspiciously at the door, "you would not have me tell an author to his face that his works were not clever? You are too irritable a race for that!"
"But do you think that it will suit you?" asked Maynard.
"Why, no—no—yes, perhaps; but we must talk a little about it. You reason too much: all young people are so fond of reasons, as if reasons were of any use."
"Why," cried his companion, "mine is a dispassionate appeal to the reason of the public: my object is to convince."
"As if you ever convinced people by reason!"
"But I feel it is a duty I owe to the public," said the author.
"Good Lord! oh, Lord! Why, my dear sir, what duty do you owe to the public? The only duty you owe is to me, your publisher! It is your duty to write what will sell, and I tell you reasons are unmarketable commodities."
"What would you have me do?" sighed Maynard, in a desponding tone.
"Why, pepper and salt your reasons!" cried Curl, forgetting to look at the door for a moment: "your pamphlet has talent; but talent is like a cucumber, nothing without the dressing. You must be more personal."
"I detest personalities," said Walter.
"And I detest nonsense," said the other; "and I also detest works that won't sell. You mean to make scribbling your business?"
"I am," replied our young poet, "anxious to devote my feeble services to the cause of literature."
"A very well-turned sentence," said the bookseller: "I don't, myself, dislike a fine phrase now and then; but fine words, like fine clothes, don't do to wear every day: you would soon find yourself without any to wear."
"Very true," thought Maynard, glancing unconsciously at his own threadbare apparel.
"Now, my dear young friend," continued the bookseller, "you seem fond of reason; let me talk a little reason to you. Here, take your pamphlet again: there is good material in it, but it requires the making up. Leave out some of your arguments, and throw in a few sentiments,—something about free-born Britons and wooden shoes! Englishmen like to have a few sentiments ready for after-dinner use, in case of a speech. You must, also, add a dozen or so sarcasms, and say a little more about bribery and corruption. Above all, be sure that your jokes are obvious ones, and I know the thing will be a hit!"
Walter took up his manuscript with an embarrassed and mortified air. He had written with all the enthusiasm of a patriot of one-and twenty, who believes, and who hopes; suddenly, his high profession of faith, his earnest appeal to the noblest principles, was changed into a mere question of business. Moreover, in his secret soul he despised the plan proposed; but what could he do? his forlorn garret rose visibly before him, he could not even pay its rent for the coming week. It was the first conflict between the expedient and the ideal. For the first time, a bitter sense of how little consequence his speculative opinions could possibly be, rushed across him, and he held his papers with a hesitating grasp. Curl's quick eye caught the struggle which he yet affected not to notice.
"I must have the pamphlet by the day after tomorrow," said he, as if considering the affair altogether settled; "and to shew you that I have a good hope of its success, here—here are ten guineas for you!" and he counted the money out upon the table.
There was something in the ring of the coin that jarred upon Walter's ear; he was ashamed of being paid,—a false shame, and yet how natural to one both proud and sensitive!
"Time enough," said he, colouring, "to pay me when my work is done."
"No, no!" interrupted Curl, "it will encourage you as a beginner. If you were an old hand at this sort of work, I could not trust you; you would spend the money, and I should see you and your pamphlet no more; but you young ones are so eager to see yourselves in print!"
"In print!" there was a charm in that phrase that decided Walter. He took up the papers, and assured Curl that he should have sentiment and sarcasm enough by the following night.
"Good Lord!—oh, Lord!" cried the astonished publisher: "you are a young hand at your work. Why, you are walking off, and have left your money behind you!"