Nervous Look--The Bookseller's Wife--The Last Stake--Terms--God
Forbid!--Will You Come to Tea?--A Light Heart.
On arriving at the bookseller's shop, I cast a nervous look at the
window, for the purpose of observing whether the paper had been removed
or not. To my great delight the paper was in its place; with a beating
heart I entered, there was nobody in the shop; as I stood at the counter,
however, deliberating whether or not I should call out, the door of what
seemed to be a back-parlour opened and out came a well dressed lady-like
female, of about thirty, with a good-looking and intelligent countenance.
"What is your business, young man?" said she to me, after I had made her
a polite bow. "I wish to speak to the gentleman of the house," said I.
"My husband is not within at present," she replied; "what is your
business?" "I have merely brought something to show him," said I, "but I
will call again." "If you are the young gentleman who has been here
before," said the lady, "with poems and ballads, as, indeed, I know you
are," she added, smiling, "for I have seen you through the glass door, I
am afraid it will be useless; that is," she added, with another smile,
"if you bring us nothing else." "I have not brought you poems and
ballads now," said I, "but something widely different; I saw your
advertisement for a tale or a novel, and have written something which I
think will suit; and here it is," I added, showing the roll of paper
which I held in my hand. "Well," said the bookseller's wife, "you may
leave it, though I cannot promise you much chance of its being accepted.
My husband has already had several offered to him; however, you may leave
it; give it me. Are you afraid to entrust it to me?" she demanded
somewhat hastily, observing that I hesitated. "Excuse me," said I, "but
it is all I have to depend upon in the world; I am chiefly apprehensive
that it will not be read." "On that point I can reassure you," said the
good lady, smiling, and there was now something sweet in her smile. "I
give you my word that it shall be read; come again to-morrow morning at
eleven, when, if not approved, it shall be returned to you."
I returned to my lodging, and forthwith betook myself to bed,
notwithstanding the earliness of the hour. I felt tolerably tranquil; I
had now cast my last stake, and was prepared to abide by the result.
Whatever that result might be, I could have nothing to reproach myself
with; I had strained all the energies which nature had given me in order
to rescue myself from the difficulties which surrounded me. I presently
sank into a sleep, which endured during the remainder of the day, and the
whole of the succeeding night. I awoke about nine on the morrow, and
spent my last threepence on a breakfast somewhat more luxurious than the
immediately preceding ones, for one penny of the sum was expended on the
purchase of milk.
At the appointed hour I repaired to the house of the bookseller; the
bookseller was in his shop. "Ah," said he, as soon as I entered, "I am
glad to see you." There was an unwonted heartiness in the bookseller's
tones, an unwonted benignity in his face. "So," said he, after a pause,
"you have taken my advice, written a book of adventure; nothing like
taking the advice, young man, of your superiors in age. Well, I think
your book will do, and so does my wife, for whose judgment I have a great
regard; as well I may, as she is the daughter of a first-rate novelist,
deceased. I think I shall venture on sending your book to the press."
"But," said I, "we have not yet agreed upon terms." "Terms, terms," said
the bookseller; "ahem! well, there is nothing like coming to terms at
once. I will print the book, and give you half the profit when the
edition is sold." "That will not do," said I; "I intend shortly to leave
London: I must have something at once." "Ah, I see," said the
bookseller, "in distress; frequently the case with authors, especially
young ones. Well, I don't care if I purchase it of you, but you must be
moderate; the public are very fastidious, and the speculation may prove a
losing one after all. Let me see, will five . . . hem"--he stopped. I
looked the bookseller in the face; there was something peculiar in it.
Suddenly it appeared to me as if the voice of him of the thimble sounded
in my ear, "Now is your time, ask enough, never such another chance of
establishing yourself; respectable trade, pea and thimble." "Well," said
I at last, "I have no objection to take the offer which you were about to
make, though I really think five-and-twenty guineas to be scarcely
enough, everything considered." "Five-and-twenty guineas!" said the
bookseller; "are you--what was I going to say--I never meant to offer
half as much--I mean a quarter; I was going to say five guineas--I mean
pounds; I will, however, make it guineas." "That will not do," said I;
"but, as I find we shall not deal, return me my manuscript, that I may
carry it to some one else." The bookseller looked blank. "Dear me,"
said he, "I should never have supposed that you would have made any
objection to such an offer; I am quite sure that you would have been glad
to take five pounds for either of the two huge manuscripts of songs and
ballads that you brought me on a former occasion." "Well," said I, "if
you will engage to publish either of those two manuscripts, you shall
have the present one for five pounds." "God forbid that I should make
any such bargain," said the bookseller; "I would publish neither on any
account; but, with respect to this last book, I have really an
inclination to print it, both for your sake and mine; suppose we say ten
pounds." "No," said I, "ten pounds will not do; pray restore me my
manuscript." "Stay," said the bookseller, "my wife is in the next room,
I will go and consult her." Thereupon he went into his back room, where
I heard him conversing with his wife in a low tone; in about ten minutes
he returned. "Young gentleman," said he, "perhaps you will take tea with
us this evening, when we will talk further over the matter."
That evening I went and took tea with the bookseller and his wife, both
of whom, particularly the latter, overwhelmed me with civility. It was
not long before I learned that the work had been already sent to the
press, and was intended to stand at the head of a series of entertaining
narratives, from which my friends promised themselves considerable
profit. The subject of terms was again brought forward. I stood firm to
my first demand for a long time; when, however, the bookseller's wife
complimented me on my production in the highest terms, and said that she
discovered therein the germs of genius, which she made no doubt would
some day prove ornamental to my native land, I consented to drop my
demand to twenty pounds, stipulating, however, that I should not be
troubled with the correction of the work.
Before I departed, I received the twenty pounds, and departed with a
light heart to my lodgings.
Reader, amidst the difficulties and dangers of this life, should you ever
be tempted to despair, call to mind these latter chapters of the life of
Lavengro. There are few positions, however difficult, from which dogged
resolution and perseverance may not liberate you.