If a man think to use literature merely as a means to fame and fortune,
then he will find it an extremely unsatisfactory profession, and he
would have done better to take up politics or company promoting. If he
trouble himself about his status and position therein, loving the
uppermost tables at feasts, and the chief seats in public places, and
greetings in the markets, and to be called of men, Master, Master, then
he will find it a profession fuller than most professions of petty
jealousy, of little spite, of foolish hating and foolish log-rolling, of
feminine narrowness and childish querulousness. If he think too much of
his prices per thousand words, he will find it a degrading profession;
as the solicitor, thinking only of his bills-of-cost, will find the law
degrading; as the doctor, working only for two-guinea fees, will find
medicine degrading; as the priest, with his eyes ever fixed on the
bishop's mitre, will find Christianity degrading.
'But if he love his work for the work's sake, if he remain child enough
to be fascinated with his own fancies, to laugh at his own jests, to
grieve at his own pathos, to weep at his own tragedy--then, as, smoking
his pipe, he watches the shadows of his brain coming and going before
his half-closed eyes, listens to their voices in the air about him, he
will thank God for making him a literary man. To such a one, it seems to
me, literature must prove ennobling. Of all professions it is the one
compelling a man to use whatever brain he has to its fullest and widest.
With one or two other callings, it invites him--nay, compels him--to
turn from the clamour of the passing day to speak for a while with the
voices that are eternal.
'To me it seems that if anything outside oneself can help one, the
service of literature must strengthen and purify a man. Thinking of his
heroine's failings, of his villain's virtues, may he not grow more
tolerant of all things, kinder thinking towards man and woman? From the
sorrow that he dreams, may he not learn sympathy with the sorrow that he
sees? May not his own brave puppets teach him how a man should live and
die?
'To the literary man, all life is a book. The sparrow on the telegraph
wire chirps cheeky nonsense to him as he passes by. The urchin's face
beneath the gas lamp tells him a story, sometimes merry, sometimes sad.
Fog and sunshine have their voices for him.
[Illustration: MR. JEROME K. JEROME
(_From a photograph by Fradelle & Young_)]
'Nor can I see, even from the most worldly and business-like point of
view, that the modern man of letters has cause of complaint. The old
Grub Street days when he starved or begged are gone. Thanks to the men
who have braved sneers and misrepresentation in unthanked championship
of his plain rights, he is now in a position of dignified independence;
and if he cannot attain to the twenty thousand a year prizes of the
fashionable Q.C. or M.D., he does not have to wait their time for his
success, while what he can and does earn is amply sufficient for all
that a man of sense need desire. His calling is a password into all
ranks. In all circles he is honoured. He enjoys the luxury of a power
and influence that many a prime minister might envy.
'There is still a last prize in the gift of literature that needs no
sentimentalist to appreciate. In a drawer of my desk lies a pile of
letters, of which if I were not very proud I should be something more or
less than human. They have come to me from the uttermost parts of the
earth, from the streets near at hand. Some are penned in the stiff
phraseology taught when old fashions were new, some in the free and easy
colloquialism of the rising generation. Some, written on sick beds, are
scrawled in pencil. Some, written by hands unfamiliar with the English
language, are weirdly constructed. Some are crested, some are smeared.
Some are learned, some are ill-spelled. In different ways they tell me
that, here and there, I have brought to some one a smile or pleasant
thought; that to some one in pain and in sorrow I have given a moment's
laugh.'
* * * * *
Pinky yawns (or a shadow thrown by the guttering candle makes it seem
so). 'Well,' he says, 'are we finished? Have we talked about ourselves,
glorified our profession, and annihilated our enemies to our entire
satisfaction? Because, if so, you might put me back. I'm feeling
sleepy.'
I reach out my hand, and take him up by his wide, flat waist. As I draw
him towards me, his little legs vanish into his squat body, the
twinkling eye becomes dull and lifeless. The dawn steals in upon him,
for I have sat working long into the night, and I see that he is only a
little shilling book bound in pink paper. Wondering whether our talk
together has been as good as at the time I thought it, or whether he has
led me into making a fool of myself, I replace him in his corner.
'_CAVALRY LIFE_'
BY 'JOHN STRANGE WINTER'
(MRS. ARTHUR STANNARD)
[Illustration: THREE SOLDIERS AND A PIG]
My first book 'as ever was' was written, or, to speak quite correctly,
was printed, on the nursery floor some thirty odd years ago. I remember
the making of the book very well; the leaves were made from an old
copybook, and the back was a piece of stiff paper, sewed in place and
carefully cut down to the right size. So far as I remember, it was about
three soldiers and a pig. I don't quite know how the pig came in, but
that is a mere detail. I have no data to go upon (as I did not dream
thirty years ago that I should ever be so known to fame as to be asked
to write the true history of my first book), but I have a wonderful
memory, and to the best of my recollection it was, as I say, about
three soldiers and a pig.
It never saw the light, and there are times when I feel thankful to a
gracious Providence that I have been spared the power of gratifying the
temptation to give birth to those early efforts, after the manner of Sir
Edwin Landseer and that pathetic little childish drawing of two sheep,
which is to be seen at provincial exhibitions of pictures, for the
encouragement and example of the rising generation.
So far as I can recall, I made no efforts for some years to woo fickle
fortune after the attempt to recount the story of the three soldiers and
a pig; but when I was about fourteen my heart was fired by the example
of a schoolfellow, one Josephine H----, who spent a large portion of her
time writing stories, or, as our schoolmistress put it, wasting time and
spoiling paper. All the same, Josephine H---- 's stories were very good,
and I have often wondered since those days whether she, in after life,
went on with her favourite pursuits. I have never heard of her again
except once, and then somebody told me that she had married a clergyman,
and lived at West Hartlepool. Yes, all this has something to do, and
very materially, with the story of my first book. For in emulating
Josephine H----, whom I was very fond of, and whom I admired immensely,
I discovered that I could write myself, or at least that I wanted to
write, and that I had ideas that I wanted to see on paper. Without that
gentle stimulant, however, I might never have found out that I might one
day be able to do something in the same way myself.
[Illustration: signed drawing: Ever Yours,
John Strange Winter.
(_From a photograph by Russell & Sons, Wimbledon_)]
My next try was at a joint story--a story written by three girls, myself
and two friends. That was in the same year. We really made considerable
headway with that story; and had visions of completely finishing it and
getting no less a sum than thirty pounds for it. I have a sort of an
idea that I supplied most of the framework for the story, and that the
elder of my collaborators filled in the millinery and the love-making.
But--alas for the futility of human hopes and desires!--that book was
destined never to be finished, for I had a violent quarrel with my
collaborators, and we have never spoken to each other from that day to
this.
So came to an untimely end my second serious attempt at writing a book;
for the stories that I had written in emulation of Josephine H---- were
only short ones, and were mostly unfinished.
I wasted a terrible deal of paper between my second try and my
seventeenth birthday, and I believe that I was, at that time, one of the
most hopeless trials of my father's life. He many times offered to
provide me with as much cheap paper as I liked to have; but cheap paper
did not satisfy my artistic soul, for I always liked the best of
everything. Good paper was my weakness--as it was his--and I used it, or
wasted it, which you will, with just the same lavish hand as I had done
aforetime.
When I was seventeen, I did a skit on a little book called 'How to Live
on Sixpence a Day.' It was my first soldier story--excepting the
original three soldiers and a pig--and introduced the 'sixpence a day'
pamphlet into a smart cavalry regiment, whose officers were in various
degrees of debt and difficulty, and every man was a barefaced portrait,
without the smallest attempt at concealment of his identity. Eventually
this sketch was printed in a York paper, and the honour of seeing myself
in print was considered enough reward for me. I, on the contrary, had no
such pure love of fame. I had done what I considered a very smart
sketch, and I thought it well worth payment of some kind, which it
certainly was.
After this, I spent a year abroad, improving my mind--and I think, on
the whole, it will be best to draw a veil over that portion of my
literary history, for I went out to dinner on every possible occasion,
and had a good time generally. Stay--did I not say my literary history?
Well, that year had a good deal to do with my literary history, for I
wrote stories most of the time, during a large part of my working hours
and during the whole of my spare time, when I did not happen to be going
out to dinner. And when I came home, I worked on just the same until,
towards the end of '75, I drew blood for the first time. Oh, the joy of
that first bit of money--my first earnings! And it was but a bit, a mere
scrap. To be explicit, it amounted to ten shillings. I went and bought a
watch on the strength of it--not a very costly affair; a matter of two
pounds ten and an old silver turnip that I had by me. It was wonderful
how that one half-sovereign opened up my ideas. I looked into the future
as far as eye could see, and I saw myself earning an income--for at that
time of day I had acquired no artistic feelings at all, and I genuinely
wanted to make name and fame and money--I saw myself a young woman who
could make a couple of hundred pounds from one novel, and I gloried in
the prospect.
[Illustration: MR. ARTHUR STANNARD
(_From a photograph by Frances Browne, 135 Regent Street, W._)]
I disposed of a good many stories in the same quarter at starvation
prices, ranging from the original ten shillings to thirty-five. Then,
after a patient year of this not very luxurious work, I made a step
forward and got a story accepted by the dear old _Family Herald_. Oh,
yes, this is really all relevant to my first book; very much so, indeed,
for it was through Mr. William Stevens, one of the proprietors of the
_Family Herald_, that I learned to know the meaning of the word
'caution'--a word absolutely indispensable to any young author's
vocabulary.
At this time I wrote a great deal for the _Family Herald_, and also for
various magazines, including _London Society_. In the latter, my first
'Winter' work appeared--a story called 'A Regimental Martyr.'
I was very oddly placed at this point of my career, for I liked most
doing the 'Winter' work, but the ordinary young-lady-like fiction paid
me so much the best, that I could not afford to give it up. I was, like
all young magazine writers, passionately desirous of appearing in book
form. I knew not a single soul in the way connected with literary
matters, had absolutely no help or interest of any kind to aid me over
the rough places, or even of whom to ask advice in times of doubt and
difficulty. Mr. William Stevens was the only editor that I knew to whom
I could go and say, 'Is this right?' or 'Is that wrong?' And I think it
may be interesting to say here that I have never asked for, or indeed
used, a letter of introduction in my life--that is, in connection with
any literary business.
Well, when I had been hard at work for several years, I wrote a very
long book--upon my word, in spite of my good memory, I forget what it
was called. The story, however, lives in my mind well enough; it was the
story of a very large family--about ten girls and boys, who all made
brilliant marriages and lived a sort of shabby, idyllic, happy life,
somewhat on the plan of 'God for us all and the devil take the
hindermost.' Need I say that it was told in the first person and in the
present tense, and that the heroine was anything but good-looking?
I was very young then, and thought a great deal of my pretty bits of
writing and those seductive scraps of moralising, against which Mr.
Stevens was always warning me. Well, this very long, not to say
spun-out, account of this very large family of boys and girls, did not
happen to please the 'readers' for the _Family Herald_--then my
stay-by--so I thought I would have a try round the various publishers
and see if I could not get it brought out in three volumes. Of course, I
tried all the best people first, and very often, when I receive from
struggling young authors (who know a great deal more about my past
history than I do myself, and who frequently write to ask me the best
and easiest way to get on at novel-writing, without either hard work, or
waiting, or disappointment, because, if you please, my own beginnings
were so singularly successful and delightful) the information that I
have never known of any of their troubles, it seems to me that my past
and my present cannot be the past and present of the same woman. Yet
they are. I went through it all; the same sickening disappointments, the
same hopes and fears; I trod the self-same path that every beginner must
assuredly tread, as we must all in time tread that other path to the
grave. I went through it all, and with that exceedingly long and
detailed account of that large and shabby family, I trod the thorny path
of publishing almost to the bitter end--ay, even to the goal where we
find the full-blown swindler waiting for us, with bland looks and
honeyed words of sweetest flattery. Dear, dear! many who read this will
know the process. It seldom varies. First, I sent my carefully written
MS., whose very handwriting betrayed my youth, to a certain firm which
had offices off the Strand, to be considered for publication. The firm
very kindly did consider it, and their consideration was such that they
made me an offer of publication--_on certain terms_.
Their polite note informed me that their readers had read the work and
thought very highly of it, that they were inclined--just by the way of
completing their list for the approaching September, the best month in
the year for bringing out novels--to bring it out, although I was, as
yet, unknown to fame. Then came the first hint of 'the consideration,'
which took the form of a hundred pounds, to be paid down in three sums,
all to fall due before the day of publication. I worked out the profits
which _could_ accrue if the entire edition sold out I found that, in
that case, I should have a nice little sum for myself of 180_l._ Now, no
struggling young author in his or her senses is silly enough to throw
away the chance of making 180_l._ in one lump. I thought, and I thought
the whole scheme out, and I must confess that the more I thought about
it, the more utterly tempting did the offer seem. To risk 100_l._--and
to make 180_l._! Why, it was a positive sin to lose such a chance.
Therefore, I scraped a hundred pounds together, and, with my mother, set
off for London, feeling that, at last, I was going to conquer the world.
We did a theatre on the strength of my coming good fortune, and the
morning after our arrival in town set off--in my case, at all
events--with swelling hearts, to keep the appointment with the kindly
publisher who was going to put me in the way of making fame and fortune.
[Illustration: 'THE FIRM' CONSIDERING]
I opened the door and went in. 'Is Mr.---- at home?' I asked. I was
forthwith conducted to an inner sanctum, where I was received by the
head of the firm himself. Then I experienced my first shock--he
squinted! Now, I never could endure a man with a squint, and I
distrusted this man instantly. You know, there are squints and squints!
There is the soft uncertain squint feminine, which is really charming.
And there is a particular obliquity of vision which, in a man, rather
gives a larky expression, and so makes you feel that there is nothing
prim and formal about him, and seems to put you on good terms at once.
[Illustration: HE SQUINTED!]
And there is a cold-blooded squint, which makes your flesh creep, and
which, when taken in connection with business, brings little stories to
your mind--'Is anyone coming, sister Anne?' and that sort of thing.
Mr.---- asked me to excuse him a moment while he gave some instructions,
and, without waiting for my permission, looked through a few letters,
shouted a message down a speaking-tube, and then, after having arranged
the fate of about half-a-dozen novels by the means of the same
instrument, he sent a final message down the tube asking for my MS.,
only to be told that he would find it in the top right-hand drawer of
his desk.
As a matter of fact, all this delay, intended to impress me and make me
understand what a great thing had happened to me in having won attention
from so busy a man, simply did for Mr.---- so far as I was concerned.
Instead of impressing me, it gave me time to get used to the place, it
gave me time to look at Mr.---- when he was not looking at me.
Then, having found the MS., he looked at me and prepared to give me his
undivided attention.
[Illustration: MISS STANNARD (_From a photograph by H. S. Mendelssohn_)]
'Well,' he said, with a long breath, as if it was quite a relief to see
a new face, 'I am very glad you have decided to close with our offer. We
confidently expect a great success with your book. We shall have to
change the title though. There's a good deal in a title.'
I replied modestly that there was a good deal in a title. 'But,' I
added, 'I have not closed with your offer--on the contrary, I---- '
He looked up sharply, and he squinted worse than ever. 'Oh, I quite
thought that you had definitely---- '
'Not at all,' I replied; then added a piece of information, which could
not by any chance have been new to him. 'A hundred pounds is a lot of
money, you know,' I remarked.
Mr.---- looked at me in a meditative fashion. 'Well, if you have not got
the money,' he said rather contemptuously, 'we might make a slight
reduction--say, if we brought it down to 75_l._, solely because our
readers have spoken so highly of the story. Now look here, I will show
you what our reader says--which is a favour that we don't extend to
everyone, that I can tell you. Here it is!'
[Illustration: 'THE TWINS'--BOOTLES AND BETTY
(_From photographs by H. S. Mendelssohn_)]
Probably in the whole of his somewhat chequered career as a publisher,
Mr.---- never committed such a fatal mistake as by handing me the report
on my history (in detail) of that very large family of boys and girls.
'Bright, crisp, racy,' it ran. 'Very unequal in parts, wants a good deal
of revision, and should be entirely re-written. Would be better if the
story was brought to a conclusion when the heroine first meets with the
hero after the parting, as all the rest forms an anti-climax. This might
be worked up into a really popular novel, especially as it is written
very much in Miss---- 's style' (naming a then popular authoress whose
sole merit consisted in being the most faithful imitator of the gifted
founder of a very pernicious school).
I put the sheet of paper down, feeling very sick and ill. And the worst
of it was, I knew that every word of it was true. I was young and
inexperienced then, and had not _nous_ enough to say plump out that my
eyes had been opened, and that I could see that I should be neither more
nor less than a fool if I wasted a single farthing over a story that
must be utterly worthless. So I prevaricated mildly, and said that I
certainly did not feel inclined to throw a hundred or even seventy-five
pounds away over a story without some certainty of success. 'I'll think
it over during the day,' I said, rising from my chair.
'Oh, we must know within an hour, at the outside,' Mr.---- said very
curtly. 'Our arrangements will not wait, and the time is very short now
for us to decide on our books for September. Of course, if you have not
got the money, we might reduce a little more. We are always glad, if
possible, to meet our clients.'
'It's not that,' I replied, looking at him straight. 'I have the money
in my pocket; but a Yorkshire woman does not put down a hundred pounds
without some idea what is going to be done with it.'
'You must let me have your answer within an hour,' Mr.---- remarked
briefly.
'I will,' said I, in my most polite manner; 'but I really must think out
the fact that you are willing to knock off twenty-five pounds at one
blow. It seems to me if you could afford to take that much off, and
perhaps a little more, there must have been something very odd about
your original offer.'
'My time is precious,' said Mr.---- in a grumpy voice.
'Then, good morning,' said I cheerfully.
My hopes were all dashed to the ground again, but I felt very cheerful,
nevertheless. I trotted round to my friend, Mr. Stevens, who gave a
whistle of astonishment at my story. 'I'll send my head clerk round for
your MS. at once,' he said, 'else you'll probably never see it again.'
And so he did, and so ended my next attempt to bring out my first book.
After this I felt very keenly the real truth of the old saying, 'Virtue
is its own reward.' For, not long after my episode with Mr.----, the
then editor of _London Society_ wrote to me, saying that he thought that
as I had already had several stories published in the magazine, it might
make a very attractive volume if I could add a few more and bring them
out as a collection of soldier stories.
[Illustration: LONG-LEGGED SOLDIERS]
I did not hesitate very long over this offer, but set to work with all
the enthusiasm of youth--and youth does have the advantage of being full
of the fire of enthusiasm, if of nothing else--and I turned out enough
new stories to make a very respectable volume.
Then followed the period of waiting to which all literary folk must
accustom themselves.
I was, however, always of a tolerably long-suffering disposition, and
possessed my soul in patience as well as I could. The next thing I heard
was that the book had very good prospects, but that it would have its
chances greatly improved if it were in two volumes instead of being in
only one.
Well, youth is generous, and I did not see the wisdom of spoiling the
ship for the traditional ha'porth of tar, so I cheerfully set to work
and evolved another volume of stories, all of smart, long-legged
soldiers, and with--as Heaven knows--no more idea of setting myself up
as possessing all knowledge about soldiers and the Service than I had of
aspiring to the Crown of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and
Ireland. But, even then, I had need of a vast amount of patience, for
time went on, and really my book seemed as far from publication as ever.
Every now and then I had a letter telling me that the arrangements were
nearly completed, and that it would probably be brought out by Messrs.
So-and-so. But days wore into weeks, and weeks into months, until I
really began to feel as if my first literary babe was doomed to die
before it was born.
Then arose a long haggle over terms, which I had thought were settled,
and to be on the same terms as the magazine rates--no such wonderful
scale after all. However, my literary guide, philosopher, and friend
thought, as he was doing me the inestimable service of bringing me out,
that 20_l._ was an ample honorarium for myself; but I, being young and
poor, did not see things in the same light at all. Try as I would--and I
cannot lay claim to trying very hard--I could not see why a man, who had
never seen me, should have put himself to so much trouble out of a
spirit of pure philanthropy, and a desire to help a struggling young
author forward. So I obstinately kept to my point, and said if I did not
have 30_l._, I would rather have all of the stories back again. I think
nobody would credit to-day what that special bit of firmness cost me.
Still, I would cheerfully have died before I would have given in, having
once conceived my claim to be a just one. A bad habit on the whole, and
one that has since cost me dear more than once.
Eventually, my guide and I came to terms for the sum for which I had
held out, namely, 30_l._, which was the price I received for my very
first book, in addition to about 8_l._ that I had already had from the
magazine for serial use of a few of the stories.
So, in due course, my book, under the title of 'Cavalry Life,' was
brought out in two great cumbersome volumes by Messrs. Chatto & Windus,
and I was launched upon the world as a full-blown author under the name
of 'Winter.'
[Illustration: CAVALRY LIFE]