My friend Mr. Sidney Mandragon is getting on. He is now one of
the great ones of the earth. He has just been referred to as
"Among those present was Mr. Sidney Mandragon."
As everybody knows (or will know when they have read this
article) the four stages along the road to literary fame are
marked by the four different manners in which the traveller's
presence at a public function is recorded in the Press. At the
first stage the reporter glances at the list of guests, and says
to himself, "Mr. George Meredith --never heard of him," and for
all the world knows next morning, Mr. George Meredith might just
as well have stayed at home. At the second stage (some years
later) the reporter murmurs to his neighbour in a puzzled sort of
way: "George Meredith? George Meredith? Now where have I come
across that name lately? Wasn't he the man who pushed a
wheelbarrow across America? Or was he the chap who gave evidence
in that murder trial last week?" And, feeling that in either case
his readers will be interested in the fellow, he says: "The
guests included ... Mr. George Meredith and many others." At the
third stage the reporter knows at last who Mr. George Meredith
is. Having seen an advertisement of one of his books, and being
pretty sure that the public has read none of them, he refers to
him as "Mr. George Meredith, the well-known novelist." The fourth
and final stage, beyond the reach of all but the favoured few, is
arrived at when the reporter can leave the name to his public
unticketed, and says again, "Among those present was Mr. George
Meredith."
The third stage is easy to reach--indeed, too easy. The "well-
known actresses" are not Ellen Terry, Irene Vanbrugh and Marie
Tempest, but Miss Birdie Vavasour, who has discovered a new way
of darkening the hair, and Miss Girlie de Tracy, who has been
arrested for shop-lifting. In the same way, the more the Press
insists that a writer is "well-known," the less hope will he have
that the public has heard of him. Better far to remain at the
second stage, and to flatter oneself that one has really arrived
at the fourth.
But my friend Sidney Mandragon is, indeed, at the final stage
now, for he had been "the well-known writer" for at least a dozen
years previously. Of course, he has been helped by his name.
Shakespeare may say what he likes, but a good name goes a long
way in the writing profession. It was my business at one time to
consider contributions for a certain paper, and there was one
particular contributor whose work I approached with an awe
begotten solely of his name. It was not exactly Milton, and not
exactly Carlyle, and not exactly Charles Lamb, but it was a sort
of mixture of all three and of many other famous names thrown in,
so that, without having seen any of his work printed elsewhere, I
felt that I could not take the risk of refusing it myself. "This
is a good man," I would say before beginning his article; "this
man obviously has style. And I shouldn't be surprised to hear
that he was an authority on fishing." I wish I could remember his
name now, and then you would see for yourself.
Well, take Mr. Hugh Walpole (if he will allow me). It is safe to
say that, when Mr. Walpole's first book came out, the average
reader felt vaguely that she had heard of him before. She hadn't
actually read his famous Letters, but she had often wanted to,
and--or was that his uncle? Anyway, she had often heard people
talking about him. What a very talented family it was! In the
same way Sidney Mandragon has had the great assistance of one of
the two Christian names which carry weight in journalism. The
other, of course, is Harold. If you are Sidney or Harold, the
literary world is before you.
Another hall-mark by which we can tell whether a man has arrived
or not is provided by the interview. If (say) a Lepidopterist is
just beginning his career, nobody bothers about his opinions on
anything. If he is moderately well-known in his profession, the
papers will seek his help whenever his own particular subject
comes up in the day's news. There is a suggestion, perhaps, in
Parliament that butterflies should be muzzled, and "Our
Representative" promptly calls upon "the well-known
Lepidopterist" to ask what HE thinks about it. But if he be of an
established reputation, then his professional opinion is no
longer sought. What the world is eager for now is to be told his
views on Sunday Games, the Decadence of the Theatre or Bands in
the Parks.
The modern advertising provides a new scale of values. No doubt
Mr. Pelman offers his celebrated hundred guineas' fee equally to
all his victims, but we may be pretty sure that in his business-
like brain he has each one of them nicely labelled, a Gallant
Soldier being good for so much new business, a titled Man of
Letters being good for slightly less; and that real Fame is best
measured by the number of times that one's unbiased views on
Pelmanism (or Tonics or Hair-Restorers) are considered to be
worth reprinting. In this matter my friend Mandragon is doing
nicely. For a suitable fee he is prepared to attribute his
success to anything in reason, and his confession of faith can
count upon a place in every full-page advertisement of the
mixture, and frequently in the odd half-columns. I never quite
understand why a tonic which has tightened up Mandragon's fibres,
or a Mind-Training System which has brought General Blank's
intellect to its present pitch, should be accepted more greedily
by the man-in-the-street than a remedy which has only proved its
value in the case of his undistinguished neighbour, but then I
can never understand quite a number of things. However, that
doesn't matter. All that matters at the moment is that Mr. Sidney
Mandragon has now achieved glory. Probably the papers have
already pigeon-holed his obituary notice. It is a pleasing
thought.