WAS IT WORTH WHILE?
Love in a cottage is admittedly no failure, quite delightful; but those
who have tried it usually end by owning that love in comfort would be
no less charming.
So it was with Hubert.
Nobody, he told himself, could be a better little housekeeper than
Helena, no little home more fresh and dainty than their own: but though
she never worried him, cleverly adapting their ways to a variable
income, he was always faced by the uncomfortable thought: "If this book
fails--" or "unless I write some short stories--" and after a while
these things begin to tell. Within two years from marriage they had
told upon Hubert Brett.
And so had come into being that pot-boiler, confessed to Helena with
such solemnity on the wide, prudent, spaces of the Heath.
At first he had thought that it would be a hardship to exchange his own
realistic method, his studies of character, for those banalities of
plot and action independent of all motive, which wearied him even when
read, boiled down, in a magazine. But slowly his mood of cynical
disdain changed to a real enjoyment, for any task is splendid so soon
as a man gets at firm grips with it. He began to see that when once
you had got rid of the idea that action must proceed from character,
there was a certain joy in letting wild event pile up on wild event and
then be rapidly forgotten under even wilder. When once you had
abandoned all reserve, there was a fierce delight in splashing pages
with unfettered sentiment; making frank puppets think, love, and
renounce as they had thought, loved, and renounced since the old fruity
days of the three-volume novel. Of course it was all footle,
balderdash, but still (he told himself with pride) it was good footle,
splendid balderdash. He had bought some of the most "popular" of
recent novels in six-penny editions, novels that had brought fortunes
to their authors, and by comparison with his, they did the same thing
in a bungling manner. No able novelist, he cynically told his wife,
had ever tried till now to write a really good bad novel!
Helena loathed the whole enterprise, not only because she vaguely felt
that it was marriage with her which had made it needful, but because
she thought it so unworthy. And not least unworthy, not least
loathsome, did she find his way of talking. It had been so splendid to
hear him speak about his work in the old days: and now it was so
horrible.
"I've found a title at last," he said, emerging at lunch-time one day
when the book was in its revision-stage, and coming to her in the
drawing-room as usual.
"Hooray!" she cried, genuinely pleased because he had been worried as
to that and this would mean a cheery walk. "What is it? Is it good?"
"Couldn't be better," he replied, and as usual she missed the irony.
He paused and then; "_Was It Worth While?_"
"Oh, Hugh," she could not help exclaiming. "That _isn't_ the title?"
"Don't you like it?" he enquired sardonically and let himself down
cheerily upon the sofa.
Helena of late had begun to express quite elaborate opinions even to
Hubert, who somehow always terrified her, rather, when it came to
intellect. He was so much cleverer, she knew, and never seemed to take
her views as anything except a joke. She always spoke a little
timidly. He would have been surprised to hear how cleverly she talked
to Alison and others. But that is true of many married couples.
"No," she began slowly. "It's so--I don't know, but--well, so cheap.
All your others were so dignified and simple; I think _Wandering Stars_
was simply excellent; but this--it sort of reminds me of those plays
with names like _Did She Do It?_ You know what I mean!"
Hubert smiled grimly. "You seem to think I'm trying to be dignified.
Not a bit of it: we're out for money! Money, my dear Helena: no more
worry about bills, and our own motor-car!" She could not bring herself
to be amused and he went on more moodily: "Do you imagine any woman
wants novels with titles that are dignified? and men aren't fools
enough to read them. Of course you picked out my best seller for your
argument; but look at _The Bread of Idleness_. That was dignified
enough and splendidly reviewed and sold two thousand copies; just about
a hundred pounds for me for one year's work! No thanks, I've done with
dignity, _pro tem_. There may be just about two thousand women with a
taste in dignity, but I want all the shop-girls this time: I'm out for
my hundred thousand! I want them when they go to the seaside library
and pay their twopences to notice _Was It Worth While?_ in big letters
on a purple ground. That'll make them think! No more dignity for me:
you want to make them think, to make them wonder "Why?" I'd call the
book _Why Smith Left Home_, if only it was new."
She did not answer for a few moments: then she said very gently but
with a new firmness; "Hugh dear, is it really necessary to do all this?
Can't we just go on as we have been doing? I dare say I could manage
better, really, and I've often told you I simply don't know what to do
with my allowance: it's eating its head off in the bank! Surely we're
not so hard up as all that? I hate the whole idea."
"What whole idea?" he asked coldly. One did look for encouragement
from one's own wife. He got up to leave her.
"This pot-boiler, as you call it; the title; the way you talk about it;
everything. It's all so different, and I've been so proud of the
others." She gathered courage and went on: "Look here, Hugh, why not
give it up; start on a really good one that'll help your name; and
we'll live meanwhile on all that from my allowance in the bank?" She
rose and took him by the arm persuasively.
"My dear child," he said with condescension, "you seem to think it's
all just money. Tear the whole book up? Don't worry your little head
with such things, but just go and see if Lily can't give us some early
lunch and then we'll go to Kew for tea!"
Helena, released with a kiss, went out feeling oddly rebellious in
spite of the Kew treat; and as for him, he was annoyed. Give it up,
indeed! She talked as though "all this" (for she had called it that)
were something criminal, instead of merely a book that was bound to
sell! He certainly had no idea of sacrificing all his work for her
absurd dislikes....
Even the best artists do not so much object to popularity, when they
reach thirty-eight.
Hubert Brett, indeed, was more excited over this novel's birth than
over that of any other. Almost every day he had to go up to see agent,
publisher, or editor. He told Helena, as his excuse for leaving her so
much, that it was most important this book, as a "popular" one, should
be widely advertised and publishers were such eternal fools about that
sort of thing. They always spent all their money upon other people's
trash and then said they could not afford to help on your own books!
As the day for publishing drew nearer, this theory bulked almost into
an obsession. Helena came to dread the paper boy's arrival. Hubert
would tear the dailies open, dash by instinct to the literary page, and
then give a discordant laugh of scorn or anger.
"Of course not," he would say. "They won't tell any one till it's been
out a week! They mean to keep it dark, trust them!"
"I dare say they're saving up for later on, dear," was her soothing
reply. It was not always she, by now, who was the child.
But he would not be soothed.
Helena was glad when the day arrived, although it was a nervous time.
He had been full, the night before, of how amusing it would be to hear
the critics slang him for a change, instead of finding all those dull
superlatives that put the public off: but remembering his past fury
with those few reviews which found some blemish in his work, she had
her misgivings.
"Only I expect," she said, "it may seem rather curious at first--having
bad notices, I mean." She looked across at him covertly and anxiously.
She had begun, by now, to knit waistcoats for him and felt as though
they had been married for eternity.
Hubert, lounging idly in the other armchair, merely laughed. "Curious?
Well, amusing.... It'll certainly be something new to be slated by the
critics and rushed after by the libraries. It's usually been the other
way about!" He knew, himself, that he would feel the blame from
critics who had liked his work, but then---- After all, if the readers
liked it and were thousands where they had been hundreds----! And
there was the money....
Next morning the paper boy delivered a specially large roll of papers
and Hubert flung himself upon them with unusual vigour. Helena, her
eyes fixed on a letter where the words all flickered, was anxious to
what might seem an unjustified extent. She could just see him with one
corner of her eye.
Paper after paper was torn open; his gaze ran greedily along the
columns; but he never paused to read.
At length he flung the last one down with a fierce gesture.
"It's a boycott," he cried petulantly. "I've always had at least two
notices, for years, upon the day. We sent them out early on purpose.
It's nothing but a boycott."
He seemed to find some consolation in that word with its historical
immensity.
"How too bad, dearest," murmured Helena, in duty and with a sinking
heart. She saw no cause for any boycott. And she knew that his other
novels had better deserved any privilege.
On four dreary mornings the same tragic farce took place, and also with
the evening papers. Then on the fifth day Hubert's fast-travelling
eyes stopped abruptly, he said "Ha!" and then read out with a naïve joy
"_Was It Worth While?_"
"Good," exclaimed Helena, still doubtful.
Suddenly he gave a wild laugh. "I like that," he said. "That is
rich." He put the paper down very gently on the table. Then he raised
the cover from the buttered eggs.
"What is it, dear?" she compelled herself to ask.
"They say," announced Hubert in extremely level tones, "this habit of
publishing a well-known author's early works as new is one that has
grown far too common."
Then, letting himself go; "Early works? I'll show them! It is
libellous. I can prove my case to the hilt."
"I shouldn't worry with them," she said, feeling inadequate. "Perhaps
it will just make the book sell? We expected them to be all nasty,
didn't we?" She tried to speak brightly. Then an inspiration came to
her. "Perhaps there are some better ones?" she said. The great thing
would be to divert his mind. A law-case would be terrible. Nobody got
anything, ever, except the barristers.
He passed the heap of unopened papers scornfully across to her. "You
look at them," he said. "I don't know why I do or why one cares.
They're just a pack of failures. I always despise myself for looking
at their stuff at all." He opened a letter with unneeded violence.
With slow unpractised fingers Helena began to search for reviews. "No,
no," she said at each, until she thought (he was so quiet), that this
might be annoying him and went on with her task in silence.
Then her hands suddenly clutched the paper tightly, symbolic of her
effort to say nothing, for her eyes had caught the heading, _Was It
Worth While?_ The notice ran to half a column and this was an
important paper. She blessed her cleverness in having looked.
One moment later, she was blessing her forethought in not saying
anything. For this was the review:
"_Was It Worth While?_
"For some time now it has been an interesting question, with those who
can find any interest at all in the popular novels of to-day, as to
what exactly may be the peculiar touchstone of popularity. We can most
of us recall the names of two or three books which have run into their
quarter of a million copies, according to advertisements: and in
reading them hungrily for a solution of the problem, we have been more
than a little astounded by the crudeness of the fare submitted. We
have been unwilling, as good optimists of human nature, to believe that
mere literary vices can account for any library demand.
"Mr. Hubert Brett, perhaps unconsciously, has done us a good service.
We do not, let it be premised at once, refer to our gratitude for his
latest novel. Some of Mr. Brett's work, notably _Splendid Misery_ and
_The Bread of Idleness_, has been praised in these columns for the
sincere attempt which the author made in it to get at grips with the
problems of real life, forgetting (as few authors can) the fictionists
who went before him. In _Was It Worth While?_ he seems to have
thought, for a change, of almost nothing else. The book is a weird
salad of remembered scenes, an olla podrida of episodes we wish we
could forget. It would be wasting time and space indeed to attempt
synopsis of Mr. Brett's astounding tale--for it is not a novel, however
one define that vaguest of all literary products. By lumping together
the worst and cheapest portion of all the bad and clap-trap tales which
have seen light since printing was unhappily invented, one may arrive
at a far better notion of this book than can be gained by wading
through its crowded pages. The process, let us add, is also less
fatiguing.
"But this is where Mr. Brett has done us, we repeat, a service. _Was
It Worth While?_ (the name alone is symptomatic) has all the qualities
of its successful predecessors: the well-worn types, that call for no
brain-effort after work; the utterly untrammelled sentiment; the
shapeless slices of religion: he has put into his salad all the right
ingredients, except one, which he, less lucky than the other cooks, did
not possess. And that ingredient, we now believe, is no less than
sincerity. The other writers have done this sort of thing well,
because they could do no better; and whilst the large public applauded,
we have pitied. Mr. Brett has done this sort of thing, although he can
do better; and whilst the public will see through him, we despise his
effort. Into his motives it would be impertinent to enquire. Perhaps,
after all, the book is a mere literary squib. Mr. Brett, it well may
be, has no desire to gull the public into a belief in his weak
sentiment and crude religion: he wishes to deride those qualities in
others. If so, we congratulate and thank him once again: we understand
at last the essential quality (and it is, we confess, a fine one) in
the Library big-seller. On any other ground, however, it certainly was
not _Worth While_."
Helena did not dare to read all down the column. She read the last
words and she bit her lips to keep back tears of which she was ashamed.
She knew that it was true--and she hated, loathed the man or woman who
had written it. She would give anything, all she possessed, all that
poor Hubert had thought he would make from the horrid book, to spare
him this review: to shield him from the pain that she knew it was bound
to give him.
"Found one?" he asked. Her hands almost dropped the paper.
"No," she said. "There don't seem any more, unless I've managed to
miss one. Now I'm seeing what has happened!" And she contrived to
laugh.
He appeared to feel relief rather than disappointment.
"You don't often do that," he said cheerily enough. "I thought you
despised politics and everything like that?"
"I don't often get the chance to read them," she said and hurriedly
turned on to the next page, "considering you always cling firmly to the
D.T. till I've got to begin my housework!" This last was her name for
what he, in a Yankee spirit, nicknamed "chores."
So for the moment that danger was averted, but Helena knew it was
really no more than postponed, and long before the day was over, wished
that she had faced it instantly.
When he came in to her just before dinner she knew that he had seen
before he spoke a word. He drew the notice, neatly cut out, from his
pocket, and she made a pretence of reading it.
"It's merely spite," was all he said. "How dare they call me
insincere? They know it's a good seller and that's just what they
can't stand. I've written to the editor and I hope I get that swine
the boot."
"Is that very kind, dear?" she asked. "It's his job, you know, and you
said bad reviews would sell the book."
He gave an angry snort. "Yes, I dare say, but not this kind. No plot,
nothing except that its fatiguing and _may_ be a burlesque. English
people hate being puzzled even more than they hate being bored."
This saying had the effect, she thought, of cheering him a little, for
he gave a sardonic laugh and said:
"Well, no matter, let them do their worst. Trust the public later on
to find out that the novel's bad! ... When's dinner?"