_March 7._ It is little to be proud of, yet I like to think that though
I have behaved dishonestly, I have not entirely lost my sense of right
and wrong. Twice at least have I faced temptation and been strong
enough to resist.
When I carried to Mr. Blodgett the money I received for my book, I was
so profoundly discouraged that my mood was only too apparent. In his
kindness he suggested that I buy certain bonds of a railroad his firm
was then reorganizing,—telling me from his inside knowledge that a
year’s holding would give me a profit of thirty per cent. It was so
sore a temptation to make money without exertion and practically
without risk that I assented, and authorized him to buy the securities;
but a night’s reflection made the dishonesty of my act clear to me, and
the next morning I went to his office and told him I wished to
countermand my order.
“What’s that for?” he inquired.
“I have thought better of the matter, and do not think I have the
right.”
“Why not?”
“If this money were a trust in my hands, it would not be honest to use
it in speculation, would it?”
“No.”
“That is practically what it is, since it was stolen from a trust, and
is to be returned to it.”
He smiled rather grimly. “It’s lucky for Wall Street,” he said, “that
you literary fellows don’t have the making and enforcing of laws; and
it’s luckier still that you don’t have to earn your living down here,
for the money you’d make wouldn’t pay your burial insurance.” Yet
though he laughed cynically, he shook my hand, I thought, more warmly
than usual when we parted, as if he felt at heart that I had done
right.
Much easier to resist was an offer of another kind. Very foolishly, I
told Mr. Whitely that I had received a letter from the literary editor
of the leading American review asking if I would write the criticism of
the History of the Turks.
“That is a singular piece of good fortune,” Mr. Whitely said
cheerfully, “and guarantees me a complimentary notice in a periodical
that rarely praises.”
“That is by no means certain,” I answered. “You know as well as I that
it does not gloze a poor book, nor pass over defects in silence.”
“But you can hardly write critically of your own book!” cried Mr.
Whitely, for once giving me a share in our literary partnership. “For
if there are defects you ought to have corrected them in proof.”
“Of course I do not intend to write the review!” I exclaimed.
“Not write it? Why not?” he questioned in amazement equal to mine.
“Because I am absolutely unfitted to do it.”
“Why, you know all about the subject!”
“I mean that no author can for a moment write discriminatingly of his
own work; and besides, the offer would never have been made if my
connection with the book were known.”
“But they will never know.”
“I should.”
“You mean to say you do not intend to do it?”
“I shall write to-night declining.”
“But I want you to do it.”
“And I don’t.”
“What would they probably pay you for it?”
“What it is worth.”
“If you will reconsider your determination, I will double the amount.”
“Unfortunately,” I laughed bitterly, “there are limits to what even _I_
will sell.”
“I will give you two hundred and fifty dollars if you will write a
laudatory review of my book,” he offered.
“Have you ever dealt in consciences, Mr. Whitely?” I asked.
“Occasionally.”
“Did you ever get any as cheap as that?”
“Many.”
“I’m afraid you were buying shopworn and second-hand articles,” I
retorted; “or you may have gone to some bargain counter where they make
a specialty of ninety-eight and forty-nine cent goods.”
He never liked this satirical mood into which he sometimes drove me. He
hesitated an instant, and then bid, “Three hundred.”
“This reminds me of Faust,” I remarked; but he was too intent on the
matter in hand to see the point.
“I suppose it’s only a question of amount?” he suggested blandly.
“You are quite right, Mr. Whitely. I will write you that review if you
will pay me my price,” I assented.
“I knew it,” he asserted exultingly. “But you are mistaken if you think
I will pay any fancy price.”
“Then it’s a waste of time to talk any more about it,” I answered, and
resumed my work.
“It isn’t worth three hundred, even,” he argued, “but you may tell me
what you will do it for.”
“I will write that review for one hundred and twenty-one thousand
dollars,” I replied.
“What!”
“And from that price I will not abate one cent,” I added.
Strangely enough, I did not write the notice.
It was amusing to see his eagerness for the criticisms of the book. The
three American critical journals had notices eminently characteristic
of them. The first was scholarly, praising moderately, with a touch of
lemon-juice in the final paragraph that really only heightened its
earlier commendation, but which made the book’s putative author wince;
the second was discriminating and balanced, with far more that was
complimentary; while the third was the publisher’s puff so regularly
served up,—a colorless, sugary mush,—which my employer swallowed with
much delectation. I am ashamed to say that I greatly enjoyed his pain
over any harsh words. He always took for granted that the criticisms
were correct, never realizing that as between an author, who has spent
years on a book, and the average critic, who is at best superficial in
his knowledge of a subject, the former is the more often right of the
two. I tried to make this clear to him one day by asking him if he had
never read Lord Brougham’s review of Byron or Baron Jeffrey’s review of
Coleridge, and even brought him the astonishing tirades of those
world-renowned critics; but it was time wasted. He preferred a
flattering panegyric in the most obscure of little sheets to a really
careful notice which praised less inordinately; yet while apparently
believing all the flattery, he believed all the censoriousness as well,
even in those cases known to every author where one critic praises what
another blames.
“A Western paper says you do not know how to write English,” he
complained one day. “You ought to have taken more pains with the book,
Dr. Hartzmann.”
“The Academy and The Athenæum both thought my style had merit,” I
answered, smiling.
“Nevertheless there must be something wrong, or this critic, who in
other respects praises with remarkable discrimination, would certainly
not have gone out of his way to mention it,” he replied discontentedly.
Fortunately, unfavorable criticism, both in Europe and in America, was
the exception, and not the rule; the book was generally praised, and
sprang into an instant sale that encouraged and cheered me. Mr. Whitely
was immensely gratified at the sudden reputation it achieved for him,
and even while drinking deep of the mead of fresh authorship told me he
thought he would publish another book. I knew it was an opportunity to
make more money, but for some reason I felt unequal to beginning anew
on what would be a purely mercenary task. I mentioned my plan of a work
on the Moors, and promised, when I felt able to commence it, I would
talk with him about terms. That was three months ago, yet every day I
seem to feel less inclination, and in fact less ability, to undertake
the labor. For three years I have toiled to the utmost of my strength,
and forced myself to endure the most rigid economy. It is cowardly, but
at times I find myself hoping my present want of spirit and energy is
the forerunner of an illness which will end the hopeless struggle.
Good-night, dear heart.