"You darling Traddles,--why do I call you Traddles? Because you are
'the dearest fellow.' It was not Traddles, though, was it? It was his
wife, and she was not a fellow but a girl--never mind. The fact I wish
to impress upon your mind is, that you have tricked out my book so
beautifully that nothing could be lovelier. You would not have done it
though if I had not threatened you within an inch of your life, would
you? You don't know how delighted I was when I opened the bundle,
expecting to see those cheap-looking paste-boardy things, and you
had gone and done them just as I wanted you to do them, and you said
you would, and then said you wouldn't, and they are _beautiful_. They
are better even than 'Sir Thomas.' The paper is finer. But now see--I
never thought till yesterday that they must cost more than the other
way, and I have been distressed all along, and this makes me more so.
But listen: I shall either live, or die, or marry. If I live I shall
get money, if not by writing, then by teaching, or something, so that
I shall pay you sometime. If I die I shall leave money enough of my
own to pay you, and you keep this letter to show to my heirs to let
them know I desire you to be paid. If I marry, Smith of course will be
delighted to pay all my debts, and I shall make that the condition of
my becoming Smithess; so that you shall not _lose_ money on my book,
even if you don't make any, which I hope you will--millions of dollars;
but I am sure you must see for yourself that it is better to have a
book look substantial and high-bred, and suit you, even if it does cost
a little more.
"Just here comes your letter and check, which was delayed in Boston
because you did not put a stamp on.
"One of my friends has been questioning me about the business part of
my book--copyrights and contract, and all that trash of which I know
and care nothing."
[Foolish as this all seems to me now, I can only say that it expressed
exactly my state of mind. It was not that I had any lofty disregard
of money, but simply that I was so intent on writing, that I had room
for nothing else. I had plenty of money, or if I had not, I did not
know it, which amounts to the same thing, and it made me impatient
to be bothered with these outside, and what seemed to me entirely
insignificant matters.]
"But I want to know if by publishing articles in the 'A. M.' they pass
out of my hands. I mean, if I wanted to collect them and have Tilton,
say, publish them, couldn't I? I will any way; because you see, though
_I_ am amiable, you know what _your_ temper is, and suppose we flare
up and have a quarrel, what then? I tell you I don't discard lines of
retreat. Now you know I would rather have you publish than anybody
else--supposing I had anything to be published; but I want to do it
because I want to do it, and not because I _have_ to do it--don't you
understand?
"Do you know that it scares me to see my book out in the open day?
Seems to me it is a romping kind of a book, and there is a regiment of
I's on every page, and 'lots' of 'tricksys' and 'exasperatings' and
'for my parts.' You cannot tell how a book will look till it is born,
can you? I shall make the next one better. Shall you read it now it is
out? I wish I knew whether it disappoints you. It does me. It is crude
and botchy--it is so awfully unlike 'Sir Thomas Browne;' and if it
_isn't_ good, it is frightfully pretentious. A book ought not to come
out in that style, unless it has some merit. To think of----reading it,
and----and----and----I should like to go into a hole and burrow--and----
"O dear! I don't suppose they will read it, but I wanted to have such
a book as they will read. Any way, you have done your part, and I want
you to know that I am aware of it and not ungrateful."
"Hurrah! Good news! I have heard of a man in S----, who _said_ he was
_going_ to buy my book! There is one copy as good as sold.
"The man who told me about the purchaser in S----, tells me also that
the dress of my book is very much admired, and says I ought to be very
grateful to B. & H. for doing me up in such style, just as if I was
not! But what can I do about it? There is a white cloud at the toe of
my boot. As soon as it resolves itself into a well-defined hole, I am
coming to Athens to get a new pair. I have nothing in the world to say
to you, and I shall not come to see you. Still, if you should say,
'Hadn't you better?' perhaps I might be induced to rasp my knuckles
against No. 7--."