My publisher, John Morgeson,--the estimable individual who had first
refused my book, and who now, moved by self-interest, was devoting his
energies assiduously to the business of launching it in the most modern
and approved style, was not like Shakespeare's _Cassio_, strictly 'an
honourable man.' Neither was he the respectable chief of a
long-established firm whose system of the cheating of authors, mellowed
by time, had become almost sacred;--he was a 'new' man, with new ways,
and a good stock of new push and impudence. All the same, he was clever,
shrewd and diplomatic, and for some reason or other, had secured the
favour of a certain portion of the press, many of the dailies and
weeklies always giving special prominence to his publications over the
heads of other far more legitimately dealing firms. He entered into a
partial explanation of his methods, when, on the morning after my first
meeting with the Earl of Elton and his daughter, I called upon him to
inquire how things were going with regard to my book.
"We shall publish next week,"--he said, rubbing his hands complacently,
and addressing me with all the deference due to my banking account--"And
as you don't mind what you spend, I'll tell you just what I propose to
do. I intend to write out a mystifying paragraph of about some seventy
lines or so, describing the book in a vague sort of way as '_likely to
create a new era of thought_'--or, '_ere long everybody who is anybody
will be compelled to read this remarkable work_,'--or '_as something
that must be welcome to all who would understand the drift of one of the
most delicate and burning questions of the time_.' These are all stock
phrases, used over and over again by the reviewers,--there's no
copyright in them. And the last one always 'tells' wonderfully,
considering how old it is, and how often it has been made to do duty,
because any allusion to a '_delicate and burning question_' makes a
number of people think the novel must be improper, and they send for it
at once!"
He chuckled at his own perspicuity, and I sat silent, studying him with
much inward amusement. This man on whose decision I had humbly and
anxiously waited not so many weeks ago was now my paid tool,--ready to
obey me to any possible extent for so much cash,--and I listened to him
indulgently while he went on unravelling his schemes for the
gratification of _my_ vanity, and the pocketing of _his_ extras.
"The book has been splendidly advertised"--he went on; "It could not
have been more lavishly done. Orders do not come in very fast yet--but
they will,--they will. This paragraph of mine, which will take the shape
of a 'leaderette,' I can get inserted in about eight hundred to a
thousand newspapers here and in America. It will cost you,--say a
hundred guineas--perhaps a trifle more. Do you mind that?"
"Not in the least!" I replied, still vastly amused.
He meditated a moment,--then drew his chair closer to mine and lowered
his voice a little.
"You understand I suppose, that I shall only issue two hundred and fifty
copies at first?"
This limited number seemed to me absurd, and I protested vehemently.
"Such an idea is ridiculous!" I said--"you cannot supply the trade with
such a scanty edition."
"Wait, my dear sir, wait,--you are too impatient. You do not give me
time to explain. All these two hundred and fifty will be _given away_ by
me in the proper quarters on the day of publication,--never mind
how,--they _must_ be given away--"
"Why?"
"Why?" and the worthy Morgeson laughed sweetly--"I see, my dear Mr
Tempest, you are like most men of genius--you do not understand
business. The reason why we give the first two hundred and fifty copies
away is in order to be able to announce at once in all the papers that
'_The First Large Edition of the New Novel by Geoffrey Tempest being
exhausted on the day of publication, a Second is in Rapid Preparation_.'
You see we thus hoodwink the public, who of course are not in our
secrets, and are not to know whether an edition is two hundred or two
thousand. The Second Edition will of course be ready behind the scenes,
and will consist of another two hundred and fifty."
"Do you call that course of procedure honest?" I asked quietly.
"Honest? My dear sir! Honest?" And his countenance wore a virtuously
injured expression--"Of course it is honest! Look at the daily papers!
Such announcements appear every day--in fact they are getting rather too
common. I freely admit that there are a few publishers here and there
who stick up for exactitude and go to the trouble of not only giving the
number of copies in an Edition, but also publishing the date of each one
as it was issued,--this may be principle if they like to call it so, but
it involves a great deal of precise calculation and worry! If the public
like to be deceived, what is the use of being exact! Now, to
resume,--your second edition will be sent off 'on sale or return' to
provincial booksellers, and then we shall announce--"In consequence of
the Enormous Demand for the new novel by Geoffrey Tempest, the Large
Second Edition is out of print. A Third will be issued in the course of
next week." And so on, and so on, till we get to the sixth or seventh
edition (always numbering two hundred and fifty each) in three volumes;
perhaps we can by skilful management work it to a tenth. It is only a
question of diplomacy and a little dexterous humbugging of the trade.
Then we shall arrive at the one-volume issue, which will require
different handling. But there's time enough for that. The frequent
advertisements will add to the expense a bit, but if you don't mind--"
"I don't mind anything," I said--"so long as I have my fun."
"Your fun?" he queried surprisedly--"I thought it was fame you wanted,
more than fun!"