"What for?"
He held out a cheque towards me. Glancing at it I saw that the sum he
mentioned was filled in and endorsed with his signature, but that the
name of the person to whom the money was to be made payable, had not yet
been written.
"Well? What does it mean?"
"It means"--replied he--"that I am going to see Mr McWhing this morning.
I have an appointment with him at twelve. You, as Geoffrey Tempest, the
author of the book Mr McWhing is going to criticise and make a 'boom'
of, could not possibly put your name to such a cheque. It would not be
'good form'--it might crop up afterwards and so betray 'the secrets of
the prison-house.' But for me it is another affair. I am going to 'pose'
as your businessman--your 'literary agent' who pockets ten per cent. of
the profits and wants to make a 'big thing' out of you, and I'm going to
talk the matter over with the perfectly practical McWhing who has, like
every true Scot, a keen eye for the main chance. Of course it will be in
confidence,--strict confidence!" and he laughed--"It's all a question of
business you know,--in these commercial days, literature has become a
trade like everything else, and even critics only work for what pays
them. As indeed why should they not?"
"Do you mean to tell me McWhing will take that five hundred?" I asked
dubiously.
"I mean to tell you nothing of the kind. I would not put the matter so
coarsely for the world! This money is not for McWhing,--it is for a
literary charity."
"Indeed! I thought you had an idea perhaps of offering a bribe...."
"Bribe! Good Heavens! Bribe a critic! Impossible, my good
Geoffrey!--such a thing was never heard of--never, never, never!" and he
shook his head and rolled up his eyes with infinite solemnity--"No no!
Press people never take money for anything--not even for 'booming' a new
gold-mining company,--not even for putting a notice of a fashionable
concert into the Morning Post. Everything in the English press is the
just expression of pure and lofty sentiment, believe me! This little
cheque is for a charity of which Mr McWhing is chief patron,--you see
the Civil List pensions all go by favour to the wrong persons nowadays;
to the keeping of lunatic versifiers and retired actresses who never
could act--the actual bona-fide 'genius' never gets anything out of
Government, and moreover would scorn to take a farthing from that
penurious body, which grudges him anything higher than a
money-recognition. It is as great an insult to offer a beggarly pension
of fifty or a hundred pounds a year to a really great writer as to give
him a knighthood,--and we cannot fall much lower than to be a knight, as
knights go. The present five hundred pounds will help to relieve certain
'poor and proud' but pressing literary cases known to McWhing alone!"
His expression at this moment was so extraordinary, that I entirely
failed to fathom it. "I have no doubt I shall be able to represent the
benevolent and respectable literary agent to perfection--of course I
shall insist on my ten per cent.!"--and he began laughing again. "But I
can't stop to discuss the matter now with you--I'm off. I promised
McWhing to be with him at twelve o'clock precisely, and it's now
half-past-eleven. I shall probably lunch with him, so don't wait for me.
And concerning the five hundred, you needn't be in my debt an hour
longer than you like--I'll take a cheque for the money back from you
this evening."
"All right"--I said--"But perhaps the great oracle of the cliques will
reject your proposals with scorn."
"If he does, then is Utopia realized!"--replied Lucio, carefully drawing
on his gloves as he spoke--"Where's a copy of your book? Ah--here's
one--smelling newly of the press," and he slipped the volume into his
overcoat pocket; "Allow me, before departure, to express the opinion
that you are a singularly ungrateful fellow, Geoffrey! Here am I,
perfectly devoted to your interests,--and despite my princedom actually
prepared to 'pose' to McWhing as your 'acting manager' _pro tem_, and
you haven't so much as a thank-you to throw at me!"
He stood before me smiling, the personification of kindness and good
humour. I laughed a little.
"McWhing will never take _you_ for an acting manager or literary
agent,"--I said--"You don't look it. If I seem churlish I'm sorry--but
the fact is I am disgusted ..."
"At what?" he inquired, still smiling.
"Oh, at the humbug of everything,"--I answered impatiently; "The stupid
farce of it all. Why shouldn't a book get noticed on its own merits
without any appeal to cliquism and influential wire-pulling on the
press?"
"Exactly!" and he delicately flicked a grain of dust off his coat while
speaking--"And why shouldn't a man get received in society on his own
merits, without any money to recommend him or any influential friend to
back him up?"