New Grub Street (67 page)

On an evening of early summer, six months after the death of
Edwin Reardon, Jasper of the facile pen was bending over his desk,
writing rapidly by the warm western light which told that sunset
was near. Not far from him sat his younger sister; she was reading,
and the book in her hand bore the title, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer.'

'How will this do?' Jasper exclaimed, suddenly throwing down his
pen.

And he read aloud a critical notice of the book with which Dora
was occupied; a notice of the frankly eulogistic species, beginning
with: 'It is seldom nowadays that the luckless reviewer of novels
can draw the attention of the public to a new work which is at once
powerful and original;' and ending: 'The word is a bold one, but we
do not hesitate to pronounce this book a masterpiece.'

'Is that for The Current?' asked Dora, when he had finished.

'No, for The West End. Fadge won't allow anyone but himself to
be lauded in that style. I may as well do the notice for The
Current now, as I've got my hand in.'

He turned to his desk again, and before daylight failed him had
produced a piece of more cautious writing, very favourable on the
whole, but with reserves and slight censures. This also he read to
Dora.

'You wouldn't suspect they were written by the same man,
eh?'

'No. You have changed the style very skilfully.'

'I doubt if they'll be much use. Most people will fling the book
down with yawns before they're half through the first volume. If I
knew a doctor who had many cases of insomnia in hand, I would
recommend "Mr Bailey" to him as a specific.'

'Oh, but it is really clever, Jasper!'

'Not a doubt of it. I half believe what I have written. And if
only we could get it mentioned in a leader or two, and so on, old
Biffen's fame would be established with the better sort of readers.
But he won't sell three hundred copies. I wonder whether Robertson
would let me do a notice for his paper?'

'Biffen ought to be grateful to you, if he knew,' said Dora,
laughing.

'Yet, now, there are people who would cry out that this kind of
thing is disgraceful. It's nothing of the kind. Speaking seriously,
we know that a really good book will more likely than not receive
fair treatment from two or three reviewers; yes, but also more
likely than not it will be swamped in the flood of literature that
pours forth week after week, and won't have attention fixed long
enough upon it to establish its repute. The struggle for existence
among books is nowadays as severe as among men. If a writer has
friends connected with the press, it is the plain duty of those
friends to do their utmost to help him. What matter if they
exaggerate, or even lie? The simple, sober truth has no chance
whatever of being listened to, and it's only by volume of shouting
that the ear of the public is held. What use is it to Biffen if his
work struggles to slow recognition ten years hence? Besides, as I
say, the growing flood of literature swamps everything but works of
primary genius. If a clever and conscientious book does not spring
to success at once, there's precious small chance that it will
survive. Suppose it were possible for me to write a round dozen
reviews of this book, in as many different papers, I would do it
with satisfaction. Depend upon it, this kind of thing will be done
on that scale before long. And it's quite natural. A man's friends
must be helped, by whatever means, quocunque modo, as Biffen
himself would say.'

'I dare say he doesn't even think of you as a friend now.'

'Very likely not. It's ages since I saw him. But there's much
magnanimity in my character, as I have often told you. It delights
me to be generous, whenever I can afford it.'

Dusk was gathering about them. As they sat talking, there came a
tap at the door, and the summons to enter was obeyed by Mr
Whelpdale.

'I was passing,' he said in his respectful voice, 'and couldn't
resist the temptation.'

Jasper struck a match and lit the lamp. In this clearer light
Whelpdale was exhibited as a young man of greatly improved
exterior; he wore a cream-coloured waistcoat, a necktie of subtle
hue, and delicate gloves; prosperity breathed from his whole
person. It was, in fact, only a moderate prosperity to which he had
as yet attained, but the future beckoned to him flatteringly.

Early in this year, his enterprise as 'literary adviser' had
brought him in contact with a man of some pecuniary resources, who
proposed to establish an agency for the convenience of authors who
were not skilled in disposing of their productions to the best
advantage. Under the name of Fleet & Co., this business was
shortly set on foot, and Whelpdale's services were retained on
satisfactory terms. The birth of the syndicate system had given new
scope to literary agencies, and Mr Fleet was a man of keen eye for
commercial opportunities.

'Well, have you read Biffen's book?' asked Jasper.

'Wonderful, isn't it! A work of genius, I am convinced. Ha! you
have it there, Miss Dora. But I'm afraid it is hardly for you.'

'And why not, Mr Whelpdale?'

'You should only read of beautiful things, of happy lives. This
book must depress you.'

'But why will you imagine me such a feeble-minded person?' asked
Dora. 'You have so often spoken like this. I have really no
ambition to be a doll of such superfine wax.'

The habitual flatterer looked deeply concerned.

'Pray forgive me!' he murmured humbly, leaning forwards towards
the girl with eyes which deprecated her displeasure. 'I am very far
indeed from attributing weakness to you. It was only the natural,
unreflecting impulse; one finds it so difficult to associate you,
even as merely a reader, with such squalid scenes.

The ignobly decent, as poor Biffen calls it, is so very far from
that sphere in which you are naturally at home.'

There was some slight affectation in his language, but the tone
attested sincere feeling. Jasper was watching him with half an eye,
and glancing occasionally at Dora.

'No doubt,' said the latter, 'it's my story in The English Girl
that inclines you to think me a goody-goody sort of young
woman.'

'So far from that, Miss Dora, I was only waiting for an
opportunity to tell you how exceedingly delighted I have been with
the last two weeks' instalments. In all seriousness, I consider
that story of yours the best thing of the kind that ever came under
my notice. You seem to me to have discovered a new genre; such
writing as this has surely never been offered to girls, and all the
readers of the paper must be immensely grateful to you. I run
eagerly to buy the paper each week; I assure you I do. The
stationer thinks I purchase it for a sister, I suppose. But each
section of the story seems to be better than the last. Mark the
prophecy which I now make: when this tale is published in a volume
its success will be great. You will be recognised, Miss Dora, as
the new writer for modern English girls.'

The subject of this panegyric coloured a little and laughed.
Unmistakably she was pleased.

'Look here, Whelpdale,' said Jasper, 'I can't have this; Dora's
conceit, please to remember, is, to begin with, only a little less
than my own, and you will make her unendurable. Her tale is well
enough in its way, but then its way is a very humble one.'

'I deny it!' cried the other, excitedly. 'How can it be called a
humble line of work to provide reading, which is at once
intellectual and moving and exquisitely pure, for the most
important part of the population—the educated and refined young
people who are just passing from girlhood to womanhood?'

'The most important fiddlestick!'

'You are grossly irreverent, my dear Milvain. I cannot appeal to
your sister, for she's too modest to rate her own sex at its true
value, but the vast majority of thoughtful men would support me.
You yourself do, though you affect this profane way of speaking.
And we know,' he looked at Dora, 'that he wouldn't talk like this
if Miss Yule were present.'

Jasper changed the topic of conversation, and presently
Whelpdale was able to talk with more calmness. The young man, since
his association with Fleet & Co., had become fertile in
suggestions of literary enterprise, and at present he was occupied
with a project of special hopefulness.

'I want to find a capitalist,' he said, 'who will get possession
of that paper Chat, and transform it according to an idea I have in
my head. The thing is doing very indifferently, but I am convinced
it might be made splendid property, with a few changes in the way
of conducting it.'

'The paper is rubbish,' remarked Jasper, 'and the kind of
rubbish—oddly enough—which doesn't attract people.'

'Precisely, but the rubbish is capable of being made a very
valuable article, if it were only handled properly. I have talked
to the people about it again and again, but I can't get them to
believe what I say. Now just listen to my notion. In the first
place, I should slightly alter the name; only slightly, but that
little alteration would in itself have an enormous effect. Instead
of Chat I should call it Chit-Chat!'

Jasper exploded with mirth.

'That's brilliant!' he cried. 'A stroke of genius!'

'Are you serious? Or are you making fun of me? I believe it is a
stroke of genius. Chat doesn't attract anyone, but Chit-Chat would
sell like hot cakes, as they say in America. I know I am right;
laugh as you will.'

'On the same principle,' cried Jasper, 'if The Tatler were
changed to Tittle-Tattle, its circulation would be trebled.'

Whelpdale smote his knee in delight.

'An admirable idea! Many a true word uttered in joke, and this
is an instance! Tittle-Tattle—a magnificent title; the very thing
to catch the multitude.'

Dora was joining in the merriment, and for a minute or two
nothing but bursts of laughter could be heard.

'Now do let me go on,' implored the man of projects, when the
noise subsided. 'That's only one change, though a most important
one. What I next propose is this:—I know you will laugh again, but
I will demonstrate to you that I am right. No article in the paper
is to measure more than two inches in length, and every inch must
be broken into at least two paragraphs.'

'Superb!'

'But you are joking, Mr Whelpdale!' exclaimed Dora.

'No, I am perfectly serious. Let me explain my principle. I
would have the paper address itself to the quarter-educated; that
is to say, the great new generation that is being turned out by the
Board schools, the young men and women who can just read, but are
incapable of sustained attention. People of this kind want
something to occupy them in trains and on 'buses and trams. As a
rule they care for no newspapers except the Sunday ones; what they
want is the lightest and frothiest of chit-chatty information—bits
of stories, bits of description, bits of scandal, bits of jokes,
bits of statistics, bits of foolery. Am I not right? Everything
must be very short, two inches at the utmost; their attention can't
sustain itself beyond two inches. Even chat is too solid for them:
they want chit-chat.'

Jasper had begun to listen seriously.

'There's something in this, Whelpdale,' he remarked.

'Ha! I have caught you?' cried the other delightedly. 'Of course
there's something in it?'

'But—' began Dora, and checked herself.

'You were going to say—' Whelpdale bent towards her with
deference.

'Surely these poor, silly people oughtn't to be encouraged in
their weakness.'

Whelpdale's countenance fell. He looked ashamed of himself. But
Jasper came speedily to the rescue.

'That's twaddle, Dora. Fools will be fools to the world's end.
Answer a fool according to his folly; supply a simpleton with the
reading he craves, if it will put money in your pocket. You have
discouraged poor Whelpdale in one of the most notable projects of
modern times.'

'I shall think no more of it,' said Whelpdale, gravely. 'You are
right, Miss Dora.'

Again Jasper burst into merriment. His sister reddened, and
looked uncomfortable. She began to speak timidly:

'You said this was for reading in trains and 'buses?'

Whelpdale caught at hope.

'Yes. And really, you know, it may be better at such times to
read chit-chat than to be altogether vacant, or to talk
unprofitably. I am not sure; I bow to your opinion
unreservedly.'

'So long as they only read the paper at such times,' said Dora,
still hesitating. 'One knows by experience that one really can't
fix one's attention in travelling; even an article in a newspaper
is often too long.'

'Exactly! And if you find it so, what must be the case with the
mass of untaught people, the quarter-educated? It might encourage
in some of them a taste for reading—don't you think?'

'It might,' assented Dora, musingly. 'And in that case you would
be doing good!'

'Distinct good!'

They smiled joyfully at each other. Then Whelpdale turned to
Jasper:

'You are convinced that there is something in this?'

'Seriously, I think there is. It would all depend on the skill
of the fellows who put the thing together every week. There ought
always to be one strongly sensational item—we won't call it
article. For instance, you might display on a placard: "What the
Queen eats!" or "How Gladstone's collars are made!"—things of that
kind.'

'To be sure, to be sure. And then, you know,' added Whelpdale,
glancing anxiously at Dora, 'when people had been attracted by
these devices, they would find a few things that were really
profitable. We would give nicely written little accounts of
exemplary careers, of heroic deeds, and so on. Of course nothing
whatever that could be really demoralising—cela va sans dire. Well,
what I was going to say was this: would you come with me to the
office of Chat, and have a talk with my friend Lake, the
sub-editor? I know your time is very valuable, but then you're
often running into the Will-o'-the-Wisp, and Chat is just upstairs,
you know.'