My Dear Sir,--I agree with every word you say. You have my entire
sympathy. The world is indeed hard, hard to the sad--particularly hard
to the unsuccessful. A sure five hundred a year covers a multitude of
sorrows. It is ever an ill wind for the shorn lamb. If it be true that
nothing succeeds like success, it is no less sadly true that nothing
fails like failure. And when one thinks of it, it is only natural, for
every failure is an obstruction in the stream of life. Metaphorical
writers are fond of saying that the successful ride to success on the
back of the failures. It is true that many rise on stepping-stones of
their dead relations--but that is because their relations have been
financial successes. In truth, instead of the failure making the
fortune of the successful, it is just the reverse. A very successful man
would be the more successful were it not for the failures--on whom he
has either to spend his money to support, or his time to advise. The
strong are said to be impatient towards the weak--and is it to be
wondered at, in a world where even the strongest need all their
strength, in a sea where the best swimmer needs all his wind and muscle
and skill to keep afloat? If success is sometimes 'unfeeling' towards
failure, failure is often unfair to success. Of course, 'it is He that
hath made us and not we ourselves,' but that is a text that cuts both
ways; and when all is said and done, the failure detracts from the force
in the universe; he is the clog on the wheel of fortune. To say that the
successful man benefits by the failure of others is as true as it would
be to say that the ratepayer benefits by the poor-rates. You use the
word 'charlatan' somewhat profusely of several successful writers, and
no doubt you are right. But you must remember that it is a favourite
charge against the gifted and the fortunate. Because we have failed by
fair means, we are sure the other fellows have succeeded by foul. And,
moreover, one is apt to forget how much talent is needed to be a
charlatan. Never look down upon a charlatan. Courage, skill, personal
force or charm, great knowledge of human nature, dramatic instinct, and
industry--few charlatans succeed (and no one is called a charlatan till
he _does_ succeed, be his success as low or high as you please) without
possessing a majority of these qualities; how many of which--it would be
interesting to know--do you possess?
Indeed, it would seem to need more gifts to be a rogue than an honest
man, and there is a sense in which every great man may be described as a
charlatan--_plus_ greatness; greatness being an almost indefinable
quality, a quality, at any rate, on which there is a bewildering
diversity of opinion.
You seem a little cross with publishers and editors. They have not
proved the distinguished, brilliant, and sympathetic beings you imagined
them in your boyish dreams. No doubt, publishers and editors enter
hardly into the kingdom of heaven. But then, you see, they don't care so
much about that; they are much more interested in the next election at
certain fashionable clubs. It is really a little hard on them that they
should suffer from the ignorant misconception of the literary amateur.
It is only those who have had no dealings with them who would be unfair
enough to expect publishers or editors to be literary men. They are
business men--business men _par excellence_--and a good thing, too, for
their papers and their authors. You lament their mercenary view of life;
but, judging by your letter, even you are not disposed to regard money
as the root of all evil.
You cannot understand why you have failed where others have succeeded.
You have far more Greek than Keats, more history than Scott, and you
know nineteen languages--ten of them to speak. With so many
accomplishments, it must indeed be hard to fail--though you do not seem
to have found it difficult. You have travelled too--have been twice
round the world, and have a thorough knowledge of the worst hotels.
Certainly, it is singular. Nevertheless, I must confess that the dullest
men I have ever met have been professors of history; the worst poets
have not only known Greek, but French as well; and, generally speaking
the most tiresome of my acquaintances have more degrees than I have
Latin to name them in. Alas! it is not experience, or travel, or
language, but the use we make of them, that makes literary success,
which, one may add, is particularly dependent--perhaps not
unnaturally--on the use we make of language. A book may be a book,
although there is neither Latin nor Greek, nor travel, nor
experience--in fact 'nothing' in it; and though, like myself, you may
pay an Oxford professor a thousand a year to correct your proofs, you
may still miss immortality.
To these intellectual and general equipments you add goodness of heart,
sincerity of conviction, and martyrdom for your opinions; you are, it
would seem, like many others of us, the best fellow and greatest man of
your acquaintance. Permit me to remind you that we are not talking of
goodness of heart, of strength or beauty of character, but of success,
which is a thing apart, a fine art in itself.
You confess that you are somewhat unpractical: you expect
others--hard-worked journalists who never met you--to tell you what to
read, how to form your style, and how 'to get into the magazines.' You
are, you say, with something of pride, but a poor business man. That is
a pity, for nearly every successful literary man of the day, and
particularly the novelists, are excellent business men. Indeed, the
history of literature all round has proved that the men who have been
masters of words have also been masters of things--masters of the facts
of life for which those words stand. Many writers have mismanaged their
affairs from idleness and indifference, but few from incapacity. Leigh
Hunt boasted that he could never master the multiplication-table.
Perhaps that accounts for his comparative failure as a writer.
Incompetence in one art is far from being a guarantee of competency in
another, and a man is all the more likely to make a name if he is able
to make a living--though, judging from Coleridge, it seems a good plan
to let another hard-worked man support one's wife and children. On the
other hand, though business faculty is a great deal, it is not
everything: for a man may be as punctual and methodical as Southey, and
yet miss the prize of his high calling, or as generally 'impossible' as
Blake, and yet win his place among the immortals.
In fact, after all, success in literature has something to do with
writing. In temporary success, industry and business faculty, and an
unworked field--be it Scotland, Ireland, or the Isle of Man (any place
but plain England!)--are the chief factors. For that more lasting
success which we call fame other qualities are needed, such qualities as
imagination, fancy, and magic and force in the use of words. Can you
honestly say, O beloved, though tiresome, correspondent, that these
great gifts are yours? Judging from your letter--but Heaven forbid that
I should be unkind! For, need I say I love you with a fellow-feeling? Do
you think that you are the only unappreciated genius on the planet--not
to speak of all the other unappreciated geniuses on all the other
planets? Thank goodness, the postal arrangements with the latter are as
yet defective! Others there are with hearts as warm, minds as profound,
and style at least as attractive, who languish in unmerited
neglect--Miltons inglorious indeed, though far from mute.
Believe me, you are not alone. In fact, there are so many like you that
it would be quite easy for you to find society without worrying me. And,
for all of us, there is the consolation that, though we fail as writers,
we may still succeed as citizens, as husbands and fathers and friends.
As Whitman would say--because you are not Editor of _The Times_, do you
give in that you are less than a man? There are poets that have never
entered into the Bodley Head, and great prose-writers who have never sat
in an editorial chair. Be satisfied with your heavenly crowns, O you
whining unsuccessful, and leave to your inferiors the earthly
five-shilling pieces.