winds meet.”
“And what do you do there? You must have bags and bags of gold, O
Spirit.”
“Yes. Of course. I practice hiding things with them. That is why no one
ever found a bag of gold at the end of a rainbow. I have put countless
ones in the cave of lost treasure. There are a great many things there
besides the bags of gold,--things that parents, and uncles, and aunts
lose,--and never find any more.”
“I wish I could visit the place,” I said with a sigh. “It would be
pleasant to see a storehouse like that. It would have, I may say,
a strong personal interest. Only yesterday I contributed a valued
scarf-pin through the agency of a certain mischievous niece; and I
shall be long in recovering from the loss of that miraculous putter
that made me a terror on the links. My golf can never be the same
again.”
“But you never can see the place,” she declared. “A time comes when you
can’t find it any more, the cave of lost treasure--or the place where
four winds meet--or the end of all the rainbows.”
“I suppose I have lost my chance,” I said.
“Oh, long ago!” exclaimed the Spirit disdainfully. “It never lasts
beyond six!”
“That has a wise sound. Pray tell me more! Tell me, I beg, how you have
endured this harsh world so long.”
This, I thought, was a poser; but she answered readily enough.
“I suppose, because I am kindred of so many, many things that live on
forever. There are the colors on water when the sun strikes it through
clouds. It can be green and gold and blue and silver all at once; and
then there is the foam of the white caps. It is foam for a moment and
then it is just water again. And there is the moonlight on rippling
water, that goes away and never comes any more--not just the same. The
mirth in the heart of a child is like all these things; and the heart
of a child is the place I love best.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure it is better than the place where all the
winds meet, or that other rainbow-place that you told me about.”
“And then,” she began again, “you know that children say things
sometimes just in fun, but no one ever seems to understand that.”
“To be sure,” I said feelingly, remembering how Jessamine loved to
tease and plague me.
“But there isn’t any harm in it--any more than--”
“Yes?” a little impatiently.
“Than in the things the pines say when the wind runs over the top
of them. They are not--not important, exactly,--but they are always
different. That is the best thing about being a child--the being
different part. You have a grown-up word that means always just the
same.”
“Consistent?” I asked.
“That is it. A child that is consistent is wrong some way. But I don’t
remember having seen any of that kind.”
A smile that was not the smile of Jessamine stole into the Spirit’s
face. It disconcerted me. I could not, for the life of me, decide how
much of the figure before me was Jessamine and how much was really the
Spirit of Mischief, or whether they were both the same.
“Being ignorant, you don’t know what the mirth in a child is--you”
(scornfully) “who pretend to measure all people by their sense of
humor. It’s akin to the bubbling music of the fountain of youth, and
you do the child and the world a wrong when you stifle it. A child’s
glee is as natural as sunshine, and carries no burden of knowledge; and
that is the precious thing about it.”
“I’m sure that is true,” I said; but the Spirit did not heed me. She
went on, in a voice that suggested Jessamine, but was not hers.
“Many people talk solemnly about the imagination of children, as
though it were a thing that could be taught from books or prepared in
laboratories. But children’s mischief, that is so often complained of,
is the imaginations’ finest flower.”
“The idea pleases me. I shall make a note of it.”
“The very day,” continued the Spirit, “that you sat at table and talked
learnedly about the minds of children and how to promote in them a
love of the beautiful, your Jessamine had known a moment of joy. She
had lain in the meadow and watched the thistledown take flight,--a
myriad of those flimsy argosies. And she had fashioned a story about
them, that they rise skyward to become the stuff that white clouds are
made of. And the same day she asked you to tell her what it is the
robins are so sorry about when they sing in the evening after the other
birds have gone. Now the same small head that thought of those things
contrived also the happy idea of cooking a doll’s dinner in the chafing
dish,--an experiment that resulted, as you may remember, in a visit
from both the doctor and the fire-insurance adjuster.”
My heart was wrung as I recalled the bandages on Jessamine’s slender
brown arms.
“Yes, O Spirit!” I said. “I’m learning much. Pray tell me more!”
“We like very much for science to let us alone--”
“But hygiene--and all those life-saving things--”
“Oh, yes,” she said patronizingly; “they’re all very well in their
way. It’s better for science to kill bugs than for the bugs to kill
children. But I mean other kinds of sciences that are not nearly so
useful--pedagogical and the like, that are trying to kill the microbe
of play. Leave us, oh, leave us that!”
“That is a new way of putting it. We oldsters soon forget how to play,
alackaday!”
She went on calmly. “Work that you really love isn’t work any
more--it’s play.”
“That’s a little deep for me--”
“It’s true, though, so you’d better try to understand. If you paint
a picture and work at it,--slave over it and are not happy doing
it,--then your picture is only so many pennies’ worth of paint. The
cruelest thing people can say of a book or a picture is, ‘Well, he
worked hard at it!’ The spirit of mischief is only the spirit of play;
and the spirit of play is really the spirit of the work we love.
“It’s too bad that you are not always patient with us,” the Spirit
continued. (I noted the plural. Clearly Jessamine and the Spirit were
one!)
“I’m sorry, too,” I answered contritely.
“The laws of the foolish world do not apply to childhood at all.
Children are born into a condition of ideality. They view everything
with wonder and awe, and you and all the rest of the grown-up world
are busy spoiling their illusions. How happy you would be if you could
have gone on blowing bubbles all your days!”
“True, alas, too true!”
The face of the Spirit grew suddenly very old.
“Life,” she said, “consists largely in having to accept the fact that
we cannot do the things we want to do. But in the blessed days of
mischief we blow bubbles in forbidden soap and water with contraband
pipes--and do not know that they are bubbles!”
“That is the fine thing about it, O Spirit--the sweet ignorance of it!
I hope I understand that.”
“I see that you are really wiser than you have always seemed,” she
said, with her baffling smile. “Mischief, as you are prone to call so
many things that children do, is as wholesome and sweet as a field
of clover. I, the Spirit of Mischief, have a serious business in the
world, which I’ll tell you about, as you are old and know so little.
I’m here to combat and confuse the evil spirits that seek to stifle the
good cheer of childhood. These little children that always go to bed
without a fuss and say good night very sweetly in French, and never
know bread and butter and jam by their real names--you really do not
like them half as well as you like natural children. You remember that
you laughed when Jessamine’s French governess came, and left the second
day because the black cat got into her trunk. There was really no harm
in that!”
The Spirit of Mischief laughed. She grew very small, and I watched
her curiously, wondering whether she was really a creature of this
work-a-day world. Then suddenly she grew to life-size again, and
laughed gleefully, standing with her hands thrust deep into her coat
pockets.
“Jessamine!” I exclaimed. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I was, a little bit; but you--you snored awfully,” she said, “and
waked me up.”
She still watched me, laughing; and looking down I saw that she had
been busy while I slept. A barricade of books had been built around
me,--a carefully wrought bit of masonry, as high as my knees.
“You’re the wicked giant,” declared Jessamine, quite in her own manner,
and with no hint of the half-real, elfish spirit of my dream. “And I’m
the good little Princess that has caught you at last. And I’ll never
let you out of the tower--Oh they’re coming! They’re coming!”
She flashed to the door and out upon the veranda where steps had
sounded, leaving me to deliver myself from the tower of the Spirit of
Mischief with the ignorant hands of Age.
Confessions of a “Best-Seller”
Confessions of a “Best-Seller”
THAT my name has adorned best-selling lists is more of a joke than my
harshest critics can imagine. I had dallied awhile at the law; I had
given ten full years to journalism; I had written criticism, and not a
little verse; two or three short stories of the slightest had been my
only adventure in fiction; and I had spent a year writing an essay in
history, which, from the publisher’s reports, no one but my neighbor
and my neighbor’s wife ever read. My frugal output of poems had pleased
no one half so much as myself; and having reached years of discretion I
carefully analyzed samples of the ore that remained in my bins, decided
that I had exhausted my poetical vein, and thereupon turned rather
soberly to the field of fiction.
In order to qualify myself to speak to my text, I will say that in
a period of six years, that closed in January, 1909, my titles were
included fifteen times in the “Bookman” list of best-selling books.
Two of my titles appeared five times each; one of them headed the list
three months successively. I do not presume to speak for others with
whom I have crossed swords in the best-selling lists, but I beg to
express my strong conviction that the compilation of such statistics
is quite as injurious as it is helpful to authors. When the “six
best-selling” phrase was new the monthly statement of winners may have
carried some weight; but for several years it has really had little
significance. Critical purchasers are likely to be wary of books so
listed. It is my impression, based on talks with retail dealers in many
parts of the country, that they often report as “best-sellers” books of
which they may have made large advance purchases, but which are selling
slowly. Their aim is, of course, to force the book into the list, and
thereby create a false impression of its popularity.
I think that most publishers, and many authors who, like myself,
have profited by the making of these lists, would gladly see them
discontinued. The fact remains, however, that the best novels by the
best English and American writers have generally been included in these
lists. Mrs. Wharton, Mrs. Ward, Mr. Winston Churchill, Mr. Wister,
“Kate Douglas Wiggin,” Miss Johnston, and Mr. William de Morgan have,
for example, shared with inferior writers the ignominy of popular
success. I do not believe that my American fellow citizens prefer trash
to sound literature. There are not enough novels of the first order,
not enough books of the style and solidity of “The House of Mirth”
and “Joseph Vance,” to satisfy the popular demand for fiction; and
while the people wait, they take inferior books, like several bearing
my own name, which have no aim but to amuse. I know of nothing more
encouraging to those who wish to see the American novel go high and
far than the immediate acceptance among us of the writings of Mr.
William de Morgan, who makes no concession, not even of brevity, to the
ever-increasing demand for fiction.
I spent the greater part of two years on my first novel, which dealt
with aspects of life in an urban community which interested me; and
the gravest fault of the book, if I am entitled to an opinion, is
its self-consciousness,--I was too anxious, too painstaking, with the
result that those pages seem frightfully stiff to me now. The book was
launched auspiciously; my publisher advertised it generously, and it
landed safely among the “six best-sellers.” The critical reception of
the book was cordial and friendly, not only in the newspaper press,
but in the more cautious weekly journals. My severest critic dealt far
more amiably with my book than I should have done myself, if I had
sat in judgment upon it. I have been surprised to find the book still
remembered, and its quality has been flung in my face by critics who
have deplored my later performances.
I now wrote another novel, to which I gave even greater care, and
into it I put, I think, the best characterizations I have ever done;
but the _soupçon_ of melodrama with which I flavored the first novel
was lacking in the second, and it went dead a little short of fifteen
thousand--the poorest sale any of my books has had.
A number of my friends were, at this time, rather annoyingly directing
my attention to the great popular successes of several other American
writers, whose tales were, I felt, the most contemptible _pastiche_,
without the slightest pretense to originality, and having neither form
nor style. It was in some bitterness of spirit that I resolved to try
my hand at a story that should be a story and nothing else. Nor should
I storm the capitals of imaginary kingdoms, but set the scene on my own
soil. Most, it was clear, could grow the flowers of Zenda when once the
seed had been scattered by Mr. Hawkins. Whether Mr. Hawkins got his
inspiration from the flora of Prince Otto’s gardens, and whether the
Prince was indebted in his turn to Harry Richmond, is not my affair. I
am, no doubt, indebted to all three of these creations; but I set my
scene in an American commonwealth, a spot that derived nothing from
historical association, and sent my hero on his adventures armed with
nothing more deadly than a suit-case and an umbrella. The idea is not
original with me that you can make anything interesting if you know
how. It was Stevenson, I believe, who said that a kitchen table is a
fair enough subject for any writer who knows his trade. I do not cite
myself as a person capable of proving this; but I am satisfied that
the chief fun of story-telling lies in trying, by all the means in a
writer’s power, to make plausible the seemingly impossible. And here,
of course, I am referring to the story for the story’s sake,--not to
the novel of life and manners.
My two earliest books were clearly too deliberate. They were deficient
in incident, and I was prone to wander into blind alleys, and not
always ingenious enough to emerge again upon the main thoroughfare. I
felt that, while I might fail in my attempt to produce a romantic yarn,
the experience might help me to a better understanding of the mechanics
of the novel,--that I might gain directness, movement, and ease.
For my third venture I hit upon a device that took strong hold upon
my imagination. The idea of laying a trap for the reader tickled me;
and when once I had written the first chapter and outlined the last,
I yielded myself to the story and bade it run its own course. I was
never more honestly astonished in my life than to find my half-dozen
characters taking matters into their own hands, and leaving me the
merest spectator and reporter. I had made notes for the story, but in
looking them over to-day, I find that I made practically no use of
them. I never expect to experience again the delight of the winter I
spent over that tale. The sight of white paper had no terrors for me.
The hero, constantly cornered, had always in his pocket the key to his
successive dilemmas; the heroine, misunderstood and misjudged, was
struck at proper intervals by the spot-light that revealed her charm
and reëstablished faith in her honorable motives. No other girl in my
little gallery of heroines exerts upon me the spell of that young lady,
who, on the day I began the story, as I waited for the ink to thaw in
my workshop, passed under my window, by one of those kindly orderings
of Providence that keep alive the superstition of inspiration in the
hearts of all fiction-writers. She never came my way again--but she
need not! She was the bright particular star of my stage--its _dea ex
machina_. She is of the sisterhood of radiant goddesses who are visible
from any window, even though its prospect be only a commonplace city
street. Always, and everywhere, the essential woman for any tale is
passing by with grave mien, if the tale be sober; with upturned chin
and a saucy twinkle in the eye, if such be the seeker’s need!
I think I must have begun every morning’s work with a grin on my face,
for it was all fun, and I entered with zest into all the changes
and chances of the story. I was embarrassed, not by any paucity of
incident, but by my own fecundity and dexterity. The audacity of my
project used sometimes to give me pause; it was almost too bold a thing
to carry through; but my curiosity as to just how the ultimate goal
would be reached kept my interest keyed high. At times, feeling that I
was going too fast, I used to halt and write a purple patch or two for
my own satisfaction,--a harmless diversion to which I am prone, and
which no one could be cruel enough to deny me. There are pages in that
book over which I dallied for a week, and in looking at them now I find
that I still think them--as Mr. James would say--“rather nice.” And
once, while thus amusing myself, a phrase slipped from the pen which
I saw at once had been, from all time, ordained to be the title of my
book.
When I had completed the first draft, I began retouching. I liked my
tale so much that I was reluctant to part with it; I enjoyed playing
with it, and I think I rewrote the most of it three times. Contumelious
critics have spoken of me as one of the typewriter school of
fictionists, picturing me as lightly flinging off a few chapters before
breakfast, and spending the rest of the day on the golf-links; but I
have never in my life written in a first draft more than a thousand
words a day, and I have frequently thrown away a day’s work when I
came to look it over. I have refused enough offers for short stories,
serials, and book rights, to have kept half a dozen typewriters busy,
and my output has not been large, considering that writing has been,
for nearly ten years, my only occupation. I can say, with my hand on
my heart, that I have written for my own pleasure first and last, and
that those of my books that have enjoyed the greatest popularity were
written really in a spirit of play, without any illusions as to their
importance or their quick and final passing into the void.
When I had finished my story, I still had a few incidents and scenes
in my ink-pot; but I could not for the life of me get the curtain up,
once it was down. My little drama had put itself together as tight as
wax, and even when I had written an additional incident that pleased me
particularly, I could find no place to thrust it in. I was interested
chiefly in amusing myself, and I never troubled myself in the least as
to whether anyone else would care for the story. I was astonished by
its sale, which exceeded a quarter of a million copies in this country;
it has been translated into French, Italian, German, Danish, Swedish,
and Norwegian. I have heard of it all the way from Tokyo to Teheran.
It was dramatized, and an actor of distinction appeared in the stage
version; and stock companies have lately presented the play in Boston
and San Francisco. It was subsequently serialized by newspapers, and
later appeared in “patent” supplements. The title was paraphrased
by advertisers, several of whom continue to pay me this flattering
tribute.
I have speculated a good deal as to the success of this book. The
title had, no doubt, much to do with it; clever advertising helped
it further; the cover was a lure to the eye. The name of a popular
illustrator may have helped, but it is certain that his pictures did
not! I think I am safe in saying that the book received no helpful
reviews in any newspapers of the first class, and I may add that I
am skeptical as to the value of favorable notices in stimulating
the sale of such books. Serious novels are undoubtedly helped by
favorable reviews; stories of the kind I describe depend primarily upon
persistent and ingenious advertising, in which a single striking line
from the “Gem City Evening Gazette” is just as valuable as the opinion
of the most scholarly review. Nor am I unmindful of the publisher’s
labors and risks,--the courage, confidence, and genius essential to a
successful campaign with a book from a new hand, with no prestige of
established reputation to command instant recognition. The self-selling
book may become a “best-seller”; it may appear mysteriously, a “dark
horse” in the eternal battle of the books; but miracles are as rare
in the book trade as in other lines of commerce. The man behind the
counter is another important factor. The retail dealer, when he finds
the publisher supporting him with advertising, can do much to prolong a
sale. A publisher of long experience in promoting large sales has told
me that advertising is valuable chiefly for its moral effect on the
retailer, who, feeling that the publisher is strongly backing a book,
bends his own energies toward keeping it alive.
It would be absurd for me to pretend that the leap from a mild _succès
d’estime_ with sales of forty and fourteen thousand, to a delirious
gallop into six figures is not without its effect on an author, unless
he be much less human than I am. Those gentle friends who had intimated
that I could not do it once, were equally sanguine that I could not
do it again. The temptation to try a second throw of the dice after a
success is strong, but I debated long whether I should try my hand at
a second romance. I resolved finally to do a better book in the same
kind, and with even more labor I produced a yarn whose title--and the
gods have several times favored me in the matter of titles--adorned
the best-selling lists for an even longer period, though the total
sales aggregated less.
The second romance was, I think, better than the first, and its
dramatic situations were more picturesque. The reviews averaged better
in better places, and may have aroused the prejudices of those who shun
books that are countenanced or praised by the literary “high brows.” It
sold largely; it enjoyed the glory and the shame of a “best-seller”;
but here, I pondered, was the time to quit. Not to shock my “audience,”
to use the term of the trade, I resolved to try for more solid ground
by paying more attention to characterizations, and cutting down the
allowance of blood and thunder. I expected to lose heavily with the
public, and I was not disappointed. I crept into the best-selling list,
but my sojourn there was brief. It is manifest that people who like
shots in the dark will not tamely acquiesce in the mild placing of the
villain’s hand upon his hip pocket on the moon-washed terrace. The
difference between the actual shot and the mere menace, I could, from
personal knowledge, compute in the coin of the Republic.
When your name on the bill-board suggests battle, murder, and sudden
death, “hair-breadth’scapes, i’ th’ imminent deadly breach,” and
that sort of thing, you need not be chagrined if, once inside, the
eager throng resents bitterly your perfidy in offering nothing more
blood-curdling than the heroine’s demand (the scene being set for
five o’clock tea) for another lump of sugar. You may, if you please,
leave Hamlet out of his own play; but do not, on peril of your fame,
cut out your ghost, or neglect to provide some one to stick a sword
into Polonius behind the arras. I can take up that particular book now
and prove to any fair-minded man how prettily I could, by injecting a
little paprika into my villains, have quadrupled its sale.