Books and Persons; Being Comments on a Past Epoch, 1908-1911, Page 2

  FRENCH PUBLISHERS

  [_23 May '08_]

  It has commonly been supposed that the publication of Flaubert's "MadameBovary" resulted, at first, in a loss to the author. I am sure that everyone will be extremely relieved to learn, from a letter recently printed in_L'Intermediaire_ (the French equivalent of _Notes and Queries)_, that thesupposition is incorrect. Here is a translation of part of the letter,written by the celebrated publishers, Poulet-Malassis, to an authorunnamed. The whole letter is very interesting, and it would probablyreconcile the "authors" of the correspondence of Queen Victoria to thesweating system by which they received the miserable sum of L5592 14s. 2d.from Mr. John Murray for their Titanic labours.

  October 23, 1857.

  "I think, sir, that you are in error as to Messrs. Levy's method of doingbusiness. Messrs. Levy buy for 400 francs [L16] the right to publish abook during four years. It was on these terms that they bought the storiesof Jules de la Madeleine, Flaubert's 'Madame Bovary,' etc. These facts arewithin my knowledge. To take an example among translations, they boughtfrom Baudelaire, for 400 francs, the right to publish 6000 copies of hisPoe. We do not work in this way. We buy for 200 francs (L8) the right topublish an edition of 1200 copies.... If the book succeeds, so much thebetter for the author, who makes 200 francs out of every edition of 1200copies. If M. Flaubert, whose book is in its third edition, had come to usinstead of to Messrs. Levy, his book would already have brought him in1000 francs (L40); during the four years that Messrs. Levy will have therights of his book for a total payment of 400 francs, he might have madetwo or three thousand francs with us.... Votre bien devoue,

  "A.P. MALASSIS."

  * * * * *

  We now know that Flaubert made L16 in four years out of "Madame Bovary,"which went into three editions within considerably less than a year ofpublication. And yet the house of Levy is one of the most respectable andgrandiose in France. Moral: English authors ought to go down on theirknees and thank God that English publishers are not as other publishers.At least, not always!

  WORDSWORTH'S SINGLE LINES

  [_30 May '08_]

  I have had great joy in Mr. Nowell Charles Smith's new and comprehensiveedition of Wordsworth, published by Methuen in three volumes as majesticas Wordsworth himself at his most pontifical. The price is fifteenshillings net, and having regard to the immense labour involved in such anedition, it is very cheap. I would sooner pay fifteen shillings for a realbook like this than a guinea for the memoirs of any tin god that ever satup at nights to keep a diary; yea, even though the average collection ofmemoirs will furnish material to light seven hundred pipes. We have latelybeen much favoured with first-rate editions of poets. I mention Mr. deSelincourt's Keats, and Mr. George Sampson's amazing andnot-to-be-sufficiently-lauded Blake. Mr. Smith's work is worthy to standon the same shelf with these. A shining virtue of Mr. Smith's edition isthat it embodies the main results of the researches and excavations notonly of Professor Knight, but, more important, of the wonderful Mr.Hutchinson, whose contributions to the _Academy_, in days of yore, werethe delight of Wordsworthians.

  * * * * *

  Personally, I became a member of the order of Wordsworthians in thehistoric year 1891, when Matthew Arnold's "Selections" were issued to thepublic at the price of half a crown. I suppose that Matthew Arnold and SirLeslie Stephen were the two sanest Wordsworthians of us all. And MatthewArnold put Wordsworth above all modern poets except Dante, Shakespeare,Goethe, Milton, and Moliere. The test of a Wordsworthian is the ability toread with pleasure every line that the poet wrote. I regret to say that,strictly, Matthew Arnold was not a perfect Wordsworthian; he confessed,with manly sincerity, that he could not read "Vaudracour and Julia" withpleasure. This was a pity and Matthew Arnold's loss. For a strictWordsworthian, while utterly conserving his reverence for the most poeticof poets, can discover a keen ecstasy in the perusal of the unconsciouslyfunny lines which Wordsworth was constantly perpetrating. And I would backmyself to win the first prize in any competition for Wordsworth's funniestline with a quotation from "Vaudracour and Julia." My prize-line wouldassuredly be:

  _Yea, his first word of greeting was,--_ _"All right...._

  It is true that the passage goes on:

  _Is gone from me...._

  But that does not impair the magnificent funniness.

  * * * * *

  From his tenderest years Wordsworth succeeded in combining the virtues ofMilton and of _Punch_ in a manner that no other poet has approached. Thus,at the age of eighteen, he could write:

  _Now while the solemn evening shadows sail,_ _On slowly-waving pinions, down the vale;_ _And fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines_ _Its darkening boughs...._

  Which really is rather splendid for a boy. And he could immediately followthat, speaking of a family of swans, with:

  _While tender cares and mild domestic loves_ _With furtive watch pursue her as she moves,_ _The female with a meeker charm succeeds...._

  Wordsworth richly atoned for his unconscious farcicalness by a multitudeof single lines that, in their pregnant sublimity, attend theWordsworthian like a shadow throughout his life, warning him continuallywhen he is in danger of making a fool of himself. Thus, whenever throughmere idleness I begin to waste the irrecoverable moments of eternity, Ialways think of that masterly phrase (from, I think, the "Prelude," but Iwill not be sure):

  _Unprofitably travelling towards the grave._

  This line is a most convenient and effective stone to throw at one'slanguid friends. Finally let me hail Mr. Nowell Smith as a benefactor.

  NOVELISTS AND AGENTS

  [_20 June '08_]

  A bad publishing season is now drawing to a close, and in the air arerumours of a crisis. Of course the fault is the author's. It goes withoutsaying that the fault is the author's. In the first place, he will insiston producing mediocre novels. (For naturally the author is a novelist;only novelists count when crises loom. Algernon Charles Swinburne, EdwardCarpenter, Robert Bridges, Lord Morley--these types have no relation tocrises.) It appears that the publishers have been losing money over thesix-shilling novel, and that they are not going to stand the loss anylonger. It is stated that never in history were novels so atrociouslymediocre as they are to-day. And in the second place, the author willinsist on employing an Unspeakable Rascal entitled a literary agent, andthe poor innocent lamb of a publisher is fleeced to the naked skin by thisscoundrel every time the two meet. Already I have heard that onepublisher, hitherto accustomed to the services of twenty gardeners at hiscountry house, has been obliged to reduce the horticultural staff toeighteen.

  Such is the publishers' explanation of the crisis. I shall keep my ownexplanation till the crisis is a little more advanced and ready to burst.In the meantime I should like to ask: How _do_ people manage to range overthe whole period of the novel's history and definitely decide that novelswere never so bad as they are now? I am personally inclined to think thatat no time has the average novel been so good as it is to-day. (This view,by the way, is borne out by publishers' own advertisements, which aboundin the word "masterpiece" quoted from infallible critics of greatmasterpieces!) Let any man who disagrees with me dare go to Mudie's andget out a few forgotten novels of thirty years ago and try to read them!Also, I am prepared to offer L50 for the name and address of a literaryagent who is capable of getting the better of a publisher. I am widelyacquainted with publishers and literary agents, and though I have oftenmet publishers who have got the better of literary agents, I have nevermet a literary agent who has come out on top of a publisher. Such aliterary agent is badly wanted. I have been looking for him for years. Iknow a number of authors who would join me in enriching that literaryagent. The publishers are always talking about him. I seldom go into apublisher's office but that literary agent has just left (gorged withillicit gold). It irritates me that I cannot run across him. If I were apublisher,
he would have been in prison ere now. Briefly, the manner inwhich certain prominent publishers, even clever ones, talk about literaryagents is silly.

  * * * * *

  Still, I am ready to believe that publishers have lost money over thesix-shilling novel. I am acquainted with the details of several instancesof such loss. And in every case the loss has been the result of gamblingon the part of the publisher. I do not hesitate to say that the termsoffered in late years by some publishers to some popular favourites havebeen grotesquely inflated. Publishers compete among themselves, and then,when the moment comes for paying the gambler's penalty, they complain ofhaving been swindled. Note that the losses of publishers are nearly alwayson the works of the idols of the crowd. They want the idol's name as anornament to their lists, and they commit indiscretions in order to get it.Fantastic terms are never offered to the solid, regular, industrious,medium novelist. And it is a surety that fantastic terms are neveroffered to the beginner. Ask, and learn.

  * * * * *

  But though I admit that money has been lost, I do not think the losseshave been heavy. After all, no idolized author and no diabolic agent canforce a publisher to pay more than he really wants to pay. And no diabolicagent, having once bitten a publisher, can persuade that publisher to holdout his generous hand to be bitten again. These are truisms. Lastly, I amquite sure that, out of books, a great deal more money has been made bypublishers than by authors, and that this will always be so. Thethreatened crisis in publishing has nothing to do with the prices paid toauthors, which on the whole are now fairly just (very different from whatthey were twenty years ago, when authors had to accept whatever wascondescendingly offered to them). And if a crisis does come, the people tosuffer will happily be those who can best afford to suffer.

  THE NOVEL OF THE SEASON

  [_11 July '08_]

  The publishing season--the bad publishing season--is now practically over,and publishers may go away for their holidays comforted by the fact thatthey will not begin to lose money again till the autumn. It only remainsto be decided which is the novel of the season. Those interested in thequestion may expect it to be decided at any moment, either in the _BritishWeekly_ or the _Sphere_. I take up these journals with a thrill ofanticipation. For my part, I am determined only to decide which is not thenovel of the season. There are several novels which are not the novel ofthe season. Perhaps the chief of them is Mr. E.C. Booth's "The Cliff End,"which counts among sundry successes to the score of Mr. Grant Richards.Everything has been done for it that reviewing can do, and it has sold,and it is an ingenious and giggling work, but not the novel of the season.

  The reviews of "The Cliff End," almost unanimously laudatory, show in abright light our national indifference to composition in art. Somereviewers, while stating that the story itself was a poor one, insistedthat Mr. Booth is a born and accomplished story-teller. Story-tellersborn and accomplished do not tell poor stories. A poor story is the workof a poor story-teller. And the story of "The Cliff End" is merely absurd.It is worse, if possible, than the story of Mr. Maxwell's "Vivien," whichreviewers accepted. It would appear that with certain novels the storydoesn't matter! I really believe that composition, the foundation of allarts, including the art of fiction, is utterly unconsidered in England. Orif it is considered, it is painfully misunderstood. I remember how thepanjandrums condescendingly pointed out the bad construction of Mr. JosephConrad's "Lord Jim," one of the most noble examples of fine composition inmodern literature, and but slightly disfigured by a detail of clumsymachinery. In "The Cliff End" there is simply no composition that is notclumsy and conventional. All that can be said of it is that you can't reada page, up to about page 200, without grinning. (Unhappily Mr. Boothoverestimated his stock of grins, which ran out untimely.) The true art offiction, however, is not chiefly connected with grinning, or with weeping.It consists, first and mainly, in a beautiful general composition. But inAnglo-Saxon countries any writer who can induce both a grin and a tear onthe same page, no matter how insolent his contempt for composition, issure of that immortality which contemporaries can award.

  * * * * *

  Another novel that is not the novel of the season is Mr. John Ayscough's"Marotz," about which much has been said. I do not wish to labour thispoint. "Marotz" is not the novel of the season. I trust that I make myselfplain. I shall not pronounce upon Mr. Masefield's "Captain Margaret,"because, though it has been splashed all over by trowelfuls of slabby andmortarish praise, it has real merits. Indeed, it has a chance of being thenovel of the season. Mr. Masefield is not yet grown up. He is alwaystrying to write "literature," and that is a great mistake. He should studythe wisdom of Paul Verlaine:

  _Prends l'eloquence et tords-lui son cou._

  Take literature and wring its neck. I suppose that Mr. H. de VereStacpoole's "The Blue Lagoon" is not likely to be selected as the novel ofthe season. And yet, possibly, it will be the novel of the season afterall, though unchosen. I will not labour this point, either. Any one read"The Blue Lagoon" yet? Some folk have read it, for it is in its sixthedition. But when I say any one, I mean some one, not mere folk. It mightbe worth looking into, "The Blue Lagoon." _Verbum sap._, often, to Messrs.Robertson Nicoll and Shorter. In choosing "Confessio Medici" as the bookof the season in general literature, Dr. Nicoll [Now Sir William RobertsonNicoll] has already come a fearful cropper, and he must regret it. I wouldgive much to prevent him from afflicting the intelligent when the solemnannual moment arrives for him to make the reputation of a novelist.

  GERMAN EXPANSION

  [_18 July '08_]

  I think I could read anything about German Colonial expansion. The subjectmay not appear to be attractive; but it is. The reason lies in the factthat one is always maliciously interested in the failures of pompous andconceited persons. In the same way, one is conscious of disappointmentthat the navy pother has not blossomed into a naked scandal. A nakedscandal would be a bad thing, and yet one feels cheated because it has notoccurred. At least I do. And I am rather human. I can glut myself onGerman colonial expansion--a wondrous flower. I have just read withgenuine avidity M. Tonnelat's "L'Expansion allemande hors d'Europe"(Armand Colin, 3 fr. 50). It is a very good book. Most of it does not dealwith colonial expansion, but with the growth and organization of Germaniain the United States and Brazil. There is some delicious psychology inthis part of the book. Hear the German Governor of Pennsylvania: "As forme, I consider that if the influence of the German colonist had beeneliminated from Pennsylvania, Philadelphia would never have been anythingbut an ordinary American town like Boston, New York, Baltimore, orChicago." M. Tonnelat gives a masterly and succinct account of therelations between Germans and native races in Africa (particularly theHereros). It is farcical, disastrous, piquant, and grotesque. Thedocumentation is admirably done. What can you do but smile when you gatherfrom a table that for the murder of seven Germans by natives fifteencapital punishments and one life-imprisonment were awarded; whereas, forthe murder of five natives (including a woman) by Germans, the totalpunishment was six and a quarter years of prison. In 1906 the amazingGerman Colonial Empire cost 180 millions of marks. A high price to pay fora comic opera, even with real waterfalls! M. Tonnelat has combinedsobriety and exactitude with an exciting readableness.

  The Book-Buyer

  [_22 Aug. '08_]

  In the month of August, when the book trade is supposed to be dead, butwhich, nevertheless, sees the publication of novels by Joseph Conrad andMarie Corelli (if Joseph Conrad is one Pole, Marie Corelli is surely theother), I have had leisure to think upon the most curious of all theproblems that affect the author: Who buys books? Who really does buybooks? We grumble at the lack of enterprise shown by booksellers. Weinveigh against that vague and long-suffering body of tradesmen because inthe immortal Strand, where there are forty tobacconists, thirty-ninerestaurants, half a dozen theatres, seventeen necktie shops, one Short's,and one thousand three hun
dred and fourteen tea cafes, there should beonly two establishments for the sale of new books. We are shocked that inthe whole of Regent Street it is impossible to buy a new book. We shudderwhen, in crossing the virgin country of the suburbs, we travel for daysand never see a single bookshop. But whose fault is it that bookshops areso few? Are booksellers people who have a conscientious objection toselling books? Or is it that nobody wants to buy books?

  Personally, I extract some sort of a living--a dog's existence--from thesale of books with my name on the title-page. And I am acquainted with afew other individuals who perform the same feat. I am also acquainted witha large number of individuals who have no connexion with the manufactureor distribution of literature. And when I reflect upon the habits of thislatter crowd, I am astonished that I or anybody else can succeed in payingrent out of what comes to the author from the sale of books. I knowscarcely a soul, I have scarcely ever met a soul, who can be said to makea habit of buying new books. I know a few souls who borrow books fromMudie's and elsewhere, and I recognize that their subscriptions yield me atrifle. But what a trifle! Do you know anybody who really buys new books?Have you ever heard tell of such a being? Of course, there are Franklinishand self-improving young men (and conceivably women) who buy cheapeditions of works which the world will not willingly let die: the TempleClassics, Everyman's Library, the World's Classics, the Universal Library.Such volumes are to be found in many refined and strenuous homes--oftenerunopened than opened--but still there! But does this estimable practiceaid the living author to send his children to school in decent clothes? Hewhom I am anxious to meet is the man who will not willingly let die theauthor who is not yet dead. No society for the prevention of the death ofcorpses will help me to pay my butcher's bill.