The Sorrows of Satan (Horror Classic). Marie Corelli
shall announce—“In consequence of the Enormous Demand for the new novel by Geoffrey Tempest, the Large Second Edition is out of print. A Third will be issued in the course of next week.” And so on, and so on, till we get to the sixth or seventh edition (always numbering two hundred and fifty each) in three volumes; perhaps we can by skilful management work it to a tenth. It is only a question of diplomacy and a little dexterous humbugging of the trade. Then we shall arrive at the one-volume issue, which will require different handling. But there’s time enough for that. The frequent advertisements will add to the expense a bit, but if you don’t mind—”
“I don’t mind anything,” I said—“so long as I have my fun.”
“Your fun?” he queried surprisedly—“I thought it was fame you wanted, more than fun!”
I laughed aloud.
“I’m not such a fool as to suppose that fame is secured by advertisement,” I said—“For instance I am one of those who think the fame of Millais as an artist was marred when he degraded himself to the level of painting the little green boy blowing bubbles of Pears’s Soap. That was an advertisement. And that very incident in his career, trifling though it seems, will prevent his ever standing on the same dignified height of distinction with such masters in art as Romney, Sir Peter Lely, Gainsborough or Reynolds.”
“I believe there is a great deal of justice in what you say;” and Morgeson shook his head wisely—“Viewed from a purely artistic and sentimental standpoint you are right.” And he became suddenly downcast and dubious. “Yes,—it is a most extraordinary thing how fame does escape people sometimes just when they seem on the point of grasping it. They are ‘boomed’ in every imaginable way, and yet after a time nothing will keep them up. And there are others again who get kicked and buffeted and mocked and derided——”
“Like Christ?” I interposed with a half smile. He looked shocked,—he was a Non-conformist,—but remembering in time how rich I was, he bowed with a meek patience.
“Yes”—and he sighed—“as you suggest, Mr Tempest, like Christ. Mocked and derided and opposed at every turn,—and yet by the queerest caprice of destiny, they succeed in winning a world-wide fame and power——”
“Like Christ again!” I said mischievously, for I loved to jar his non-conformist conscience.
“Exactly!” He paused, looking piously down. Then with a return of secular animation he added—“But I was not thinking of the Great Example just then, Mr Tempest—I was thinking of a woman.”
“Indeed!” I said indifferently.
“Yes—a woman, who despite continued abuse and opposition is rapidly becoming celebrated. You are sure to hear of her in literary and social circles”—and he gave me a furtive glance of doubtful inquiry—“but she is not rich, you know,—only famous. However,—we have nothing to do with her just now—so let us return to business. The one uncertain point in the matter of your book’s success is the attitude of the critics. There are only six leading men who do the reviews, and between them they cover all the English magazines and some of the American too, as well as the London papers. Here are their names”—and he handed me a pencilled memorandum,—“and their addresses, as far as I can ascertain them, or the addresses of the papers for which they most frequently write. The man at the head of the list, David McWhing, is the most formidable of the lot. He writes everywhere about everything,—being a Scotchman he’s bound to have his finger in every pie. If you can secure McWhing, you need not trouble so much about the others, as he generally gives the ‘lead,’ and has his own way with the editors. He is one of the ‘personal friends’ of the editor of the Nineteenth Century for example, and you would be sure to get a notice there, which would otherwise be impossible. No reviewer can review anything for that magazine unless he is one of the editor’s friends.2 You must manage McWhing, or he might, just for the sake of ‘showing off,’ cut you up rather roughly.”
“That would not matter,” I said, diverted at the idea of ‘managing McWhing,’—“A little slating always helps a book to sell.”
“In some cases it does,”—and Morgeson stroked his thin beard perplexedly—“But in others it most emphatically does not. Where there is any very decided or daring originality, adverse criticism is always the most effective. But a work like yours requires fostering with favour,—wants ‘booming’ in short——”
“I see!” and I felt distinctly annoyed—“You don’t think my book original enough to stand alone?”
“My dear sir!—you are really—really—! what shall I say?” and he smiled apologetically—“a little brusque? I think your book shows admirable scholarship and delicacy of thought,—if I find fault with it at all, it is perhaps because I am dense. The only thing it lacks in my opinion is what I should call tenaciousness, for want of a better expression,—the quality of holding the reader’s fancy fixed like a nail. But after all this is a common failing of modern literature; few authors feel sufficiently themselves to make others feel.”
I made no reply for a moment. I was thinking of Lucio’s remarks on this very same subject.
“Well!” I said at last—“If I had no feeling when I wrote the book, I certainly have none now. Why man, I felt every line of it!—painfully and intensely!”
“Ay, ay indeed!” said Morgeson soothingly—“Or perhaps you thought you felt, which is another very curious phase of the literary temperament. You see, to convince people at all, you must first yourself be convinced. The result of this is generally a singular magnetic attraction between author and public. However I am a bad hand at argument,—and it is possible that in hasty reading I may have gathered a wrong impression of your intentions. Anyhow the book shall be a success if we can make it so. All I venture to ask of you is that you should personally endeavour to manage McWhing!”
I promised to do my best, and on this understanding we parted. I realised that Morgeson was capable of greater discernment than I had imagined, and his observations had given me material for thought which was not altogether agreeable. For if my book, as he said, lacked tenacity, why then it would not take root in the public mind,—it would be merely the ephemeral success of a season,—one of those brief ‘booms’ in literary wares for which I had such unmitigated contempt,—and Fame would be as far off as ever, except that spurious imitation of it which the fact of my millions had secured. I was in no good humour that afternoon, and Lucio saw it. He soon elicited the sum and substance of my interview with Morgeson, and laughed long and somewhat uproariously over the proposed ‘managing’ of the redoubtable McWhing. He glanced at the five names of the other leading critics and shrugged his shoulders.
“Morgeson is quite right,”—he said—“McWhing is intimate with the rest of these fellows—they meet at the same clubs, dine at the same cheap restaurants and make love to the same painted ballet-girls. All in a comfortable little fraternal union together, and one obliges the other on their several journals when occasion offers. Oh yes! I should make up to McWhing if I were you.”
“But how?” I demanded, for though I knew McWhing’s name well enough having seen it signed ad nauseam to literary articles in almost every paper extant, I had never met the man; “I cannot ask any favour of a press critic.”
“Of course not!” and Lucio laughed heartily again—“If you were to do such an idiotic thing what a slating you’d get for your pains! There’s no sport a critic loves so much as the flaying of an author who has made the mistake of lowering himself to the level of asking favours of his intellectual inferiors! No, no, my dear fellow!—we shall manage McWhing quite differently,—I know him, though you do not.”
“Come, that’s good news!” I exclaimed—“Upon my word Lucio, you seem to know everybody.”
“I think I know most people worth knowing—“ responded Lucio quietly—“Though I by no means include Mr McWhing