it seems I have, I have only one piece of pride connected with it. Not
pride in my work, for no one with a grain of sense or modesty would, in
these days, dare to consider his or her literary efforts of much worth,
as compared with what has already been done by the past great authors.
My pride is simply this: that I have fought my fight alone, and that I
have no thanks to offer to anyone, save those legitimately due to the
publisher who launched my first book, but who, it must be remembered,
would, as a good business man, have unquestionably published nothing
else of mine had I been a failure. I count no 'friend on the Press,' and
I owe no 'distinguished critic' any debt of gratitude. I have come, by
happy chance, straight into close and sympathetic union with my public,
and attained to independence and good fortune while still young and able
to enjoy both. An 'incomprehensibly successful' novelist I was called
last summer by an irritated correspondent of _Life_, who chanced to see
me sharing in the full flow of pleasure and social amusement during the
'season' at Homburg. Well, if it be so, this 'incomprehensible success'
has been attained, I rejoice to say, without either 'log-roller' or
'boom,' and were I of the old Greek faith, I should pour a libation to
the gods for giving me this victory. Certainly I used to hope for what
Britishers aptly call 'fair play' from the critics, but I have ceased to
expect that now. It is evidently a delight to them to abuse me, else
they would not go out of their way to do it; and I have no wish to
interfere with either their 'copy' or their fun. The public are beyond
them altogether. And Literature is like that famous hill told of in the
'Arabian Nights,' where threatening anonymous voices shouted the most
deadly insults and injuries to anyone who attempted to climb it. If the
adventurer turned back to listen, he was instantly changed into stone;
but if he pressed boldly on, he reached the summit and found magic
talismans. Now I am only at the commencement of the journey, and am
ascending the hill with a light heart and in good humour. I hear the
taunting voices on all sides, but I do not stop to listen, nor have I
once turned back. My eyes are fixed on the distant peak of the mountain,
and my mind is set on arriving there if possible. My ambition may be too
great, and I may never arrive. That is a matter for the fates to settle.
But, in the meanwhile, I enjoy climbing. I have nothing to grumble
about. I consider Literature the noblest Art in the world, and have no
complaint whatever to urge against it as a profession. Its rewards,
whether great or small, are sufficient for me, inasmuch as I love my
work, and love makes all things easy.
[Illustration: signature of Marie Corelli]
NOTE.--Since writing the above I have been asked to state whether,
in my arrangements for publishing, I employ a 'literary agent' or
use a 'type-writer.' I do not. With regard to the first part of the
query, I consider that authors, like other people, should learn how
to manage their own affairs themselves, and that when they take a
paid agent into their confidence, they make open confession of
their business incapacity, and voluntarily elect to remain in
foolish ignorance of the practical part of their profession.
Secondly, I dislike type-writing, and prefer to make my own MS.
distinctly legible. It takes no more time to write clearly than in
spidery hieroglyphics, and a slovenly scribble is no proof of
cleverness, but rather of carelessness and a tendency to 'scamp'
work.
'_ON THE STAGE AND OFF_'
BY JEROME K. JEROME
The story of one's 'first book' I take to be the last chapter of one's
literary romance. The long wooing is over. The ardent young author has
at last won his coy public. The good publisher has joined their hands.
The merry critics, invited to the feast of reason, have blessed the
union, and thrown the rice and slippers--occasionally other things. The
bridegroom sits alone with his bride, none between them, and ponders.
The fierce struggle, with its wild hopes and fears, its heart-leapings
and heart-achings, its rose-pink dawns of endless promise, its grey
twilights of despair, its passion and its pain, lies behind. Before him
stretches the long, level road of daily doing. Will he please her to all
time? Will she always be sweet and gracious to him? Will she never tire
of him? The echo of the wedding-bells floats faintly through the
darkening room. The fair forms of half-forgotten dreams rise up around
him. He springs to his feet with a slight shiver, and rings for the
lamps to be lighted.
Ah! that 'first book' we meant to write! How it pressed forward an
oriflamme of joy, through all ranks and peoples; how the world rang with
the wonder of it! How men and women laughed and cried over it! From
every page there leaped to light a new idea. Its every paragraph
scintillated with fresh wit, deep thought, and new humour. And, ye
gods! how the critics praised it! How they rejoiced over the discovery
of the new genius! How ably they pointed out to the reading public its
manifold merits, its marvellous charm! Aye, it was a great work, that
book we wrote as we strode laughing through the silent streets, beneath
the little stars.
And, heigho! what a poor little thing it was, the book that we did
write! I draw him from his shelf (he is of a faint pink colour, as
though blushing all over for his sins), and stand him up before me on
the desk. 'Jerome K. Jerome'--the K very big, followed by a small J, so
that in many quarters the author is spoken of as 'Jerome Kjerome,' a
name that in certain smoke-laden circles still clings to me--'On the
Stage--and Off: The Brief Career of a would-be Actor. One Shilling.'
I suppose I ought to be ashamed of him, but how can I be? Is he not my
first-born? Did he not come to me in the days of weariness, making my
heart glad and proud? Do I not love him the more for his shortcomings?
[Illustration: MY FIRST-BORN]
Somehow, as I stare at him in this dim candlelight, he seems to take odd
shape. Slowly he grows into a little pink imp, sitting cross-legged
among the litter of my books and papers, squinting at me (I think the
squint is caused by the big 'K'), and I find myself chatting with him.
It is an interesting conversation to me, for it is entirely about
myself, and I do nearly all the talking, he merely throwing in an
occasional necessary reply, or recalling to my memory a forgotten name
or face.
[Illustration: Drawing with signature:
Yours Sincerely,
Jerome K. Jermome]
We chat of the little room in Whitfield Street, off the Tottenham Court
Road, where he was born; of our depressing, meek-eyed old landlady, and
of how, one day, during the course of chance talk, it came out that she,
in the far back days of her youth, had been an actress, winning stage
love and breaking stage hearts with the best of them; of how the faded
face would light up as, standing with the tea-tray in her hands, she
would tell us of her triumphs, and repeat to us her 'Press Notices,'
which she had learned by heart; and of how from her we heard not a few
facts and stories useful to us. We talk of the footsteps that of
evenings would climb the creaking stairs and enter at our door; of
George, who always believed in us (God bless him!), though he could
never explain why; of practical Charley, who thought we should do better
if we left literature alone and stuck to work. Ah! well, he meant
kindly, and there be many who would that he had prevailed. We remember
the difficulties we had to contend with; the couple in the room below,
who would come in and go to bed at twelve, and lie there, quarrelling
loudly, until sleep overcame them about two, driving our tender and
philosophical sentences entirely out of our head; of the asthmatical old
law-writer, whose never-ceasing cough troubled us greatly (maybe, it
troubled him also, but I fear we did not consider that); of the rickety
table that wobbled as we wrote, and that, whenever in a forgetful moment
we leant upon it, gently but firmly collapsed.
'Yes,' I said to the little pink imp; 'as a study the room had its
drawbacks, but we lived some grand hours there, didn't we? We laughed
and sang there, and the songs we chose breathed ever of hope and
victory, and so loudly we sang them we might have been modern Joshuas,
thinking to capture a city with our breath.
'And then that wonderful view we used to see from its dingy window
panes--that golden country that lay stretched before us, beyond the
thousand chimney pots, above the drifting smoke, above the creeping
fog--do you remember that?'
It was worth living in that cramped room, worth sleeping on that knobbly
bed, to gain an occasional glimpse of that shining land, with its marble
palaces, where one day we should enter, an honoured guest; its wide
market-places, where the people thronged to listen to our words. I have
climbed many stairs, peered through many windows in this London town
since then, but never have I seen that view again. Yet, from somewhere
in our midst, it must be visible for friends of mine, as we have sat
alone, and the talk has sunk into low tones, broken by long silences,
have told me that they, too, have looked upon those same glittering
towers and streets. But the odd thing is that none of us has seen them
since he was a very young man. So, maybe, it is only that the country is
a long way off, and that our eyes have grown dimmer as we have grown
older.
'And who was that old fellow that helped us so much?' I ask of my little
pink friend; 'you remember him surely--a very ancient fellow, the oldest
actor on the boards he always boasted himself--had played with Edmund
Kean and Macready. I used to put you in my pocket of a night and meet
him outside the stage door of the Princess's; and we would adjourn to a
little tavern in old Oxford Market to talk you over, and he would tell
me anecdotes and stories to put in you.'
'You mean Johnson,' says the pink imp; 'J. B. Johnson. He was with you
in your first engagement at Astley's, under Murray Wood and Virginia
Blackwood. He and you were the High Priests in "Mazeppa," if you
remember, and had to carry Lisa Weber across the stage, you taking her
head and he her heels. Do you recollect what he said to her, on the
first night, as you were both staggering towards the couch?--"Well, I've
played with Fanny Kemble, Cushman, Glyn, and all of them, but hang me,
my dear, if you ain't the heaviest lead I've ever supported."'
[Illustration: 'HE AND YOU HAD TO CARRY LISA WEBER ACROSS THE STAGE']
'That's the old fellow,' I reply; 'I owe a good deal to him, and so do
you. I used to read bits of you to him in a whisper as we stood in the
bar; and he always had one formula of praise for you: "It's damned
clever, young 'un; damned clever. I shouldn't have thought it of you."
'And that reminds me,' I continue--I hesitate a little here, for I fear
what I am about to say may offend him--'what have you done to yourself
since I wrote you? I was looking you over the other day, and really I
could scarcely recognise you. You were full of brilliancy and
originality when you were in manuscript. What have you done with it
all?'
By some mysterious process he contrives to introduce an extra twist into
the squint with which he is regarding me, but makes no reply, and I
continue:
'Take, for example, that gem I lighted upon one drizzly night in
Portland Place. I remember the circumstance distinctly. I had been
walking the deserted streets, working at you; my note-book in one hand
and a pencil in the other. I was coming home through Portland Place,
when suddenly, just beyond the third lamp-post from the Crescent, there
flashed into my brain a thought so original, so deep, so true, that
involuntarily I exclaimed: "My God, what a grand idea!" and a
coffee-stall keeper, passing with his barrow just at that moment, sang
out: "Tell it us, guv'nor. There ain't many knocking about."
[Illustration: THAT BRILLIANT IDEA]
'I took no notice of the man, but hurried on to the next lamp-post to
jot down that brilliant idea before I should forget it; and the moment I
reached home I pulled you out of your drawer and copied it out on to
your pages, and sat long staring at it, wondering what the world would
say when it came to read it. Altogether I must have put into you nearly
a dozen startlingly original thoughts. What have you done with them?
They are certainly not there now.'
Still he keeps silence, and I wax indignant at the evident amusement
with which he regards my accusation.
'And the bright wit, the rollicking humour with which I made your pages
sparkle, where are they?' I ask him, reproachfully; 'those epigrammatic
flashes that, when struck, illumined the little room with a blaze of
sudden light, showing each cobweb in its dusty corner, and dying out,
leaving my dazzled eyes groping for the lamp; those grand jokes at which
I myself, as I made them, laughed till the rickety iron bedstead beneath
me shook in sympathy with harsh metallic laughter; where are they, my
friend? I have read you through, page by page, and the thoughts in you
are thoughts that the world has grown tired of thinking; at your wit one
smiles, thinking that anyone could think it wit; and your humour your
severest critic could hardly accuse of being very new. What has happened
to you? What wicked fairy has bewitched you? I poured gold into your
lap, and you yield me back only crumpled leaves.'
With a jerk of his quaint legs he assumes a more upright posture.
'My dear Parent,' he begins in a tone that at once reverses our
positions, so that he becomes the monitor and I the wriggling
admonished; 'don't, I pray you, turn prig in your old age; don't sink
into the "superior person" who mistakes carping for criticism, and
jeering for judgment. Any fool can see faults, they lie on the surface.
The merit of a thing is hidden within it, and is visible only to
insight. And there is merit in me, in spite of your cheap sneers, sir.
Maybe I do not contain an original idea. Show me the book published
since the days of Caxton that does! Are our young men, as are the youth
of China, to be forbidden to think, because Confucius thought years ago?
The wit you appreciate now needs to be more pungent than the wit that
satisfied you at twenty; are you sure it is as wholesome? You cannot
smile at humour you would once have laughed at; is it you or the humour
that has grown old and stale? I am the work of a very young man, who,
writing of that which he knew and had felt, put down all things
truthfully as they appeared to him, in such way as seemed most natural
to him, having no thought of popular taste, standing in no fear of what
critics might say. Be sure that all your future books are as free from
unworthy aims.'
'Besides,' he adds, after a short pause, during which I have started to
reply, but have turned back to think again, 'is not this talk idle
between you and me? This apologetic attitude, is it not the cant of the
literary profession? At the bottom of your heart you are proud of me, as
every author is of every book he has written. Some of them he thinks
better than others; but, as the Irishman said of whiskies, they are all
good. He sees their shortcomings. He dreams he could have done better;
but he is positive no one else could.'
His little twinkling eyes look sternly at me, and, feeling that the
discussion is drifting into awkward channels, I hasten to divert it, and
we return to the chat about our early experiences.
I ask him if he remembers those dreary days when, written neatly in
round hand on sermon paper, he journeyed a ceaseless round from
newspaper to newspaper, from magazine to magazine, returning always
soiled and limp to Whitfield Street, still further darkening the ill-lit
room as he entered. Some would keep him for a month, making me indignant
at the waste of precious time. Others would send him back by the next
post, insulting me by their indecent haste. Many, in returning him,
would thank me for having given them the privilege and pleasure of
reading him, and I would curse them for hypocrites. Others would reject
him with no pretence at regret whatever, and I would marvel at their
rudeness.
I hated the dismal little 'slavey' who, twice a week, on an average,
would bring him up to me. If she smiled as she handed me the packet, I
fancied she was jeering at me. If she looked sad, as she more often did,
poor little over-worked slut, I thought she was pitying me. I shunned
the postman if I saw him in the street, sure that he guessed my shame.
'Did anyone ever read you out of all those I sent you to?' I ask him.
'Do editors read manuscript by unknown authors?' he asks me in return.
'I fear not more than they can help,' I confess; 'they would have little
else to do.'
'Oh,' he remarks demurely, 'I thought I had read that they did.'
'Very likely,' I reply; 'I have also read that theatrical managers read
all the plays sent to them, eager to discover new talent. One obtains
much curious information by reading.'
[Illustration: I HATED THE DISMAL LITTLE 'SLAVEY']
'But somebody did read me eventually,' he reminds me; 'and liked me.
Give credit where credit is due.'
'Ah, yes,' I admit; 'my good friend Aylmer Gowing--the "Walter Gordon"
of the old Haymarket in Buckstone's time, "Gentleman Gordon" as Charles
Matthews nicknamed him--kindliest and most genial of men. Shall I ever
forget the brief note that came to me four days after I had posted you
to "The Editor--_Play_":--"Dear Sir, I like your articles very much. Can
you call on me to-morrow morning before twelve?--Yours truly, W. AYLMER
GOWING."'
So success had come at last--not the glorious goddess I had pictured,
but a quiet, pleasant-faced lady. I had imagined the editor of
_Cornhill_, or the _Nineteenth Century_, or _The Illustrated London
News_ writing me that my manuscript was the most brilliant, witty, and
powerful story he had ever read, and enclosing me a cheque for two
hundred guineas. _The Play_ was an almost unknown little penny weekly,
'run' by Mr. Gowing--who, though retired, could not bear to be
altogether unconnected with his beloved stage--at a no inconsiderable
yearly loss. It could give me little fame and less wealth. But a crust
is a feast to a man who has grown weary of dreaming dinners, and as I
sat with that letter in my hand a mist rose before my eyes, and I--acted
in a way that would read foolish if written down.
[Illustration: THE STUDY
(_From a photograph by Fradelle & Young_)]
The next morning, at eleven, I stood beneath the porch of 37 Victoria
Road, Kensington, wishing I did not feel so hot and nervous, and that I
had not pulled the bell-rope quite so vigorously. But when Mr. Gowing,
in smoking-coat and slippers, came forward and shook me by the hand, my
shyness left me. In his study, lined with theatrical books, we sat and
talked. Mr. Gowing's voice seemed the sweetest I had ever listened to,
for, with unprofessional frankness, it sang the praises of my work. He,
in his young acting days, had been through the provincial mill, and
found my pictures true, and many of my pages seemed to him, so he said,
'as good as _Punch_.' (He meant it complimentary.) He explained to me
the position of his paper, and I agreed (only too gladly) to give him
the use of the book for nothing. As I was leaving, however, he called me
back and slipped a five-pound note into my hand--a different price from
what friend A. P. Watt charms out of proprietors' pockets for me
nowadays, yet never since have I felt as rich as on that foggy November
morning when I walked across Kensington Gardens with that 'bit of
flimsy' held tight in my left hand. I could not bear the idea of
spending it on mere mundane things. Now and then, during the long days
of apprenticeship, I drew it from its hiding-place and looked at it,
sorely tempted. But it always went back, and later, when the luck began
to turn, I purchased with it, at a second-hand shop in Goodge Street, an
old Dutch bureau that I had long had my eye upon. It is an inconvenient
piece of furniture. One cannot stretch one's legs as one sits writing at
it, and if one rises suddenly it knocks bad language into one's knees
and out of one's mouth. But one must pay for sentiment, as for other
things.
In _The Play_ the papers gained a fair amount of notice, and won for me
some kindly words; notably, I remember, from John Clayton and Palgrave
Simpson. I thought that in the glory of print they would readily find a
publisher, but I was mistaken. The same weary work lay before me, only
now I had more heart in me, and, having wrestled once with Fate and
prevailed, stood less in fear of her.
Sometimes with a letter of introduction, sometimes without, sometimes
with a bold face, sometimes with a timid step, I visited nearly every
publisher in London. A few received me kindly, others curtly, many not
at all. From most of them I gathered that the making of books was a
pernicious and unprofitable occupation. Some thought the work would
prove highly successful if I paid the expense of publication, but were
less impressed with its merits on my explaining to them my financial
position. All kept me waiting long before seeing me, but made haste to
say 'Good day' to me.
I suppose all young authors have had to go through the same course. I
sat one evening, a few months ago, with a literary friend of mine. The
talk turned upon early struggles, and, with a laugh, he said: 'Do you
know one of the foolish things I love to do? I like to go with a paper
parcel under my arm into some big publishing house, and to ask, in a
low, nervous voice, if Mr. So-and-so is disengaged. The clerk, with a
contemptuous glance towards me, says that he is not sure, and asks if I
have an appointment. "No," I reply; "not--not exactly, but I think he
will see me. It's a matter of importance. I shall not detain him a
minute."
'The clerk goes on with his writing, and I stand waiting. At the end of
about five minutes, he, without looking up, says curtly, "What name?"
and I hand him my card.
'Up to that point, I have imagined myself a young man again, but there
the fancy is dispelled. The man glances at the card, and then takes a
sharp look at me. "I beg your pardon, sir," he says, "will you take a
seat in here for a moment?" In a few seconds he flies back again with
"Will you kindly step this way, sir?" As I follow him upstairs I catch a
glimpse of somebody being hurriedly bustled out of the private office,
and the great man himself comes to the door, smiling, and as I take his
outstretched hand I am remembering other times that he has forgotten.
[Illustration: I AM REMEMBERING]
In the end--to make a long story short, as the saying is--Mr. Tuer, of
'Ye Leadenhall Press,' urged thereto by a mutual friend, read the book,
and, I presume, found merit in it, for he offered to publish it if I
would make him a free gift of the copyright. I thought the terms hard at
the time (though in my eagerness to see my name upon the cover of a real
book I quickly agreed to them), but with experience, I am inclined to
admit that the bargain was a fair one. The English are not a
book-buying people. Out of every hundred publications hardly more than
one obtains a sale of over a thousand, and, in the case of an unknown
writer, with no personal friends upon the Press, it is surprising how
few copies sometimes _can_ be sold.
I am happy to think that in this instance, however, nobody suffered. The
book was, as the phrase goes, well received by the public, who were
possibly attracted to it by its subject, a perennially popular one. Some
of the papers praised it, others dismissed it as utter rubbish; and
then, fifteen months later, on reviewing my next book, regretted that a
young man who had written such a capital first book should have followed
it up by so wretched a second.
One writer--the greatest enemy I have ever had, though I exonerate him
of all but thoughtlessness--wrote me down a 'humourist,' which term of
reproach (as it is considered to be in Merrie England) has clung to me
ever since, so that now, if I pen a pathetic story, the reviewer calls
it 'depressing humour,' and if I tell a tragic story, he says it is
'false humour,' and, quoting the dying speech of the broken-hearted
heroine, indignantly demands to know 'where he is supposed to laugh.' I
am firmly persuaded that if I committed a murder half the book reviewers
would allude to it as a melancholy example of the extreme lengths to
which the 'new humour' had descended.
'Once a humourist, always a humourist,' is the reviewer's motto.
'And all things allowed for--the unenthusiastic publisher, the
insufficiently appreciative public, the wicked critic,' says my little
pink friend, breaking his somewhat long silence, 'what do you think of
literature as a profession?'
I take some time to reply, for I wish to get down to what I really
think, not stopping, as one generally does, at what one thinks one ought
to think.