advanced between 1891 and the outbreak of the World War, but even at
this latter date the cost of manufacturing books was less than half of
what it is now. This is the great problem which publishers have to face
today. When the cost of everything doubled after the World War, the
public accepted the necessity of paying twice the price for a theater
ticket as a matter of course; but when the retail price of books was
advanced in proportion to the cost of manufacture, there was a great
outcry among buyers that authors, publishers, and booksellers were
opportunists, demanding an unwarranted profit. As a matter of fact, the
novel which used to sell at $1.35 per copy should now sell at $2.50 if
the increased costs were properly apportioned. The publisher today is
forced to decline many promising first novels because the small margin
of profit demands a comparatively large first edition.
Unless a publisher can sell 5,000 copies as a minimum it is impossible
for him to make any profit upon a novel. Taking this as a basis,
and a novel as containing 320 pages, suppose we see how the $2.00
retail price distributes itself. The cost of manufacture, including
the typesetting, electrotype plates, cover design, jacket, brass
dies, presswork, paper, and binding, amounts to 42 cents per copy (in
England, about 37 cents). The publisher’s cost of running his office,
which he calls “overhead,” is 36 cents per copy. The minimum royalty
received by an author is 10 per cent. of the retail price, which would
give him 20 cents. This makes a total cost of 98 cents a copy, without
advertising. But a book must be advertised.
Every fifty dollars spent in advertising on a five thousand edition
adds a cent to the publisher’s cost. The free copies distributed for
press reviews represent no trifling item. A thousand dollars is not
a large amount to be spent for advertising, and this means 20 cents
a copy on a 5000 edition, making a total cost of $1.18 per copy and
reducing the publisher’s profit to 2 cents, since he sells a two-dollar
book to the retail bookseller for $1.20. The bookseller figures that
his cost of doing business is one-third the amount of his sales, or, on
a two-dollar book, 67 cents. This then shows a net profit to the retail
bookseller of 13 cents, to the publisher of 2 cents, and to the author
of 20 cents a copy.
Beyond this, there is an additional expense to both bookseller and
publisher which the buyer of books is likely to overlook. It is
impossible to know just when the demand for a book will cease, and this
means that the publisher and the bookseller are frequently left with
copies on hand which have to be disposed of at a price below cost. This
is an expense that has to be included in the book business just as much
as in handling fruit, flowers, or other perishable goods.
When a publisher is able to figure on a large demand for the first
edition, he can cut down the cost of manufacture materially; but, on
the other hand, this is at least partially offset by the fact that
authors whose books warrant large first editions demand considerably
more than 10 per cent. royalty, and the advertising item on a big
seller runs into large figures.
* * * * *
I wish I might say that I had seen a dramatic change in the methods
employed in the retail bookstores! There still exists, with a few
notable exceptions, the same lack of realization that familiarity with
the goods one has to sell is as necessary in merchandizing books as
with any other commodity. Salesmen in many otherwise well-organized
retail bookstores are still painfully ignorant of their proper
functions and indifferent to the legitimate requirements of their
prospective customers.
Some years ago, when one of my novels was having its run, I happened
to be in New York at a time when a friend was sailing for Europe. He
had announced his intention of purchasing a copy of my book to read
on the steamer, and I asked him to permit me to send it to him with
the author’s compliments. Lest any reader be astonished to learn that
an author ever buys a copy of his own book, let me record the fact
that except for the twelve which form a part of his contract with
the publisher, he pays cash for every copy he gives away. Mark Twain
dedicated the first edition of _The Jumping Frog_ to “John Smith.”
In the second edition he omitted the dedication, explaining that in
dedicating the volume as he did, he had felt sure that at least all the
John Smiths would buy books. To his consternation he found that they
all expected complimentary copies, and he was hoist by his own petard!
With the idea of carrying out my promise to my friend, I stepped into
one of the largest bookstores in New York, and approached a clerk,
asking him for the book by title. My pride was somewhat hurt to find
that even the name was entirely unfamiliar to him. He ran over various
volumes upon the counter, and then turned to me, saying, “We don’t
carry that book, but we have several others here which I am sure you
would like better.”
“Undoubtedly you have,” I agreed with him; “but that is beside the
point. I am the author of the book I asked for, and I wish to secure a
copy to give to a friend. I am surprised that a store like this does
not carry it.”
Leaning nonchalantly on a large, circular pile of books near him, the
clerk took upon himself the education of the author.
“It would require a store much larger than this to carry every book
that is published, wouldn’t it?” he asked cheerfully. “Of course each
author naturally thinks his book should have the place of honor on the
bookstalls, but we have to be governed by the demand.”
It was humiliating to learn the real reason why this house failed to
carry my book. I had to say something to explain my presumption even in
assuming that I might find it there, so in my confusion I stammered,
“But I understood from the publishers that the book was selling very
well.”
“Oh, yes,” the clerk replied indulgently; “they have to say that to
their authors to keep them satisfied!”
With the matter thus definitely settled, nothing remained but to make
my escape as gracefully as circumstances would permit. As I started to
leave, the clerk resumed his standing position, and my eye happened to
rest on the pile of perhaps two hundred books upon which he had been
half-reclining. The jacket was strikingly familiar. Turning to the
clerk I said severely,
“Would you mind glancing at that pile of books from which you have just
risen?”
“Oh!” he exclaimed, smiling and handing me a copy, “that is the very
book we were looking for, isn’t it?”
It seemed my opportunity to become the educator, and I seized it.
“Young man,” I said, “if you would discontinue the practice of letting
my books support you, and sell a few copies so that they might support
me, it would be a whole lot better for both of us.”
“Ha, ha!” he laughed, graciously pleased with my sally; “that’s a good
line, isn’t it? I really must read your book!”
* * * * *
The old-time publisher is passing, and the author is largely to
blame. I have seen the close association--in many cases the profound
friendship--between author and publisher broken by the commercialism
fostered by some literary agents and completed by competitive bids
made by one publishing house to beguile a popular author away from
another. There was a time when a writer was proud to be classified as
a “Macmillan,” or a “Harper” author. He felt himself a part of the
publisher’s organization, and had no hesitation in taking his literary
problems to the editorial advisor of the house whose imprint appeared
upon the title pages of his volumes. A celebrated Boston authoress
once found herself absolutely at a standstill on a partially completed
novel. She confided her dilemma to her publisher, who immediately sent
one of his editorial staff to the rescue. They spent two weeks working
together over the manuscript, solved the problems, and the novel, when
published, was the most successful of the season.
Several publishers have acknowledged to me that in offering unusually
high royalties to authors they have no expectation of breaking even,
but that to have a popular title upon their list increases the sales
of their entire line. The publisher from whom the popular writer
is filched has usually done his share in helping him attain his
popularity. The royalty he pays is a fair division of the profits. He
cannot, in justice to his other authors, pay him a further premium.
Ethics, perhaps, has no place in business, but the relation between
author and publisher seems to me to be beyond a business covenant. A
publisher may deliberately add an author to his list at a loss in order
to accomplish a specific purpose, but this practice cannot be continued
indefinitely. A far-sighted author will consider the matter seriously
before he becomes an opportunist.
* * * * *
In England this questionable practice has been of much slower growth.
The House of Murray, in London, is one of those still conducted on the
old-time basis. John Murray IV, the present head of the business, has
no interest in any author who comes to him for any reason other than
a desire to have the Murray imprint upon his book. It is more than
a business. The publishing offices at 50_a_, Albemarle Street
adjoin and open out of the Murray home. In the library is still shown
the fireplace where John Murray III burned Byron’s Memoirs, after
purchasing them at an enormous price, because he deemed that their
publication would do injury to the reputation of the writer and of the
House itself.
John Murray II was one of the publishers of Scott’s _Marmion_. In
those days it was customary for publishers to share their contracts.
Constable had purchased from Scott for £1,000 the copyright of
_Marmion_ without having seen a single line, and the _honorarium_
was paid the author before the poem was completed or the manuscript
delivered. Constable, however, promptly disposed of a one-fourth
interest to Mr. Miller of Albemarle Street, and another one fourth to
John Murray, then of Fleet Street.
By 1829 Scott had succeeded in getting into his own hands nearly all
his copyrights, one of the outstanding items being this one-quarter
interest in _Marmion_ held by Mr. Murray. Longmans and Constable
had tried in vain to purchase it. When, however, Scott himself
approached Murray through Lockhart, the following letter from Mr.
Murray was the result:
_So highly do I estimate the honour of being even in so small
a degree the publisher of the author of the poem that no
pecuniary consideration whatever can induce me to part with it.
But there is a consideration of another kind that would make it
painful to me if I were to retain it a moment longer. I mean
the knowledge of its being required by the author, into whose
hands it was spontaneously resigned at the same instant that I
read the request._
There has always been a vast difference in authors in the attitude they
assume toward the transformation of their manuscripts into printed
books. Most of them leave every detail to their publishers, but a few
take a deep and intelligent personal interest. Bernard Shaw is to be
included in the latter group.
A leading Boston publisher once telephoned me that an unknown English
author had submitted a manuscript for publication, but that it was too
socialistic in its nature to be acceptable. Then the publisher added
that the author had asked, in case this house did not care to publish
the volume, that arrangements be made to have the book printed in this
country in order to secure American copyright.
“We don’t care to have anything to do with it,” was the statement; “but
I thought perhaps you might like to manufacture the book.”
“Who is the author?” I inquired.
“It’s a man named Shaw.”
“What is the rest of his name?”
“Wait a minute and I’ll find out.”
Leaving the telephone for a moment, the publisher returned and said,
“His name is G. Bernard Shaw. Did you ever hear of him?”
“Yes,” I replied; “I met him last summer in London through
Cobden-Sanderson, and I should be glad to undertake the manufacture of
the book for Mr. Shaw.”
“All right,” came the answer. “Have your boy call for the manuscript.”
This manuscript was _Man and Superman_.
From that day and for many years, Shaw and I carried on a desultory
correspondence, his letters proving most original and diverting. On
one occasion he took me severely to task for having used two sizes of
type upon a title page. He wrote four pages to prove what poor taste
and workmanship this represented, and then ended the letter with these
words, “But, after all, any other printer would have used sixteen
instead of two, so I bless you for your restraint!”
We had another lengthy discussion on the use of apostrophes in
printing. “I have made no attempt to deal with the apostrophes you
introduce,” he wrote; “but my own usage is carefully considered and
the inconsistencies are only apparent. For instance, _Ive_, _youve_,
_lets_, _thats_, are quite unmistakable, but _Ill_, _hell_, _shell_,
for _I’ll_, _he’ll_, _she’ll_, are impossible without a phonetic
alphabet to distinguish between long and short _e_. In such cases I
retain the apostrophe, in all others I discard it. Now you may ask
me why I discard it. Solely because it spoils the printing. If you
print a Bible you can make a handsome job of it because there are no
apostrophes or inverted commas to break up the letterpress with holes
and dots. Until people are forced to have some consideration for a book
as something to look at as well as something to read, we shall never
get rid of these senseless disfigurements that have destroyed all the
old sense of beauty in printing.”
“Ninety-nine per cent. of the secret of good printing,” Shaw continued,
“is not to have patches of white or trickling rivers of it trailing
down a page, like rain-drops on a window. Horrible! _White_ is the
enemy of the printer. _Black_, rich, fat, even black, without gray
patches, is, or should be, his pride. Leads and quads and displays of
different kinds of type should be reserved for insurance prospectuses
and advertisements of lost dogs....”
His enthusiasm for William Morris’ leaf ornaments is not shared by all
booklovers. Glance at any of the Kelmscott volumes, and you will find
these glorified oak leaves scattered over the type page in absolutely
unrelated fashion,--a greater blemish, to some eyes, than occasional
variation in spacing. Shaw writes:
_If you look at one of the books printed by William Morris,
the greatest printer of the XIX century, and one of the
greatest printers of all the centuries, you will see that he
occasionally puts in a little leaf ornament, or something of
the kind. The idiots in America who tried to imitate Morris,
not understanding this, peppered such things all over their
“art” books, and generally managed to stick in an extra large
quad before each to show how little they understood about the
business. Morris doesn’t do this in his own books. He rewrites
the sentence so as to make it justify, without bringing one gap
underneath another in the line above. But in printing other
people’s books, which he had no right to alter, he sometimes
found it impossible to avoid this. Then, sooner than spoil the
rich, even color of his block of letterpress by a big white
hole, he filled it up with a leaf._
_Do not dismiss this as not being “business.” I assure you, I
have a book which Morris gave me, a single copy, by selling
which I could cover the entire cost of printing my books, and
its value is due_ solely _to its having been manufactured
in the way I advocate; there’s absolutely no other secret
about it; and there is no reason why you should not make
yourself famous through all the ages by turning out editions
of standard works on these lines whilst other printers are
exhausting themselves in dirty felt end papers, sham Kelmscott
capitals, leaf ornaments in quad sauce, and then wondering why
nobody in Europe will pay twopence for them, whilst Kelmscott
books and Doves Press books of Morris’ friends, Emery Walker
and Cobden-Sanderson, fetch fancy prices before the ink is
thoroughly dry.... After this I shall have to get you to print
all my future books, so please have this treatise printed in
letters of gold and preserved for future reference_
III
FRIENDS THROUGH TYPE
In 1903 I again visited Italy to continue my study of the art of
printing in the old monasteries and libraries, sailing on the S. S.
_Canopic_ from Boston to Naples. Among the passengers on board I
met Horace Fletcher, returning to his home in Venice. At that time his
volume _Menticulture_ was having a tremendous run. I had enjoyed
reading the book, and in its author I discovered a unique and charming
personality; in fact, I have never met so perfect an expression of
practical optimism. His humor was infectious, his philosophy appealing,
his quiet persistency irresistible.
To many people the name of Horace Fletcher has become associated with
the Gladstonian doctrine of excessive chewing, but this falls far
short of the whole truth. His scheme was the broadest imaginable, and
thorough mastication was only the hub into which the other spokes of
the wheel of his philosophy of life were to be fitted. The scheme
was nothing less than a cultivation of progressive human efficiency.
Believing that absolute health is the real basis of human happiness
and advancement, and that health depends upon an intelligent treatment
of food in the mouth together with knowledge of how best to furnish the
fuel that is actually required to run the human engine, Horace Fletcher
sought for and found perfect guides among the natural human instincts
and physiologic facilities, and demonstrated that his theories were
facts.
* * * * *
During the years that followed I served as his typographic mentor.
He was eager to try weird and ingenious experiments to bring out the
various points of his theories through unique typographical arrangement
(see _opp. page_). It required all my skill and diplomacy to
convince him that type possessed rigid limitations, and that to
gain his emphasis he must adopt less complicated methods. From this
association we became the closest of friends, and presuming upon this
relation I used to banter him upon being so casual. His copy was never
ready when the compositors needed it; he was always late in returning
his proofs. The manufacture of a Fletcher book was a hectic experience,
yet no one ever seemed to take exceptions. This was characteristic of
the man. He moved and acted upon suddenly formed impulses, never
planning ahead yet always securing exactly what he wanted, and those
inconvenienced the most always seemed to enjoy it.
[Illustration: A Page of Horace Fletcher Manuscript]
“I believe,” he used to say, “in hitching one’s wagon to a star, but I
always keep my bag packed and close at hand ready to change stars at a
moment’s notice. It is only by doing this that you can give things a
chance to happen to you.”
Among the volumes Fletcher had with him on board ship was one he
had purchased in Italy, printed in a type I did not recognize but
which greatly attracted me by its beauty. The book bore the imprint:
_Parma: Co’tipi Bodoniani._ Some weeks later, in a small,
second-hand bookstore in Florence, I happened upon a volume printed in
the same type, which I purchased and took at once to my friend, Doctor
Guido Biagi, at the Laurenziana Library.
“The work of Giambattista Bodoni is not familiar to you?” he inquired
in surprise. “It is he who revived in Italy the glory of the Aldi. He
and Firmin Didot in Paris were the fathers of modern type design at the
beginning of the nineteenth century.”
“Is this type still in use?” I inquired.
“No,” Biagi answered. “When Bodoni died there was no one worthy to
continue its use, so his matrices and punches are kept intact,
exactly as he left them. They are on exhibition in the library at
Parma, just as the old Plantin relics are preserved in the museum at
Antwerp.”
[Illustration: GIAMBATTISTA BODONI, 1740-1813
From Engraving at the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris]
I immediately took steps through our Ambassador at Rome to gain
permission from the Italian Government to recut this face for use in
America. After considerable difficulty and delay this permission was
granted, with a proviso that I should not allow any of the type made
from my proposed matrices to get into the hands of Italian printers,
as this would detract from the prestige of the city of Parma. It was a
condition to which I was quite willing to subscribe! Within a year I
have received a prospectus from a revived Bodoni Press at Montagnola di
Lugano, Switzerland, announcing that the exclusive use of the original
types of Giambattista Bodoni has been given them by the Italian
Government. This would seem to indicate that the early governmental
objections have disappeared.
While searching around to secure the fullest set of patterns, I
stumbled upon the fact that Bodoni and Didot had based their types upon
the same model, and that Didot had made use of his font particularly
in the wonderful editions published in Paris at the very beginning
of the nineteenth century. I then hurried to Paris to see whether
these matrices were in existence. There, after a search through the
foundries, I discovered the original punches, long discarded, in the
foundry of Peignot, to whom I gave an order to cast the different sizes
of type, which I had shipped to America.
This was the first type based on this model ever to come into this
country. The Bodoni face has since been recut by typefounders as well
as for the typesetting machines, and is today one of the most popular
faces in common use. Personally I prefer the Bodoni letter to that of
Didot (see _opp. page_). The Frenchman succumbed to the elegance
of his period, and by lightening the thin lines robbed the design
of the virility that Bodoni retained. I am not in sympathy with the
excessive height of the ascending letters, which frequently extend
beyond the capitals; but when one considers how radical a departure
from precedent this type was, he must admire the skill and courage of
the designers. William Morris cared little for it,--“The sweltering
hideousness of the Bodoni letter,” he exclaimed; “the most illegible
type that was ever cut, with its preposterous thicks and thins”; while
Theodore L. De Vinne, in his _Practice of Typography_, writes:
_The beauty of the Bodoni letters consists in their regularity,
in their clearness, and in their conformity to the taste of the
race, nation, and age in which the work was first written, and
finally in the grace of the characters, independent of time or
place._
When authorities differ to such a wide extent, the student of type
design must draw his own conclusions!
[Illustration: The Bodoni Letter (bottom) compared with the Didot
Letter (top)]
* * * * *
Fletcher’s idea of an appointment was something to be kept if or when
convenient, yet he never seemed to offend any one. He did nothing
he did not wish to do, and his methods of extricating himself from
unwelcome responsibilities always amused rather than annoyed. “If you
don’t want to do a thing very badly,” he confided to me on one such
occasion, “do it very badly.”
[Illustration: HORACE FLETCHER IN 1915]
On board the _Canopic_ Fletcher was surrounded by an admiring
and interested group. General Leonard Wood was on his way to study
colonial government abroad before taking up his first administration
as Governor of the Philippines. On his staff was General Hugh Lennox
Scott, who later succeeded General Wood as Chief of Staff of the United
States Army. The conversations and discussions in the smokeroom each
evening after dinner were illuminating and fascinating. General
Wood had but recently completed his work as Governor of Cuba, and he
talked freely of his experiences there, while General Scott was full
of reminiscences of his extraordinary adventures with the Indians. He
later played an important part in bringing peace to the Philippines.
It was at one of these four-cornered sessions in the smokeroom that we
first learned of Fletcher’s ambition to revolutionize the world in its
methods of eating. That he would actually accomplish this no one of
us believed, but the fact remains. The smokeroom steward was serving
the coffee, inquiring of each one how many lumps of sugar he required.
Fletcher, to our amazement, called for five! It was a grand-stand
play in a way, but he secured his audience as completely as do the
tambourines and the singing of the Salvation Army.