Not George Washington 15 – Westbrook · Verses Across
Literature · Humor
Not George Washington 15Part 2 · The First Ghost
18
Literature · Humor
Not George Washington 15
Part 2 · The First Ghost
WestbrookEnglish
(James Orlebar Cloyster’s narrative continued)
Such was the suggestion Julian made; and I praised its ingenuity, little thinking how bitterly I should come to curse it in the future.
I was immediately all anxiety to set the scheme working.
“Will you be one of my three middlemen, Julian?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Thanks!” he said; “it’s very good of you, but I daren’t encroach further on my hours of leisure. Skeffington’s Sloe Gin has already become an incubus.”
I could not move him from this decision.
It is not everybody who, in a moment of emergency, can put his hand on three men of his acquaintance capable of carrying through a more or less delicate business for him. Certainly I found a difficulty in making my selection. I ran over the list of my friends in my mind. Then I was compelled to take pencil and paper, and settle down seriously to what I now saw would be a task of some difficulty. After half an hour I read through my list, and could not help smiling. I had indeed a mixed lot of acquaintances. First came Julian and Malim, the two pillars of my world. I scratched them out. Julian had been asked and had refused; and, as for Malim, I shrank from exposing my absurd compositions to his critical eye. A man who could deal so trenchantly over a pipe and a whisky-and-soda with Established Reputations would hardly take kindly to seeing my work in print under his name. I wished it had been possible to secure him, but I did not disguise it from myself that it was not.
The rest of the list was made up of members of the Barrel Club (impossible because of their inherent tendency to break out into personal paragraphs); writers like Fermin and Gresham, above me on the literary ladder, and consequently unapproachable in a matter of this kind; certain college friends, who had vanished into space, as men do on coming down from the ’Varsity, leaving no address; John Hatton, Sidney Price, and Tom Blake.
There were only three men in that list to whom I felt I could take my suggestion. Hatton was one, Price was another, and Blake was the third. Hatton should have my fiction, Price my Society stuff, Blake my serious verse.
That evening I went off to the Temple to sound Hatton on the subject of signing my third book. The wretched sale of my first two had acted as something of a check to my enthusiasm for novel-writing. I had paused to take stock of my position. My first two novels had, I found on re-reading them, too much of the ’Varsity tone in them to be popular. That is the mistake a man falls into through being at Cambridge or Oxford. He fancies unconsciously that the world is peopled with undergraduates. He forgets that what appeals to an undergraduate public may be Greek to the outside reader and, unfortunately, not compulsory Greek. The reviewers had dealt kindly with my two books (“this pleasant little squib,” “full of quiet humour,” “should amuse all who remember their undergraduate days”); but the great heart of the public had remained untouched, as had the great purse of the public. I had determined to adopt a different style. And now my third book was ready. It was called, When It Was Lurid, with the sub-title, A Tale of God and Allah. There was a piquant admixture of love, religion, and Eastern scenery which seemed to point to a record number of editions.
I took the type-script of this book with me to the Temple.
Hatton was in. I flung When It Was Lurid on the table, and sat down.
“What’s this?” inquired Hatton, fingering the brown-paper parcel. “If it’s the corpse of a murdered editor, I think it’s only fair to let you know that I have a prejudice against having my rooms used as a cemetery. Go and throw him into the river.”
“It’s anything but a corpse. It’s the most lively bit of writing ever done. There’s enough fire in that book to singe your tablecloth.”
“You aren’t going to read it to me out loud?” he said anxiously.
“No.”
“Have I got to read it when you’re gone?”
“Not unless you wish to.”
“Then why, if I may ask, do you carry about a parcel which, I should say, weighs anything between one and two tons, simply to use it as a temporary table ornament? Is it the Sandow System?”
“No,” I said; “it’s like this.”
And suddenly it dawned on me that it was not going to be particularly easy to explain to Hatton just what it was that I wanted him to do.
I made the thing clear at last, suppressing, of course, my reasons for the move. When he had grasped my meaning, he looked at me rather curiously.
“Doesn’t it strike you,” he said, “that what you propose is slightly dishonourable?”
“You mean that I have come deliberately to insult you, Hatton?”
“Our conversation seems to be getting difficult, unless you grant that honour is not one immovable, intangible landmark, fixed for humanity, but that it is a commodity we all carry with us in varying forms.”
“Personally, I believe that, as a help to identification, honour-impressions would be as useful as fingerprints.”
“Good! You agree with me. Now, you may have a different view; but, in my opinion, if I were to pose as the writer of your books, and gained credit for a literary skill——”
I laughed.
“You won’t get credit for literary skill out of the sort of books I want you to put your name to. They’re potboilers. You needn’t worry about Fame. You’ll be a martyr, not a hero.”
“You may be right. You wrote the book. But, in any case, I should be more of a charlatan than I care about.”
“You won’t do it?” I said. “I’m sorry. It would have been a great convenience to me.”
“On the other hand,” continued Hatton, ignoring my remark, “there are arguments in favour of such a scheme as you suggest.”
“Stout fellow!” I said encouragingly.
“To examine the matter in its—er—financial—to suppose for a moment—briefly, what do I get out of it?”
“Ten per cent.”
He looked thoughtful.
“The end shall justify the means,” he said. “The money you pay me can do something to help the awful, the continual poverty of Lambeth. Yes, James Cloyster, I will sign whatever you send me.”
“Good for you,” I said.
“And I shall come better out of the transaction than you.”
No one would credit the way that man—a clergyman, too—haggled over terms. He ended by squeezing fifteen per cent out of me.
