You have seen the reviews, of course! Bless my heart and soul, what has
happened to the people? Of course, it was all started by that tom-fool
at the Guildhall (I don’t know why Cabinet Ministers should be the only
people who can sell one’s books for one nowadays)—but oh, my lights and
liver! Oh, goroo! goroo! The silly mutton-headed G.P. is walking into
the blooming shops by thousands and _buying_ the thing! _Paying_ for the
thing. Shoving down their hard-earned seven-and-sixpences for it! Lord
help us—what have I done that I should be a best-seller? Is thy servant
a tripe-hound that he should do this thing? First edition sold out.
Presses rolling out new printings day and night—Merritt nearly off his
head and saying, “I told you so.” Blushing author besieged in his
charming Bayswater flat (! ! ! !)—Remarkable portrait of blushing
author by that brilliant young artist Mr. Harwood Lathom (done in a fit
of boredom one afternoon when the model hadn’t turned up) being
scrambled for by four Press agencies, two literary hostesses and an
American lion-tamer! Everything gas and gaiters! Worm-like appeals, from
publishers who turned _Hercules_ down, for the next contract but seven,
and the _Wail_ and the _Blues_ and the _Depress_ and all the Sunday
Bloods yapping over the ’phone for my all-important, inspired and
inspiring views on “What does the Unconscious means to me?”—“Is
Monogamy Doomed?”—“Can Women tell the Truth?”—“Should Wives Produce
Books or Babies?”—“What is wrong with the Modern Aunt?”—and “Glands or
God—Which?”
Bungie, old thing, it all seems absolutely ghastly and preposterous, but
the blasted book is BOOMING—and—shall we get married, Bungie? Will you
take the risk on the strength of one fluky Boomer (which may perfectly
well be a Boomerang and prevent me from ever writing anything worth
doing for the rest of my life), and a set of contracts which I may go
mad with inability to fulfil? Because, if you will—say so, my
courageous infant, and we will tell your Uncle Edward to put up the
banns, and prance off hand in hand our own primrose way to the
everlasting bonfire.
Pull yourself together, Jack Munting!
Bungie, I’ve never told you how jealous I was because your books sold
and mine didn’t. If I tell you so now, don’t remember it against me.
Parson Perry says confession is a good thing. Perhaps he’s right. I
confess it now—and now forget it, there’s a good girl. Perhaps even now
it only means that my wretched book is howlingly bad. I always comforted
myself with thinking that I _must_ write better than you to be so
unsaleable—but I’m filthily pleased and cock-a-hoop all the same.
_Pull yourself together_, Jack Munting! You are becoming hysterical.
Your glands are functioning madly in the wrong places, and your
Unconscious has come unstuck!
Anyhow, I’m going to have quite enough to depress me to-morrow. That
crashing nuisance, Leader, has suddenly discovered that he knows the
fellow who’s written the book of the season, and is coming along to
“Look me up, old boy, and celebrate!”
_There was a young student of Caius_
_Who passed his exams with a squaius,_
_Ere dissecting at St. Bartholomews_
_Inward St. Partholomews, such as St. Heartholomews_
_To discover the cure of disaius._
Oh, well, I suppose one of the penalties of success is the way it brings
you in touch with your friends. I had an invitation to dine from the
Sheridans last week. “Such a long time since we met, isn’t it?” I will
see to it that it shall be longer still.
Well, let me know about the matrimonial outlook, won’t you? I have a
great many important engagements, of course, but I daresay I might be
able to fit this little matter in somewhere!
Yours _pomposo e majestuoso_,
JACK
PS. You need not trouble to make it a quiet one. I can easily afford a
top-hat—in fact, several.