decisive! I don’t doubt but what ye’ll like it.”
To declare, as though by instinct, that that was not the kind of thing
we wanted, was as much a matter of course as it is for a man buying a
horse to say that he does not like the brute’s legs or that he falls
away in his quarters. And Mr. Molloy treated our objection just as does
the horse-dealer those of his customers. He assured us with a
smile,--with a smile behind which we could see the craving eagerness of
his heart,--that his little article was just the thing for us. Our
immediate answer was of course ready. If he would leave the paper with
us, we would look at it and return it if it did not seem to suit us.
There is a half-promise about this reply which too often produces a
false satisfaction in the breast of a beginner. With such a one it is
the second interview which is to be dreaded. But my friend Mr. Molloy
was not new to the work, and was aware that if possible he should make
further use of the occasion which he had earned for himself at so
considerable a cost. “Ye’ll read it;--will ye?” he said.
“Oh, certainly. We’ll read it certainly.”
“And ye’ll use it if ye can?”
“As to that, Mr. Molloy, we can say nothing. We’ve got to look solely to
the interest of the periodical.”
“And, sure, what can ye do better for the periodical than print a paper
like that, which there is not a lady at the West End of the town won’t
be certain to read?”
“At any rate we’ll look at it, Mr. Molloy,” said we, standing up from
our chair.
But still he hesitated in his going,--and did not go. “I’m a married
man, Mr. ----,” he said. We simply bowed our head at the announcement.
“I wish you could see Mrs. Molloy,” he added. We murmured something as
to the pleasure it would give us to make the acquaintance of so
estimable a lady. “There isn’t a betther woman than herself this side of
heaven, though I say it that oughtn’t,” said he. “And we’ve three young
ones.” We knew the argument that was coming;--knew it so well, and yet
were so unable to accept it as any argument! “Sit down one moment, Mr.
----,” he continued, “till I tell you a short story.” We pleaded our
engagements, averring that they were peculiarly heavy at that moment.
“Sure, and we know what that manes,” said Mr. Molloy. “It’s just,--walk
out of this as quick as you came in. It’s that what it manes.” And yet
as he spoke there was a twinkle of humour in his eye that was almost
irresistible; and we ourselves,--we could not forbear to smile. When we
smiled we knew that we were lost. “Come, now, Mr. Editor; when you think
how much it cost me to get the inthroduction, you’ll listen to me for
five minutes any way.”
“We will listen to you,” we said, resuming our chair,--remembering as we
did so the three-and-sixpence, the two cigars, the “to kalon,” the line
from Pope, and the half line from Horace. The man had taken much trouble
with the view of placing himself where he now was. When we had been all
but naked together I had taken him to be the superior of the two, and
what were we that we should refuse him an interview simply because he
had wares to sell which we should only be too willing to buy at his
price if they were fit for our use?
Then he told his tale. As for Paris, Constantinople, and New York, he
frankly admitted that he knew nothing of those capitals. When we
reminded him, with some ill-nature as we thought afterwards, that he had
assumed an intimacy with the current literature of the three cities, he
told us that such remarks were “just the sparkling gims of conversation
in which a man shouldn’t expect to find rale diamonds.” Of “Doblin” he
knew every street, every lane, every newspaper, every editor; but the
poverty, dependence, and general poorness of a provincial press had
crushed him, and he had boldly resolved to try a fight in the
“methropolis of litherature.” He referred us to the managers of the
“Boyne Bouncer,” the “Clontarf Chronicle,” the “Donnybrook Debater,” and
the “Echoes of Erin,” assuring us that we should find him to be as well
esteemed as known in the offices of those widely-circulated
publications. His reading he told us was unbounded, and the pen was as
ready to his hand as is the plough to the hand of the husbandman. Did we
not think it a noble ambition in him thus to throw himself into the
great “areanay,” as he called it, and try his fortune in the
“methropolis of litherature?” He paused for a reply, and we were driven
to acknowledge that whatever might be said of our friend’s prudence, his
courage was undoubted. “I’ve got it here,” said he. “I’ve got it all
here.” And he touched his right breast with the fingers of his left
hand, which still wore the tattered glove.
He had succeeded in moving us. “Mr. Molloy,” we said, “we’ll read your
paper, and we’ll then do the best we can for you. We must tell you
fairly that we hardly like your subject, but if the writing be good you
can try your hand at something else.”
“Sure there’s nothing under the sun I won’t write about at your
bidding.”
“If we can be of service to you, Mr. Molloy, we will.” Then the editor
broke down, and the man spoke to the man. “I need not tell you, Mr.
Molloy, that the heart of one man of letters always warms to another.”
“It was because I knew ye was of that sort that I followed ye in
yonder,” he said, with a tear in his eye.
The butter-boat of benevolence was in our hand, and we proceeded to pour
out its contents freely. It is a vessel which an editor should lock up
carefully; and, should he lose the key, he will not be the worse for the
loss. We need not repeat here all the pretty things that we said to him,
explaining to him from a full heart with how much agony we were often
compelled to resist the entreaties of literary suppliants, declaring to
him how we had longed to publish tons of manuscript,--simply in order
that we might give pleasure to those who brought them to us. We told him
how accessible we were to a woman’s tear, to a man’s struggle, to a
girl’s face, and assured him of the daily wounds which were inflicted on
ourselves by the impossibility of reconciling our duties with our
sympathies. “Bedad, thin,” said Mr. Molloy, grasping our hand, “you’ll
find none of that difficulty wid me. If you’ll sympathise like a man,
I’ll work for you like a horse.” We assured him that we would, really
thinking it probable that he might do some useful work for the magazine;
and then we again stood up waiting for his departure.
“Now I’ll tell ye a plain truth,” said he, “and ye may do just as ye
plaise about it. There isn’t an ounce of tay or a pound of mait along
with Mrs. Molloy this moment; and, what’s more, there isn’t a shilling
between us to buy it. I never begged in my life;--not yet. But if you
can advance me a sovereign on that manuscript it will save me from
taking the coat on my back to a pawnbroker’s shop for whatever it’ll
fetch there.” We paused a moment as we thought of it all, and then we
handed him the coin for which he asked us. If the manuscript should be
worthless the loss would be our own. We would not grudge a slice from
the wholesome home-made loaf after we had used the butter-boat of
benevolence. “It don’t become me,” said Mr. Molloy, “to thank you for
such a thrifle as a loan of twenty shillings; but I’ll never forget the
feeling that has made you listen to me, and that too after I had been
rather down on you at thim baths.” We gave him a kindly nod of the head,
and then he took his departure.
“Ye’ll see me again anyways?” he said, and we promised that we would.
We were anxious enough about the manuscript, but we could not examine it
at that moment. When our office work was done we walked home with the
roll in our pocket, speculating as we went on the probable character of
Mr. Molloy. We still believed in him,--still believed in him in spite of
the manner in which he had descended in his language, and had fallen
into a natural flow of words which alone would not have given much
promise of him as a man of letters. But a human being, in regard to his
power of production, is the reverse of a rope. He is as strong as his
strongest part, and remembering the effect which Molloy’s words had had
upon us at the Turkish bath, we still thought that there must be
something in him. If so, how pleasant would it be to us to place such a
man on his legs,--modestly on his legs, so that he might earn for his
wife and bairns that meat and tea which he had told us that they were
now lacking. An editor is always striving to place some one modestly on
his legs in literature,--on his or her,--striving, and alas! so often
failing. Here had come a man in regard to whom, as I walked home with
his manuscript in my pocket, I did feel rather sanguine.
Of all the rubbish that I ever read in my life, that paper on the
Five-o’clock Tea-table was, I think, the worst. It was not only vulgar,
foolish, unconnected, and meaningless; but it was also ungrammatical and
unintelligible even in regard to the wording of it. The very spelling
was defective. The paper was one with which no editor, sub-editor, or
reader would have found it necessary to go beyond the first ten lines
before he would have known that to print it would have been quite out of
the question. We went through with it because of our interest in the
man; but as it was in the beginning, so it was to the end,--a farrago of
wretched nonsense, so bad that no one, without experience in such
matters, would believe it possible that even the writer should desire
the publication of it! It seemed to us to be impossible that Mr. Molloy
should ever have written a word for those Hibernian periodicals which he
had named to us. He had got our sovereign; and with that, as far as we
were concerned, there must be an end of Mr. Molloy. We doubted even
whether he would come for his own manuscript.
But he came. He came exactly at the hour appointed, and when we looked
at his face we felt convinced that he did not doubt his own success.
There was an air of expectant triumph about him which dismayed us. It
was clear enough that he was confident that he should take away with him
the full price of his article, after deducting the sovereign which he
had borrowed. “You like it thin,” he said, before we had been able to
compose our features to a proper form for the necessary announcement.
“Mr. Molloy,” we said, “it will not do. You must believe us that it will
not do.”
“Not do?”
“No, indeed. We need not explain further;--but,--but,--you had really
better turn your hand to some other occupation.”
“Some other occupa-ation!” he exclaimed, opening wide his eyes, and
holding up both his hands.
“Indeed we think so, Mr. Molloy.”
“And you’ve read it?”
“Every word of it;--on our honour.”
“And you won’t have it?”
“Well;--no, Mr. Molloy, certainly we cannot take it.”
“Ye reject my article on the Five-o’clock Tay-table!” Looking into his
face as he spoke, we could not but be certain that its rejection was to
him as astonishing as would have been its acceptance to the readers of
the magazine. He put his hand up to his head and stood wondering. “I
suppose ye’d better choose your own subject for yourself,” he said, as
though by this great surrender on his own part he was getting rid of all
the difficulty on ours.
“Mr. Molloy,” we began, “we may as well be candid with you----”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said he, “I’ve taken such a liking to you
there’s nothing I won’t do to plaise ye. I’ll just put it in my pocket,
and begin another for ye as soon as the children have had their bit of
dinner.” At last we did succeed, or thought that we succeeded, in making
him understand that we regarded the case as being altogether hopeless,
and were convinced that it was beyond his powers to serve us. “And I’m
to be turned off like that,” he said, bursting into open tears as he
threw himself into a chair and hid his face upon the table. “Ah! wirra,
wirra, what’ll I do at all? Sure, and didn’t I think it was fixed as
firm between us as the Nelson monument? When ye handselled me with the
money, didn’t I think it was as good as done and done?” I begged him not
to regard the money, assuring him that he was welcome to the sovereign.
“There’s my wife’ll be brought to bed any day,” he went on to say, “and
not a ha’porth of anything ready for it! ’Deed, thin, and the world’s
hard. The world’s very hard!” And this was he who had talked to me about
Constantinople and New York at the baths, and had made me believe that
he was a well-informed, well-to-do man of the world!
Even now we did not suspect that he was lying to us. Why he should be
such as he seemed to be was a mystery; but even yet we believed in him
after a fashion. That he was sorely disappointed and broken-hearted
because of his wife, was so evident to us, that we offered him another
sovereign, regarding it as the proper price of that butter-boat of
benevolence which we had permitted ourselves to use. But he repudiated
our offer. “I’ve never begged,” said he, “and, for myself, I’d sooner
starve. And Mary Jane would sooner starve than I should beg. It will be
best for us both to put an end to ourselves and to have done with it.”
This was very melancholy; and as he lay with his head upon the table, we
did not see how we were to induce him to leave us.
“You’d better take the sovereign,--just for the present,” we said.
“Niver!” said he, looking up for a moment, “niver!” And still he
continued to sob. About this period of the interview, which before it
was ended was a very long interview, we ourselves made a suggestion the
imprudence of which we afterwards acknowledged to ourselves. We offered
to go to his lodgings and see his wife and children. Though the man
could not write a good magazine article, yet he might be a very fitting
object for our own personal kindness. And the more we saw of the man,
the more we liked him,--in spite of his incapacity. “The place is so
poor,” he said, objecting to our offer. After what had passed between
us, we felt that that could be no reason against our visit, and we began
for a moment to fear that he was deceiving us. “Not yet,” he cried, “not
quite yet. I will try once again;--once again. You will let me see you
once more?”
“And you will take the other sovereign,” we said,--trying him. He should
have had the other sovereign if he would have taken it; but we confess
that had he done so then we should have regarded him as an impostor. But
he did not take it, and left us in utter ignorance as to his true
character.
After an interval of three days he came again, and there was exactly the
same appearance. He wore the same tattered gloves. He had not pawned his
coat. There was the same hat,--shabby when observed closely, but still
carrying a decent appearance when not minutely examined. In his face
there was no sign of want, and at moments there was a cheeriness about
him which was almost refreshing. “I’ve got a something this time that I
think ye must like,--unless you’re harder to plaise than Rhadhamanthus.”
So saying, he tendered me another roll of paper, which I at once opened,
intending to read the first page of it. The essay was entitled the
“Church of England;--a Question for the People.” It was handed to me as
having been written within the last three days; and, from its bulk,
might have afforded fair work for a fortnight to a writer accustomed to
treat of subjects of such weight. As we had expected, the first page was
unintelligible, absurd, and farcical. We began to be angry with
ourselves for having placed ourselves in such a connection with a man so
utterly unable to do that which he pretended to do. “I think I’ve hit it
off now,” said he, watching our face as we were reading.
The reader need not be troubled with a minute narrative of the
circumstances as they occurred during the remainder of the interview.
What had happened before was repeated very closely. He wondered, he
remonstrated, he complained, and he wept. He talked of his wife and
family, and talked as though up to this last moment he had felt
confident of success. Judging from his face as he entered the room, we
did not doubt but that he had been confident. His subsequent despair was
unbounded, and we then renewed our offer to call on his wife. After some
hesitation he gave us an address in Hoxton, begging us to come after
seven in the evening if it were possible. He again declined the offer of
money, and left us, understanding that we would visit his wife on the
following evening. “You are quite sure about the manuscript?” he said as
he left us. We replied that we were quite sure.
On the following day we dined early at our club and walked in the
evening to the address which Mr. Molloy had given us in Hoxton. It was a
fine evening in August, and our walk made us very warm. The street named
was a decent little street, decent as far as cleanliness and newness
could make it; but there was a melancholy sameness about it, and an
apparent absence of object, which would have been very depressing to our
own spirits. It led nowhither, and had been erected solely with the view
of accommodating decent people with small incomes. We at once priced the
houses in our mind at ten and sixpence a week, and believed them to be
inhabited by pianoforte-tuners, coach-builders, firemen, and
public-office messengers. There was no squalor about the place, but it
was melancholy, light-coloured and depressive. We made our way to No.
14, and finding the door open entered the passage. “Come in,” cried the
voice of our friend; and in the little front parlour we found him seated
with a child on each knee, while a winning little girl of about twelve
was sitting in a corner of the room, mending her stockings. The room
itself and the appearance of all around us were the very opposite of
what we had expected. Everything no doubt was plain,--was, in a certain
sense, poor; but nothing was poverty-stricken. The children were
decently clothed and apparently were well fed. Mr. Molloy himself, when
he saw me, had that twinkle of humour in his eye which I had before
observed, and seemed to be afflicted at the moment with none of that
extreme agony which he had exhibited more than once in our presence.
“Please, Sir, mother aint in from the hospital,--not yet,” said the
little girl, rising up from her chair; but it’s past seven and she won’t
be long. “This announcement created some surprise. We had indeed heard
that of Mrs. Molloy which might make it very expedient that she should
seek the accommodation of an hospital, but we could not understand that
in such circumstances she should be able to come home regularly at
seven o’clock in the evening. Then there was a twinkle in our friend
Molloy’s eye which almost made us think for the moment that we had been
made the subject of some, hitherto unintelligible, hoax. And yet there
had been the man at the baths in Jermyn Street, and the two manuscripts
had been in our hands, and the man had wept as no man weeps for a joke.
“You would come, you know,” said Mr. Molloy, who had now put down the
two bairns and had risen from his seat to greet us.
“We are glad to see you so comfortable,” we replied.
“Father is quite comfortable, Sir,” said the little girl. We looked into
Mr. Molloy’s face and saw nothing but the twinkle in the eye. We had
certainly been “done” by the most elaborate hoax that had ever been
perpetrated. We did not regret the sovereign so much as those
outpourings from the butter-boat of benevolence of which we felt that we
had been cheated. “Here’s mother,” said the girl running to the door.
Mr. Molloy stood grinning in the middle of the room with the youngest
child again in his arms. He did not seem to be in the least ashamed of
what he had done, and even at that moment conveyed to us more of liking
for his affection for the little boy than of anger for the abominable
prank that he had played us.
That he had lied throughout was evident as soon as we saw Mrs. Molloy.
Whatever ailment might have made it necessary that she should visit the
hospital, it was not one which could interfere at all with her power of
going and returning. She was a strong hearty-looking woman of about
forty, with that mixture in her face of practical kindness with severity
in details which we often see in strong-minded women who are forced to
take upon themselves the management and government of those around them.
She courtesied, and took off her bonnet and shawl, and put a bottle into
a cupboard, as she addressed us. “Mick said as you was coming, Sir, and
I’m sure we is glad to see you;--only sorry for the trouble, Sir.”
We were so completely in the dark that we hardly knew how to be civil to
her,--hardly knew whether we ought to be civil to her or not. “We don’t
quite understand why we’ve been brought here,” we said, endeavouring to
maintain, at any rate a tone of good-humour. He was still embracing the
little boy, but there had now come a gleam of fun across his whole
countenance, and he seemed to be almost shaking his sides with laughter.
“Your husband represented himself as being in distress,” we said
gravely. We were restrained by a certain delicacy from informing the
woman of the kind of distress to which Mr. Molloy had especially
alluded,--most falsely.
“Lord love you, Sir,” said the woman, “just step in here.” Then she led
us into a little back room in which there was a bedstead, and an old
writing-desk or escritoire, covered with papers. Her story was soon
told. Her husband was a madman.
“Mad!” we said, preparing for escape from what might be to us most
serious peril.
“He wouldn’t hurt a mouse,” said Mrs. Molloy. “As for the children, he’s
that good to them, there aint a young woman in all London that’d be
better at handling ’em.” Then we heard her story, in which it appeared
to us that downright affection for the man was the predominant
characteristic. She herself was, as she told us, head day nurse at Saint
Patrick’s Hospital, going there every morning at eight, and remaining
till six or seven. For these services she received thirty shillings a
week and her board, and she spoke of herself and her husband as being
altogether removed from pecuniary distress. Indeed, while the money part
of the question was being discussed, she opened a little drawer in the
desk and handed us back our sovereign, almost without an observation.
Molloy himself had “come of decent people.” On this point she insisted
very often, and gave us to understand that he was at this moment in
receipt of a pension of a hundred a year from his family. He had been
well educated, she said, having been at Trinity College, Dublin, till he
had been forced to leave his university for some slight, but repeated
irregularity. Early in life he had proclaimed his passion for the press,
and when he and she were married absolutely was earning a living in
Dublin by some use of the scissors and paste-pot. The whole tenor of his
career I could not learn, though Mrs. Molloy would have told us
everything had time allowed. Even during the years of his sanity in
Dublin he had only been half-sane, treating all the world around him
with the effusions of his terribly fertile pen. “He’ll write all night
if I’ll let him have a candle,” said Mrs. Molloy. We asked her why she
did let him have a candle, and made some enquiry as to the family
expenditure in paper. The paper, she said, was given to him from the
office of a newspaper which she would not name, and which Molloy visited
regularly every day. “There aint a man in all London works harder,” said
Mrs. Molloy. “He is mad. I don’t say nothing against it. But there is
some of it so beautiful, I wonder they don’t print it.” This was the
only word she spoke with which we could not agree. “Ah, Sir,” said she;
“you haven’t seen his poetry!” We were obliged to tell her that seeing
poetry was the bane of our existence.
There was an easy absence of sham about this woman, and an acceptance of
life as it had come to her, which delighted us. She complained of
nothing, and was only anxious to explain the little eccentricities of
her husband. When we alluded to some of his marvellously untrue
assertions, she stopped us at once. “He do lie,” she said. “Certainly he
do. How he makes them all out is wonderful. But he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
It was evident to us that she not only loved her husband, but admired
him. She showed us heaps of manuscript with which the old drawers were
crammed; and yet that paper on the Church of England had been new work,
done expressly for us.
When the story had been told we went back to him, and he received us
with a smile. “Good-bye, Molloy,” we said. “Good-bye to you, Sir,” he
replied, shaking hands with us. We looked at him closely, and could
hardly believe that it was the man who had sat by us at the Turkish
bath.
He never troubled us again or came to our office, but we have often
called on him, and have found that others of our class do the same. We
have even helped to supply him with the paper which he continues to
use,--we presume for the benefit of other editors.
[Illustration]
JOSEPHINE DE MONTMORENCI.
[Illustration]
JOSEPHINE DE MONTMORENCI.
The little story which we are about to relate refers to circumstances
which occurred some years ago, and we desire therefore, that all readers
may avoid the fault of connecting the personages of the tale,--either
the editor who suffered so much, and who behaved, we think, so well, or
the ladies with whom he was concerned,--with any editor or with any
ladies known to such readers either personally or by name. For though
the story as told is a true story, we who tell it have used such craft
in the telling, that we defy the most astute to fix the time or to
recognise the characters. It will be sufficient if the curious will
accept it as a fact that at some date since magazines became common in
the land, a certain editor, sitting in his office, came upon the
perusal of the following letter, addressed to him by name:--
“19, King-Charles Street,
“1st May, 18--.
“DEAR SIR,
“I think that literature needs no introduction, and, judging of you
by the character which you have made for yourself in its paths, I
do not doubt but you will feel as I do. I shall therefore write to
you without reserve. I am a lady not possessing that modesty which
should make me hold a low opinion of my own talents, and equally
free from that feeling of self-belittlement which induces so many
to speak humbly while they think proudly of their own acquirements.
Though I am still young, I have written much for the press, and I
believe I may boast that I have sometimes done so successfully.
Hitherto I have kept back my name, but I hope soon to be allowed to
see it on the title-page of a book which shall not shame me.
“My object in troubling you is to announce the fact, agreeable
enough to myself, that I have just completed a novel in three
volumes, and to suggest to you that it should make its first
appearance to the world in the pages of the magazine under your
control. I will frankly tell you that I am not myself fond of this
mode of publication; but Messrs. X., Y., Z., of Paternoster Row,
with whom you are doubtless acquainted, have assured me that such
will be the better course. In these matters one is still terribly
subject to the tyranny of the publishers, who surely of all
cormorants are the most greedy, and of all tyrants are the most
arrogant. Though I have never seen you, I know you too well to
suspect for a moment that my words will ever be repeated to my
respectable friends in the Row.
“Shall I wait upon you with my MS.,--or will you call for it? Or
perhaps it may be better that I should send it to you. Young ladies
should not run about,--even after editors; and it might be so
probable that I should not find you at home. Messrs. X., Y., and Z.
have read the MS.,--or more probably the young man whom they keep
for the purpose has done so,--and the nod of approval has been
vouchsafed. Perhaps this may suffice; but if a second examination
be needful, the work is at your service.
“Yours faithfully, and in hopes of friendly relations,
“JOSEPHINE DE MONTMORENCI.
“I am English, though my unfortunate name will sound French in your
ears.”
For facility in the telling of our story we will call this especial
editor Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown’s first feeling on reading the letter was
decidedly averse to the writer. But such is always the feeling of
editors to would-be contributors, though contributions are the very food
on which an editor must live. But Mr. Brown was an unmarried man, who
loved the rustle of feminine apparel, who delighted in the brightness of
a woman’s eye when it would be bright for him, and was not indifferent
to the touch of a woman’s hand. As editors go, or went then, he knew his
business, and was not wont to deluge his pages with weak feminine ware
in return for smiles and flattering speeches,--as editors have done
before now; but still he liked an adventure, and was perhaps afflicted
by some slight flaw of judgment, in consequence of which the words of
pretty women found with him something of preponderating favour. Who is
there that will think evil of him because it was so?
He read the letter a second time, and did not send that curt,
heart-rending answer which is so common to editors,--“The editor’s
compliments and thanks, but his stock of novels is at present so great
that he cannot hope to find room for the work which has been so kindly
suggested.”
Of King-Charles Street, Brown could not remember that he had ever heard,
and he looked it out at once in the Directory. There was a King-Charles
Street in Camden Town, at No. 19 of which street it was stated that a
Mr. Puffle resided. But this told him nothing. Josephine de Montmorenci
might reside with Mrs. Puffle in Camden Town, and yet write a good
novel,--or be a very pretty girl. And there was a something in the tone
of the letter which made him think that the writer was no ordinary
person. She wrote with confidence. She asked no favour. And then she
declared that Messrs. X., Y., Z., with whom Mr. Brown was intimate, had
read and approved her novel. Before he answered the note he would call
in the Row and ask a question or two.
He did call, and saw Mr. Z. Mr. Z. remembered well that the MS. had been
in their house. He rather thought that X., who was out of town, had seen
Miss Montmorenci,--perhaps on more than one occasion. The novel had been
read, and,--well, Mr. Z. would not quite say approved; but it had been
thought that there was a good deal in it. “I think I remember X. telling
me that she was an uncommon pretty young woman,” said Z.,--“and there is
some mystery about her. I didn’t see her myself, but I am sure there was
a mystery.” Mr. Brown made up his mind that he would, at any rate, see
the MS.
He felt disposed to go at once to Camden Town, but still had fears that
in doing so he might seem to make himself too common. There are so many
things of which an editor is required to think! It is almost essential
that they who are ambitious of serving under him should believe that he
is enveloped in MSS. from morning to night,--that he cannot call an hour
his own,--that he is always bringing out that periodical of his in a
frenzy of mental exertion,--that he is to be approached only with
difficulty,--and that a call from him is a visit from a god. Mr. Brown
was a Jupiter, willing enough on occasions to go a little out of his way
after some literary Leda, or even on behalf of a Danae desirous of a
price for her compositions;--but he was obliged to acknowledge to
himself that the occasion had not as yet arisen. So he wrote to the
young lady as follows:--
“Office of the Olympus Magazine,
“4th May, 18--.
“The Editor presents his compliments to Miss de Montmorenci, and
will be very happy to see her MS. Perhaps she will send it to the
above address. The Editor has seen Mr. Z., of Paternoster Row, who
speaks highly of the work. A novel, however, may be very clever and
yet hardly suit a magazine. Should it be accepted by the ‘Olympus,’
some time must elapse before it appears. The Editor would be very
happy to see Miss de Montmorenci if it would suit her to call any
Friday between the hours of two and three.”
When the note was written Mr. Brown felt that it was cold;--but then it
behoves an editor to be cold. A gushing editor would ruin any
publication within six months. Young women are very nice; pretty young
women are especially nice; and of all pretty young women, clever young
women who write novels are perhaps as nice as any;--but to an editor
they are dangerous. Mr. Brown was at this time about forty, and had had
his experiences. The letter was cold, but he was afraid to make it
warmer. It was sent;--and when he received the following answer, it may
fairly be said that his editorial hair stood on end:
“DEAR MR. BROWN,
“I hate you and your compliments. That sort of communication means
nothing, and I won’t send you my MS. unless you are more in
earnest about it. I know the way in which rolls of paper are shoved
into pigeon-holes and left there till they are musty, while the
writers’ hearts are being broken. My heart may be broken some day,
but not in that way.
“I won’t come to you between two and three on Friday. It sounds a
great deal too like a doctor’s appointment, and I don’t think much
of you if you are only at your work one hour in the week. Indeed, I
won’t go to you at all. If an interview is necessary you can come
here. But I don’t know that it will be necessary.
“Old X. is a fool and knows nothing about it. My own approval is to
me very much more than his. I don’t suppose he’d know the inside of
a book if he saw it. I have given the very best that is in me to my
work, and I know that it is good. Even should you say that it is
not I shall not believe you. But I don’t think you will say so,
because I believe you to be in truth a clever fellow in spite of
your ‘compliments’ and your ‘two and three o’clock on a Friday.’
“If you want to see my MS., say so with some earnestness, and it
shall be conveyed to you. And please to say how much I shall be
paid for it, for I am as poor as Job. And name a date. I won’t be
put off with your ‘some time must elapse.’ It shall see the light,
or, at least, a part of it, within six months. That is my
intention. And don’t talk nonsense to me about clever novels not
suiting magazines,--unless you mean that as an excuse for
publishing so many stupid ones as you do.
“You will see that I am frank; but I really do mean what I say. I
want it to come out in the ‘Olympus;’ and if we can I shall be so
happy to come to terms with you.
“Yours as I find you,
“JOSEPHINE DE MONTMORENCI.”
“Thursday--King-Charles Street.”
This was an epistle to startle an editor as coming from a young lady;
but yet there was something in it that seemed to imply strength. Before
answering it Mr. Brown did a thing which he must be presumed to have
done as man and not as editor. He walked off to King-Charles Street in
Camden Town, and looked at the house. It was a nice little street, very
quiet, quite genteel, completely made up with what we vaguely call
gentlemen’s houses, with two windows to each drawing-room, and with a
balcony to some of them, the prettiest balcony in the street belonging
to No. 19, near the park, and equally removed from poverty and
splendour. Brown walked down the street, on the opposite side, towards
the park, and looked up at the house. He intended to walk at once
homewards, across the park, to his own little home in St. John’s Wood
Road; but when he had passed half a street away from the Puffle
residence, he turned to have another look, and retraced his steps. As he
passed the door it was opened, and there appeared upon the steps,--one
of the prettiest little women he had ever seen in his life. She was
dressed for walking, with that jaunty, broad, open bonnet which women
then wore, and seemed, as some women do seem, to be an amalgam of
softness, prettiness, archness, fun, and tenderness,--and she carried a
tiny blue parasol. She was fair, gray-eyed, dimpled, all alive, and
dressed so nicely and yet simply, that Mr. Brown was carried away for
the moment by a feeling that he would like to publish her novel, let it
be what it might. And he heard her speak. “Charles,” she said, “you
sha’n’t smoke.” Our editor could, of course, only pass on, and had not
an opportunity of even seeing Charles. At the corner of the street he
turned round and saw them walking the other way. Josephine was leaning
on Charles’s arm. She had, however, distinctly avowed herself to be a
young lady,--in other words, an unmarried woman. There was, no doubt, a
mystery, and Mr. Brown felt it to be incumbent on him to fathom it. His
next letter was as follows:--
“MY DEAR MISS DE MONTMORENCI,
“I am sorry that you should hate me and my compliments. I had
intended to be as civil and as nice as possible. I am quite in
earnest, and you had better send the MS. As to all the questions
you ask, I cannot answer them to any purpose till I have read the
story,--which I will promise to do without subjecting it to the
pigeon-holes. If you do not like Friday, you shall come on Monday,
or Tuesday, or Wednesday, or Thursday, or Saturday, or even on
Sunday, if you wish it;--and at any hour, only let it be fixed.
“Yours faithfully,
“JONATHAN BROWN.”
“Friday.”
In the course of the next week the novel came, with another short note,
to which was attached no ordinary beginning or ending. “I send my
treasure, and, remember, I will have it back in a week if you do not
intend to keep it. I have not £5 left in the world, and I owe my
milliner ever so much, and money at the stables where I get a horse. And
I am determined to go to Dieppe in July. All must come out of my novel.
So do be a good man. If you are I will see you.” Herein she declared
plainly her own conviction that she had so far moved the editor by her
correspondence,--for she knew nothing, of course, of that ramble of his
through King-Charles Street,--as to have raised in his bosom a desire to
see her. Indeed, she made no secret of such conviction. “Do as I wish,”
she said plainly, “and I will gratify you by a personal interview.” But
the interview was not to be granted till the novel had been accepted and
the terms fixed,--such terms, too, as it would be very improbable that
any editor could accord.
“Not so Black as he’s Painted;”--that was the name of the novel which it
now became the duty of Mr. Brown to read. When he got it home, he found
that the writing was much worse than that of the letters. It was small,
and crowded, and carried through without those technical demarcations
which are so comfortable to printers, and so essential to readers. The
erasures were numerous, and bits of the story were written, as it were,
here and there. It was a manuscript to which Mr. Brown would not have
given a second glance, had there not been an adventure behind it. The
very sending of such a manuscript to any editor would have been an
impertinence, if it were sent by any but a pretty woman. Mr. Brown,
however, toiled over it, and did read it,--read it, or at least enough
of it to make him know what it was. The verdict which Mr. Z. had given
was quite true. No one could have called the story stupid. No mentor
experienced in such matters would have ventured on such evidence to tell
the aspirant that she had mistaken her walk in life, and had better sit
at home and darn her stockings. Out of those heaps of ambitious
manuscripts which are daily subjected to professional readers such
verdicts may safely be given in regard to four-fifths,--either that the
aspirant should darn her stockings, or that he should prune his fruit
trees. It is equally so with the works of one sex as with those of the
other. The necessity of saying so is very painful, and the actual
stocking, or the fruit tree itself, is not often named. The cowardly
professional reader indeed, unable to endure those thorns in the flesh
of which poor Thackeray spoke so feelingly, when hard-pressed for
definite answers, generally lies. He has been asked to be candid, but he
cannot bring himself to undertake a duty so onerous, so odious, and one
as to which he sees so little reason that he personally should perform
it. But in regard to these aspirations,--to which have been given so
much labour, which have produced so many hopes, offsprings which are so
dear to the poor parents,--the decision at least is easy. And there are
others in regard to which a hopeful reader finds no difficulty,--as to
which he feels assured that he is about to produce to the world the
fruit of some new-found genius. But there are doubtful cases which worry
the poor judge till he knows not how to trust his own judgment. At this
page he says, “Yes, certainly;” at the next he shakes his head as he
sits alone amidst his papers. Then he is dead against the aspirant.
Again there is improvement, and he asks himself,--where is he to find
anything that is better? As our editor read Josephine’s novel,--he had
learned to call her Josephine in that silent speech in which most of us
indulge, and which is so necessary to an editor,--he was divided between
Yes and No throughout the whole story. Once or twice he found himself
wiping his eyes, and then it was all “yes” with him. Then he found the
pages ran with a cruel heaviness, which seemed to demand decisive
editorial severity. A whole novel, too, is so great a piece of business!
There would be such difficulty were he to accept it! How much must he
cut out! How many of his own hours must he devote to the repairing of
mutilated sentences, and the remodelling of indistinct scenes! In regard
to a small piece an editor, when moved that way, can afford to be
good-natured. He can give to it the hour or so of his own work which it
may require. And if after all it be nothing--or, as will happen
sometimes, much worse than nothing,--the evil is of short duration. In
admitting such a thing he has done an injury,--but the injury is small.
It passes in the crowd, and is forgotten. The best Homer that ever
edited must sometimes nod. But a whole novel! A piece of work that would
last him perhaps for twelve months! No editor can afford to nod for so
long a period.
But then this tale, this novel of “Not so Black as he’s Painted,” this
story of a human devil, for whose crimes no doubt some Byronic apology
was made with great elaboration by the sensational Josephine, was not
exactly bad. Our editor had wept over it. Some tender-hearted Medora,
who on behalf of her hyena-in-love had gone through miseries enough to
kill half a regiment of heroines, had dimmed the judge’s eyes with
tears. What stronger proof of excellence can an editor have? But then
there were those long pages of metaphysical twaddle, sure to elicit
scorn and neglect from old and young. They, at any rate, must be cut
out. But in the cutting of them out a very mincemeat would be made of
the story. And yet Josephine de Montmorenci, with her impudent little
letters, had already made herself so attractive! What was our editor to
do?
He knew well the difficulty that would be before him should he once dare
to accept, and then undertake to alter. She would be as a tigress to
him,--as a tigress fighting for her young. That work of altering is so
ungracious, so precarious, so incapable of success in its performance!
The long-winded, far-fetched, high-stilted, unintelligible sentence
which you elide with so much confidence in your judgment, has been the
very apple of your author’s eye. In it she has intended to convey to the
world the fruits of her best meditation for the last twelve months.
Thinking much over many things in her solitude, she has at last invented
a truth, and there it lies. That wise men may adopt it, and candid women
admire it, is the hope, the solace, and at last almost the certainty of
her existence. She repeats the words to herself, and finds that they
will form a choice quotation to be used in coming books. It is for the
sake of that one newly-invented truth,--so she tells herself, though not
quite truly,--that she desires publication. You come,--and with a dash
of your pen you annihilate the precious gem! Is it in human nature that
you should be forgiven? Mr. Brown had had his experiences, and
understood all this well. Nevertheless he loved dearly to please a
pretty woman.
And it must be acknowledged that the letters of Josephine were such as
to make him sure that there might be an adventure if he chose to risk
the pages of his magazine. The novel had taken him four long evenings to
read, and at the end of the fourth he sat thinking of it for an hour.
Fortune either favoured him or the reverse,--as the reader may choose to
regard the question,--in this, that there was room for the story in his
periodical if he chose to take it. He wanted a novel,--but then he did
not want feminine metaphysics. He sat thinking of it, wondering in his
mind how that little smiling, soft creature with the gray eyes, and the
dimples, and the pretty walking-dress, could have written those
interminable pages as to the questionable criminality of crime; whether
a card-sharper might not be a hero; whether a murderer might not
sacrifice his all, even the secret of his murder, for the woman he
loved; whether devil might not be saint, and saint devil. At the end of
the hour he got up from his chair, stretched himself, with his hands in
his trousers-pockets, and said aloud, though alone, that he’d be d----
if he would. It was an act of great self-denial, a triumph of principle
over passion.
But though he had thus decided, he was not minded to throw over
altogether either Josephine or her novel. He might still, perhaps, do
something for her if he could find her amenable to reason. Thinking
kindly of her, very anxious to know her personally, and still desirous
of seeing the adventure to the end, he wrote the following note to her
that evening:--
‘Cross Bank, St. John’s Wood,
“Saturday Night.
“MY DEAR MISS DE MONTMORENCI,
“I knew how it would be. I cannot give you an answer about your
novel without seeing you. It so often happens that the answer can’t
be Yes or No. You said something very cruel about dear old X., but
after all he was quite right in his verdict about the book. There
is a great deal in it; but it evidently was not written to suit
the pages of a magazine. Will you come to me, or shall I come to
you;--or shall I send the MS. back, and so let there be an end of
it? You must decide. If you direct that the latter course be taken,
I will obey; but I shall do so with most sincere regret, both on
account of your undoubted aptitude for literary work, and because I
am very anxious to become acquainted with my fair correspondent.
You see I can be as frank as you are yourself.
“Yours most faithfully,
“JONATHAN BROWN.
“My advice to you would be to give up the idea of publishing this tale
in parts, and to make terms with X., Y., and Z.,--in endeavouring to do
which I shall be most happy to be of service to you.’
* * * * *
This note he posted on the following day, and when he returned home on
the next night from his club, he found three replies from the divine,
but irritable and energetic, Josephine. We will give them according to
their chronology.
No. 1. “Monday Morning.--Let me have my MS. back,--and pray, without any
delay.--J. DE M.”
* * * * *
No. 2. “Monday, 2 o’clock.--How can you have been so ill-natured,--and
after keeping it twelve days?” His answer had been written within a week
of the receipt of the parcel at his office, and he had acted with a
rapidity which nothing but some tender passion would have
instigated.--“What you say about being clever, and yet not fit for a
magazine, is rubbish. I know it is rubbish. I do not wish to see you.
Why should I see a man who will do nothing to oblige me? If X., Y., Z.
choose to buy it, at once, they shall have it. But I mean to be paid for
it, and I think you have behaved very ill to me.--JOSEPHINE.”
No. 3. “Monday Evening.--My dear Mr. Brown,--Can you wonder that I
should have lost my temper and almost my head? I have written twice
before to-day, and hardly know what I said. I cannot understand you
editing people. You are just like women;--you will and you won’t. I am
so unhappy. I had allowed myself to feel almost certain that you would
take it, and have told that cross man at the stables he should have his
money. Of course I can’t make you publish it;--but how you can put in
such yards of stupid stuff, all about nothing on earth, and then send
back a novel which you say yourself is very clever, is what I can’t
understand. I suppose it all goes by favour, and the people who write
are your uncles, and aunts, and grandmothers, and lady-loves. I can’t
make you do it, and therefore I suppose I must take your advice about
those old hugger-muggers in Paternoster Row. But there are ever so many
things you must arrange. I must have the money at once. And I won’t put
up with just a few pounds. I have been at work upon that novel for more
than two years, and I know that it is good. I hate to be grumbled at,
and complained of, and spoken to as if a publisher were doing me the
greatest favour in the world when he is just going to pick my brains to
make money of them. I did see old X., or old Z., or old Y., and the
snuffy old fellow told me that if I worked hard I might do something
some day. I have worked harder than ever he did,--sitting there and
squeezing brains, and sucking the juice out of them like an old ghoul. I
suppose I had better see you, because of money and all that. I’ll come,
or else send some one, at about two on Wednesday. I can’t put it off
till Friday, and I must be home by three. You might as well go to X.,
Y., Z., in the meantime, and let me know what they say.--J. DE M.”
There was an unparalleled impudence in all this which affronted,
amazed, and yet in part delighted our editor. Josephine evidently
regarded him as her humble slave, who had already received such favours
as entitled her to demand from him any service which she might require
of him. “You might as well go to X., Y., Z., and let me know what they
say!” And then that direct accusation against him,--that all went by
favour with him! “I think you have behaved very ill to me!” Why,--had he
not gone out of his way, very much out of his way indeed, to do her a
service? Was he not taking on her behalf an immense trouble for which he
looked for no remuneration,--unless remuneration should come in that
adventure of which she had but a dim foreboding? All this was
unparalleled impudence. But then impudence from pretty women is only
sauciness; and such sauciness is attractive. None but a very pretty
woman who openly trusted in her prettiness would dare to write such
letters, and the girl whom he had seen on the door-step was very pretty.
As to his going to X., Y., Z., before he had seen her, that was out of
the question. That very respectable firm in the Row would certainly not
give money for a novel without considerable caution, without much
talking, and a regular understanding and bargain. As a matter of course,
they would take time to consider. X., Y., and Z. were not in a hurry to
make money to pay a milliner or to satisfy a stable-keeper, and would
have but little sympathy for such troubles;--all which it would be Mr.
Brown’s unpleasant duty to explain to Josephine de Montmorenci.
But though this would be unpleasant, still there might be pleasure. He
could foresee that there would be a storm, with much pouting, some
violent complaint, and perhaps a deluge of tears. But it would be for
him to dry the tears and allay the storm. The young lady could do him no
harm, and must at last be driven to admit that his kindness was
disinterested. He waited, therefore, for the Wednesday, and was careful
to be at the office of his magazine at two o’clock. In the ordinary way
of his business the office would not have seen him on that day, but the
matter had now been present in his mind so long, and had been so much
considered, had assumed so large a proportion in his thoughts,--that he
regarded not at all this extra trouble. With an air of indifference he
told the lad who waited upon him as half clerk and half errand-boy, that
he expected a lady; and then he sat down, as though to compose himself
to his work. But no work was done. Letters were not even opened. His
mind was full of Josephine de Montmorenci. If all the truth is to be
told, it must be acknowledged that he did not even wear the clothes that
were common to him when he sat in his editorial chair. He had prepared
himself somewhat, and a new pair of gloves was in his hat. It might be
that circumstances would require him to accompany Josephine at least a
part of the way back to Camden Town.
At half-past two the lady was announced,--Miss de Montmorenci; and our
editor, with palpitating heart, rose to welcome the very figure, the
very same pretty walking-dress, the same little blue parasol, which he
had seen upon the steps of the house in King-Charles Street. He could
swear to the figure, and to the very step, although he could not as yet
see the veiled face. And this was a joy to him; for, though he had not
allowed himself to doubt much, he had doubted a little whether that
graceful houri might or might not be his Josephine. Now she was there,
present to him in his own castle, at his mercy as it were, so that he
might dry her tears and bid her hope, or tell her that there was no hope
so that she might still weep on, just as he pleased. It was not one of
those cases in which want of bread and utter poverty are to be
discussed. A horsekeeper’s bill and a visit to Dieppe were the
melodramatic incidents of the tragedy, if tragedy it must be. Mr. Brown
had in his time dealt with cases in which a starving mother or a dying
father was the motive to which appeal was made. At worst there could be
no more than a rose-water catastrophe; and it might be that triumph, and
gratitude, and smiles would come. He rose from his chair, and, giving
his hand gracefully to his visitor, led her to a seat.
“I am very glad to see you here, Miss de Montmorenci,” he said. Then the
veil was raised, and there was the pretty face half blushing half
smiling, wearing over all a mingled look of fun and fear.
“We are so much obliged to you, Mr. Brown, for all the trouble you have
taken,” she said.
“Don’t mention it. It comes in the way of my business to take such
trouble. The annoyance is in this, that I can so seldom do what is
wanted.”
“It is so good of you to do anything!”
“An editor is, of course, bound to think first of the periodical which
he produces.” This announcement Mr. Brown made, no doubt, with some
little air of assumed personal dignity. The fact was one which no
heaven-born editor ever forgets.
“Of course, Sir. And no doubt there are hundreds who want to get their
things taken.”
“A good many there are, certainly.”
“And everything can’t be published,” said the sagacious beauty.
“No, indeed; very much comes into our hands which cannot be published,”
replied the experienced editor. “But this novel of yours, perhaps, may
be published.”
“You think so?”
“Indeed I do. I cannot say what X., Y., and Z. may say to it. I’m afraid
they will not do more than offer half profits.”
“And that doesn’t mean any money paid at once?” asked the lady
plaintively.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Ah! if that could be managed!”
“I haven’t seen the publishers, and of course I can say nothing myself.
You see I’m so busy myself with my uncles, and aunts, and grandmothers,
and lady-loves----”
“Ah,--that was very naughty, Mr. Brown.”
“And then, you know, I have so many yards of stupid stuff to arrange.”
“Oh, Mr. Brown, you should forget all that!”
“So I will. I could not resist the temptation of telling you of it
again, because you are so much mistaken in your accusation. And now
about your novel.”
“It isn’t mine, you know.”
“Not yours?”
“Not my own, Mr. Brown.”
“Then whose is it?”
Mr. Brown, as he asked this question, felt that he had a right to be
offended. “Are you not Josephine de Montmorenci?”
“Me an author! Oh no, Mr. Brown,” said the pretty little woman. And our
editor almost thought that he could see a smile on her lips as she
spoke.
“Then who are you?” asked Mr. Brown.
“I am her sister;--or rather her sister-in-law. My name is Mrs. Puffle.”
How could Mrs. Puffle be the sister-in-law of Miss de Montmorenci? Some
such thought as this passed through the editor’s mind, but it was not
followed out to any conclusion. Relationships are complex things, and,
as we all know, give rise to most intricate questions. In the
half-moment that was allowed to him Mr. Brown reflected that Mrs. Puffle
might be the sister-in-law of a Miss de Montmorenci; or, at least, half
sister-in-law. It was even possible that Mrs. Puffle, young as she
looked, might have been previously married to a de Montmorenci. Of all
that, however, he would not now stop to unravel the details, but
endeavoured as he went on to take some comfort from the fact that
Puffle was no doubt Charles. Josephine might perhaps have no Charles.
And then it became evident to him that the little fair, smiling, dimpled
thing before him could hardly have written “Not so Black as he’s
Painted,” with all its metaphysics. Josephine must be made of sterner
stuff. And, after all, for an adventure, little dimples and a blue
parasol are hardly appropriate. There should be more of stature than
Mrs. Puffle possessed, with dark hair, and piercing eyes. The colour of
the dress should be black, with perhaps yellow trimmings; and the hand
should not be of pearly whiteness,--as Mrs. Puffle’s no doubt was,
though the well-fitting little glove gave no absolute information on
this subject. For such an adventure the appropriate colour of the skin
would be,--we will not say sallow exactly,--but running a little that
way. The beauty should be just toned by sadness; and the blood, as it
comes and goes, should show itself, not in blushes, but in the mellow,
changing lines of the brunette. All this Mr. Brown understood very well.
“Oh,--you are Mrs. Puffle,” said Brown, after a short but perhaps
insufficient pause. “You are Charles Puffle’s wife?”
“Do you know Charles?” asked the lady, putting up both her little
hands. “We don’t want him to hear anything about this. You haven’t told
him?”
“I’ve told him nothing as yet,” said Mr. Brown.
“Pray don’t. It’s a secret. Of course he’ll know it some day. Oh, Mr.
Brown, you won’t betray us. How very odd that you should know Charles!”
“Does he smoke as much as ever, Mrs. Puffle?”
“How very odd that he never should have mentioned it! Is it at his
office that you see him?”
“Well, no; not at his office. How is it that he manages to get away on
an afternoon as he does?”
“It’s very seldom,--only two or three times in a month,--when he really
has a headache from sitting at his work. Dear me, how odd! I thought he
told me everything, and he never mentioned your name.”
“You needn’t mention mine, Mrs. Puffle, and the secret shall be kept.
But you haven’t told me about the smoking. Is he as inveterate as ever?”
“Of course he smokes. They all smoke. I suppose then he used always to
be doing it before he married. I don’t think men ever tell the real
truth about things, though girls always tell everything.”
“And now about your sister’s novel?” asked Mr. Brown, who felt that he
had mystified the little woman sufficiently about her husband.
“Well, yes. She does want to get some money so badly! And it is
clever;--isn’t it? I don’t think I ever read anything cleverer. Isn’t it
enough to take your breath away when Orlando defends himself before the
lords?” This referred to a very high flown passage which Mr. Brown had
determined to cut out when he was thinking of printing the story for the
pages of the “Olympus.” “And she will be so broken-hearted! I hope you
are not angry with her because she wrote in that way.”
“Not in the least. I liked her letters. She wrote what she really
thought.”
“That is so good of you! I told her that I was sure you were
good-natured, because you answered so civilly. It was a kind of
experiment of hers, you know.”
“Oh,--an experiment!”
“It is so hard to get at people. Isn’t it? If she’d just written, ‘Dear
Sir, I send you a manuscript,’--you never would have looked at
it:--would you?”
“We read everything, Mrs. Puffle.”
“But the turn for all the things comes so slowly; doesn’t it? So Polly
thought----”
“Polly,--what did Polly think?”
“I mean Josephine. We call her Polly just as a nickname. She was so
anxious to get you to read it at once! And now what must we do?” Mr.
Brown sat silent awhile, thinking. Why did they call Josephine de
Montmorenci Polly? But there was the fact of the MS., let the name of
the author be what it might. On one thing he was determined. He would
take no steps till he had himself seen the lady who wrote the novel.
“You’ll go to the gentlemen in Paternoster Row immediately; won’t you?”
asked Mrs. Puffle, with a pretty little beseeching look which it was
very hard to resist.
“I think I must ask to see the authoress first,” said Mr. Brown.
“Won’t I do?” asked Mrs. Puffle. “Josephine is so particular. I mean she
dislikes so very much to talk about her own writings and her own works.”
Mr. Brown thought of the tenor of the letters which he had received, and
found that he could not reconcile with it this character which was given
to him of Miss de Montmorenci. “She has an idea,” continued Mrs. Puffle,
“that genius should not show itself publicly. Of course, she does not
say that herself. And she does not think herself to be a genius;--though
I think it. And she is a genius. There are things in ‘Not so Black as
he’s Painted’ which nobody but Polly could have written.”
Nevertheless Mr. Brown was firm. He explained that he could not possibly
treat with Messrs. X., Y., and Z.,--if any treating should become
possible,--without direct authority from the principal. He must have
from Miss de Montmorenci’s mouth what might be the arrangements to which
she would accede. If this could not be done he must wash his hands of
the affair. He did not doubt, he said, but that Miss de Montmorenci
might do quite as well with the publishers by herself, as she could with
any aid from him. Perhaps it would be better that she should see Mr. X.
herself. But if he, Brown, was to be honoured by any delegated
authority, he must see the author. In saying this he implied that he had
not the slightest desire to interfere further, and that he had no wish
to press himself on the lady. Mrs. Puffle, with just a tear, and then a
smile, and then a little coaxing twist of her lips, assured him that
their only hope was in him. She would carry his message to Josephine,
and he should have a further letter from that lady. “And you won’t tell
Charles that I have been here,” said Mrs. Puffle as she took her leave.
“Certainly not. I won’t say a word of it.”
“It is so odd that you should have known him.”
“Don’t let him smoke too much, Mrs. Puffle.”
“I don’t intend. I’ve brought him down to one cigar and a pipe a
day,--unless he smokes at the office.”
“They all do that;--nearly the whole day.”
“What; at the Post Office!”
“That’s why I mention it. I don’t think they’re allowed at any of the
other offices, but they do what they please there. I shall keep the MS.
till I hear from Josephine herself.” Then Mrs. Puffle took her leave
with many thanks, and a grateful pressure from her pretty little hand.
Two days after this there came the promised letter from Josephine.
“DEAR MR. BROWN,
“I cannot understand why you should not go to X., Y., and Z.
without seeing me. I hardly ever see anybody; but, of course, you
must come if you will. I got my sister to go because she is so
gentle and nice, that I thought she could persuade anybody to do
anything. She says that you know Mr. Puffle quite well, which seems
to be so very odd. He doesn’t know that I ever write a word, and I
didn’t think he had an acquaintance in the world whom I don’t know
the name of. You’re quite wrong about one thing. They never smoke
at the Post Office, and they wouldn’t be let to do it. If you
choose to come, you must. I shall be at home any time on Friday
morning,--that is, after half-past nine, when Charles goes away.
“Yours truly,
“J. DE M.
“We began to talk about editors after dinner, just for fun; and Charles
said that he didn’t know that he had ever seen one. Of course we didn’t
say anything about the ‘Olympus;’ but I don’t know why he should be so
mysterious.” Then there was a second postscript, written down in a
corner of the sheet of paper. “I know you’ll be sorry you came.”
* * * * *
Our editor was now quite determined that he would see the adventure to
an end. He had at first thought that Josephine was keeping herself in
the background merely that she might enhance the favour of a personal
meeting when that favour should be accorded. A pretty woman believing
herself to be a genius, and thinking that good things should ever be
made scarce, might not improbably fall into such a foible. But now he
was convinced that she would prefer to keep herself unseen if her doing
so might be made compatible with her great object. Mr. Brown was not a
man to intrude himself unnecessarily upon any woman unwilling to receive
him; but in this case it was, so he thought, his duty to persevere. So
he wrote a pretty little note to Miss Josephine saying that he would be
with her at eleven o’clock on the day named.
Precisely at eleven o’clock he knocked at the door of the house in
King-Charles Street, which was almost instantaneously opened for him by
the fair hands of Mrs. Puffle herself. “H--sh,” said Mrs. Puffle; “we
don’t want the servants to know anything about it.” Mr. Brown, who cared
nothing for the servants of the Puffle establishment, and who was
becoming perhaps a little weary of the unravelled mystery of the affair,
simply bowed and followed the lady into the parlour. “My sister is up
stairs,” said Mrs. Puffle, “and we will go to her immediately.” Then she
paused, as though she were still struggling with some difficulty;--“I am
so sorry to say that Polly is not well.--But she means to see you,” Mrs.
Puffle added, as she saw that the editor, over whom they had so far
prevailed, made some sign as though he was about to retreat. “She never
is very well,” said Mrs. Puffle, “and her work does tell upon her so
much. Do you know, Mr. Brown, I think the mind sometimes eats up the
body; that is, when it is called upon for such great efforts.” They were
now upon the stairs, and Mr. Brown followed the little lady into her
drawing-room.
There, almost hidden in the depths of a low arm-chair, sat a little
wizened woman, not old indeed,--when Mr. Brown came to know her better,
he found that she had as yet only counted five-and-twenty summers,--but
with that look of mingled youth and age which is so painful to the
beholder. Who has not seen it,--the face in which the eye and the brow
are young and bright, but the mouth and the chin are old and haggard?
See such a one when she sleeps,--when the brightness of the eye is
hidden, and all the countenance is full of pain and decay, and then the
difference will be known to you between youth with that health which is
generally given to it, and youth accompanied by premature decrepitude.
“This is my sister-in-law,” said Mrs. Puffle, introducing the two
correspondents to each other. The editor looked at the little woman who
made some half attempt to rise, and thought that he could see in the
brightness of the eye some symptoms of the sauciness which had appeared
so very plainly in her letters. And there was a smile too about the
mouth, though the lips were thin and the chin poor, which seemed to
indicate that the owner of them did in some sort enjoy this unravelling
of her riddle,--as though she were saying to herself, “What do you think
now of the beautiful young woman who has made you write so many letters,
and read so long a manuscript, and come all the way at this hour of the
morning to Camden Town?” Mr. Brown shook hands with her, and muttered
something to the effect that he was sorry not to see her in better
health.
“No,” said Josephine de Montmorenci, “I am not very well. I never am. I
told you that you had better put up with seeing my sister.”
We say no more than the truth of Mr. Brown in declaring that he was now
more ready than ever to do whatever might be in his power to forward the
views of this young authoress. If he was interested before when he
believed her to be beautiful, he was doubly interested for her now when
he knew her to be a cripple;--for he had seen when she made that faint
attempt to rise that her spine was twisted, and that, when she stood up,
her head sank between her shoulders. “I am very glad to make your
acquaintance,” he said, seating himself near her. “I should never have
been satisfied without doing so.”
“It is so very good of you to come,” said Mrs. Puffle.
“Of course it is good of him,” said Josephine; “especially after the way
we wrote to him. The truth is, Mr. Brown, we were at our wits’ end to
catch you.”
This was an aspect of the affair which our editor certainly did not
like. An attempt to deceive anybody else might have been pardonable; but
deceit practised against himself was odious to him. Nevertheless, he did
forgive it. The poor little creature before him had worked hard, and had
done her best. To teach her to be less metaphysical in her writings, and
more straightforward in her own practices, should be his care. There is
something to a man inexpressibly sweet in the power of protecting the
weak; and no one had ever seemed to be weaker than Josephine. “Miss de
Montmorenci,” he said, “we will let bygones be bygones, and will say
nothing about the letters. It is no doubt the fact that you did write
the novel yourself?”
“Every word of it,” said Mrs. Puffle energetically.
“Oh, yes; I wrote it,” said Josephine.
“And you wish to have it published?”
“Indeed I do.”
“And you wish to get money for it?”
“That is the truest of all,” said Josephine.
“Oughtn’t one to be paid when one has worked so very hard?” said Mrs.
Puffle.
“Certainly one ought to be paid if it can be proved that one’s work is
worth buying,” replied the sage mentor of literature.
“But isn’t it worth buying?” demanded Mrs. Puffle.
“I must say that I think that publishers do buy some that are worse,”
observed Josephine.
Mr. Brown with words of wisdom explained to them as well as he was able
the real facts of the case. It might be that that manuscript, over which
the poor invalid had laboured for so many painful hours, would prove to
be an invaluable treasure of art, destined to give delight to thousands
of readers, and to be, when printed, a source of large profits to
publishers, booksellers, and author. Or, again, it might be that, with
all its undoubted merits,--and that there were such merits Mr. Brown was
eager in acknowledging,--the novel would fail to make any way with the
public. “A publisher,”--so said Mr. Brown,--“will hardly venture to pay
you a sum of money down, when the risk of failure is so great.”
“But Polly has written ever so many things before,” said Mrs. Puffle.
“That counts for nothing,” said Miss de Montmorenci. “They were short
pieces, and appeared without a name.”
“Were you paid for them?” asked Mr. Brown.
“I have never been paid a halfpenny for anything yet.”
“Isn’t that cruel,” said Mrs. Puffle, “to work, and work, and work, and
never get the wages which ought to be paid for it?”
“Perhaps there may be a good time coming,” said our editor. “Let us see
whether we can get Messrs. X., Y., and Z. to publish this at their own
expense, and with your name attached to it. Then, Miss de
Montmorenci----”
“I suppose we had better tell him all,” said Josephine.
“Oh, yes; tell everything. I am sure he won’t be angry; he is so
good-natured,” said Mrs. Puffle.
Mr. Brown looked first at one, and then at the other, feeling himself to
be rather uncomfortable. What was there that remained to be told? He was
good-natured, but he did not like being told of that virtue. “The name
you have heard is not my name,” said the lady who had written the
novel.
“Oh, indeed! I have heard Mrs. Puffle call you,--Polly.”
“My name is,--Maryanne.”
“It is a very good name,” said Mr. Brown,--“so good that I cannot quite
understand why you should go out of your way to assume another.”
“It is Maryanne,--Puffle.”
“Oh;--Puffle!” said Mr. Brown.
“And a very good name, too,” said Mrs. Puffle.
“I haven’t a word to say against it,” said Mr. Brown. “I wish I could
say quite as much as to that other name,--Josephine de Montmorenci.”
“But Maryanne Puffle would be quite unendurable on a title-page,” said
the owner of the unfortunate appellation.
“I don’t see it,” said Mr. Brown doggedly.
“Ever so many have done the same,” said Mrs. Puffle. “There’s Boz.”
“Calling yourself Boz isn’t like calling yourself Josephine de
Montmorenci,” said the editor, who could forgive the loss of beauty, but
not the assumed grandeur of the name.
“And Currer Bell, and Jacob Omnium, and Barry Cornwall,” said poor Polly
Puffle, pleading hard for her falsehood.
“And Michael Angelo Titmarsh! That was quite the same sort of thing,”
said Mrs. Puffle.
Our editor tried to explain to them that the sin of which he now
complained did not consist in the intention,--foolish as that had
been,--of putting such a name as Josephine de Montmorenci on the
title-page, but in having corresponded with him,--with him who had been
so willing to be a friend,--under a false name. “I really think you
ought to have told me sooner,” he said.
“If we had known you had been a friend of Charles’s we would have told
you at once,” said the young wife.
“I never had the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Puffle in my life,” said
Mr. Brown. Mrs. Puffle opened her little mouth, and held up both her
little hands. Polly Puffle stared at her sister-in-law. “And what is
more,” continued Mr. Brown, “I never said that I had had that pleasure.”
“You didn’t tell me that Charles smoked at the Post Office,” exclaimed
Mrs. Puffle,--“which he swears that he never does, and that he would be
dismissed at once if he attempted it?” Mr. Brown was driven to a smile.
“I declare I don’t understand you, Mr. Brown.”
“It was his little Roland for our little Oliver,” said Miss Puffle.
Mr. Brown felt that his Roland had been very small, whereas the Oliver
by which he had been taken in was not small at all. But he was forced to
accept the bargain. What is a man against a woman in such a matter? What
can he be against two women, both young, of whom one was pretty and the
other an invalid? Of course he gave way, and of course he undertook the
mission to X., Y., and Z. We have not ourselves read “Not so Black as
he’s Painted,” but we can say that it came out in due course under the
hands of those enterprising publishers, and that it made what many of
the reviews called quite a success.
[Illustration]
THE PANJANDRUM.
[Illustration]
THE PANJANDRUM.