August 18, 2025 • 25 mins
Have you ever been curious about how your favorite authors embarked on their writing journeys? Did they dive headfirst into the world of literature, or did they pour their hearts into their stories after long days at the office? Some faced countless rejections, while others tasted success almost immediately. In this captivating collection, we hear directly from the authors themselves—like Bret Harte, Arthur Conan Doyle, R.M. Ballantyne, and H. Rider Haggard—as they share the pivotal moments that launched their literary careers. Join us as we explore the diverse experiences that shaped some of the most beloved writers in history. - Summary by Lynne Thompson
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter sixteen of my first book. This is a LibriVox recording.
All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. A
Romance of Two Worlds by Marie Corelli. It is an
unromantic thing for an author to have had no literary vicissitudes.
(00:24):
One cannot expect to be considered interesting unless one has
come up to London with the proverbial solitary shilling, and
gone about, hungry and footsore, begging from one hard hearted
publisher's house to another, with one's perpetually rejected manuscript under
one's arm. One ought to have consumed the midnight oil,
to have coined one heart's blood, to borrow the tragic
(00:47):
expression of a contemporary gentleman novelist, to have sacrificed one's
self respect by metaphorically crawling on all fours to the
critical faculty, and to have become esthetically cadaverous and through
the action of inspired dyspepsia. Now I am obliged to
confess that I have done none of these things, which,
(01:08):
to quote the Prayer Book, I ought to have done.
I have had no difficulty in making my career or
winning my public And I attribute my good fortune to
the simple fact that I have always tried to write
straight from my own heart to the hearts of others,
regardless of opinions and indifferent to results. My object in
(01:28):
writing has never been, and never will be, to concoct
a mere story which shall bring me to a certain
amount of cash or notoriety, but solely because I wish
to say something which be it ill or well said,
is the candid and independent expression of a thought which
I will have uttered at all risks in the spirit.
I wrote my first book, A Romance of Two Worlds,
(01:51):
now in its seventh edition. It was the simply worded
narration of a singular psychical experience, and included certain theories
on religion which I personally speaking except and believe, I
had no sort of literary pride in my work whatsoever.
There was nothing of self in the wish I had
that my ideas, such as they were, should reach the public,
(02:13):
for I had no particular need of money, and certainly
no hankering after fame. When the book was written, I
doubted whether it would ever find a publisher, though I
determined to try and launch it if possible, My notion
was to offer it to Arrowsmith as a shilling railway
volume under the title Lifted Up, but in the interim,
(02:34):
as a kind of test of its merit or demerit,
I sent the ms to mister George Bentley, head of
the long established and famous Bentley publishing firm. It ran
the gauntlet of his readers first, and they all advised
its summary rejection. Among these readers at that time was
mister hall Kane. His strictures on my work were peculiarly bitter,
(02:58):
though strange to relate. He afterwards forgot the nature of
his own report. For on being introduced to me at
a ball given by Miss Eastlake, when my name was
made in my success assured, he blandly remarked before a
select circle of interested auditors that he had had the
pleasure of recommending my first book to mister Bentley. Comment
(03:21):
on this were needless and unkind. He tells stories so
admirably that I readily excuse him for his slip of
memory and accept the whole incident as a delightful example
of his inventive faculty. His severe judgment pronounced upon me,
combined with similar but perhaps milder severity on the part
of the other readers had, however, an unexpected result. Mister
(03:45):
George Bentley, moved by curiosity and possibly by compassion for
the impending fate of a young woman, so sat upon
by his selected censors, decided to read my ms himself.
Happily for me, the consequence of his unprejudiced and impartial
perusal was acceptance, and I still keep the kind and
(04:05):
encouraging letter he wrote to me at the time informing
me of his decision and stating the terms of his offer.
These terms were a sum down for one year's rights
the copyright of the work to remain my own entire property.
I did not then understand what an advantage this retaining
of my copyright in my own possession was to prove
(04:26):
to me financially speaking. But I am willing to do
mister Bentley the full justice of supposing that he foresaw
the success of the book, and that therefore his action
in leaving me the sole owner of my then very
small literary estate, redounds very much to his credit and
as an evident proof amongst many of his manifest honor
(04:46):
and integrity. Of course, the copyright of an unsuccessful book
is valueless. But my Romance was destined to prove a
sound investment. Though I never dreamed that it would be
so glad of my chance of reaching the public with
what I had to say, I gratefully closed with mister
Bentley's proposal. He considered the title lifted up as lacking attractiveness.
(05:11):
It was therefore discarded, and mister Eric Mackay, the poet,
gave the book its present name, A Romance of two Worlds.
Once published, the career of the Romance became singular and
totally apart from that of any other so called novel.
It only received four reviews, all brief and distinctly unfavorable.
(05:34):
The one which appeared in the Dignified Morning Post is
a fair sample of the rest. I keep it by
me preciously because it serves as a wholesome tonic to
my mind and proves to me that when a leading
journal can so review a book, one need fear nothing
from the literary knowledge, acumen, or discernment of reviewers. I
(05:55):
quote it verbatim. Miss Corelli would have been better advised
had she bodied her ridiculous ideas and a sixpenny pamphlet.
The names of Heliobas and Zara are alone sufficient indications
of the dullness of this book. This was all. No
explanation was vouchsafed as to why my ideas were ridiculous,
(06:15):
though such explanation was justly due. Nor did the reviewer
state why he or she found the names of characters
sufficient indications of dullness, a curious discovery which I believe
is unique. However, the so called critique did one good thing.
It moved me to sincere laughter and showed me what
(06:37):
I might expect from the critical brethren in these days,
days which can no longer boast of a Lord Maclai,
a brilliant if bitter Jeffrey, or a generous Sir Walter Scott.
To resume the four notices. Having been grudgingly bestowed, the
press drop the romance, considering no doubt that it was
quashed and would die the usual death of women's novels,
(07:00):
as they are contemptuously called in the prescribed year. But
it did nothing of the sort. Ignored by the press.
It attracted the public. Letters concerning it and its theories
began to pour in from strangers in all parts of
the United Kingdom, and at the end of its twelve
months run in the circulating libraries, mister Bentley brought it
(07:21):
out in one volume in his favorite series. Then it
started off at full gallop. The great majority got at it,
and what is more, kept at it. It was pirated
in America, chosen out and liberally paid for by Baron
Tauschnitz for the Tauschnitz series, translated into various languages on
the continent, and became a topic of social discussion. A
(07:43):
perfect notion of correspondents flowed in upon me from India, Africa,
Australia and America. And at this very time I count
through correspondence a host of friends in all parts of
the world, whom I do not suppose I shall ever
see even carry their enthusiasm so far as to place
their houses at my disposal for a year or two years.
(08:06):
And surely the force of hospitality can no further go.
With all these attentions, I began to find out the
advantage my practical publisher had given me in the retaining
of my copyright. My royalties commenced, increased and accumulated with
every quarter, and at the present moment continues still to accumulate,
so much so that The Romance of Two Worlds alone,
(08:29):
apart from all my other works, is the source of
a very pleasant income, and I have great satisfaction in
knowing that its prolonged success is not due to any
influence save that which is contained within itself. It certainly
has not been helped on by the press, for since
I began my career six years ago, I have never
had a word of open encouragement or kindness from any
(08:52):
leading English critic. The only real reviews I ever received
worthy of the name appeared in the Spectator and the
Literary World. The first was on my book Ardath, the
Story of a Dead Self, and in this the overabundant
praise in the beginning was all smothered by the unmitigated
abuse at the end. The second, in the literary World
(09:16):
was eminently generous. It dealt with my last book, The
Soul of Lilith. So taken aback was I with surprise
at receiving and all through kindly as well as scholarly
criticism from any court of the press, that though I
knew nothing about the literary world. I wrote a letter
of thanks to my unknown reviewer, begging the editor to
(09:36):
forward it in the right direction. He did so, and
my generous critic turned out to be a woman, a
literary woman too, fighting a hard fight herself, who would
have had an excuse to slate me as an unrequired
rival in literature had she so chosen, but who, instead
of this easy course, adopted the more difficult path of
(09:56):
justice and unselfishness. After the Romance of Two Worlds, I
wrote Vendetta. Then followed Thelma, and then Ardath, the Story
of a Dead Self, which among other purely personal rewards,
brought me a charming autograph letter from the late Lord
Tennyson full of valuable encouragement. Then followed Wormwood, a Drama
(10:19):
of Paris, now in its fifth edition, Ardath and Thelma
being in their seventh editions. My publishers seldom advertised the
number of my editions, which is, I suppose, the reason
why the continuous run of the books escapes the press
comment of the great success supposed to attend various other
novels which only attained to third or fourth editions. The
(10:42):
Soul of Lilith, published only last year, ran through four
editions in three volume form. It is issued now in
one volume by Messrs Bentley, to whom, however, I have
not offered any new work. A change of publishers is
sometimes advisable, but I have a since year personal liking
for mister George Bentley, who is himself an author of
(11:04):
distinct originality and ability. Though his literary gifts are only
known to his own private circle. His book of essays
entitled After Business is a delightful volume full of point
and brilliancy. Two specially admirable papers being those on Villain
and Carlisle. While it would be difficult to discover a
(11:24):
more taking prose bit than the concluding chapter under an
old Poplar, a very foolish and erroneous rumor has of
late been circulated concerning me, asserting that I owe a
great measure of my literary success to the kindly recognition
and interest of the Queen. I take the present opportunity
to clear up this perverse misunderstanding. My books have been
(11:47):
running successfully through several editions for six years, and the
much commented upon presentation of a complete set of them
to her Majesty took place only last year. If it
were possible to regret the honor of the Queen's acceptance
of these volumes, I should certainly have cause to do so,
as the extraordinary spite and malice that has since been
(12:07):
poured on my unoffending head has shown me a very
bad side of human nature, which I am sorry to
have seen. There is very little cause to envy me
in this matter. I have but received the courteously formal
thanks of the Queen and the Empress Frederick, conveyed through
the medium of their ladies in waiting for the special
copies of the books their majesties were pleased to admire.
(12:29):
Yet for this simple and quite ordinary honor, I've been
subjected to such forms of gratuitous abuse, as I did
nothing possible to adjust and noble English press. I've often
wondered why I was not equally assailed when the Queen
of Italy, not content with merely accepting a copy of
the Romance of Two Worlds, send me an autograph portrait
(12:50):
of herself, accompanied by a charming letter, a souvenir which
I value not at all because the sender is a queen,
but because she's a sweet and no whose every action
is marked by grace and unselfishness, and who has deservedly
won the title given her by her people. The blessing
of Italy. I repeat, I owe nothing whatever of my popularity,
(13:13):
such as it is, to any royal notice or favor,
though I am naturally glad to have been kindly recognized
and encouraged by those throned powers who command the nation's
utmost love and loyalty. But my appeal for hearing was
first made to the great public, and the public responded. Moreover,
they do still respond with so much heartiness and goodwill,
(13:34):
that I should be the most ungrateful scribbler that ever
scribbled if I did not, despite pressed drubbings and the
amusing total ignoring of my very existence by certain cliquet
literary magazines, take up my courage in both hands, as
the French say, and march steadily onward to such generous
cheering and encouragement. I'm told by an eminent literary authority
(13:56):
that critics are down upon me because I write about
the supernatural. I do not entirely believe the eminent literary authority.
And as much as I have not always written about
the supernatural, neither Vendetta, north Elma nor wormwood is supernatural,
but says the eminent literary authority, why write it all
(14:17):
at any time about the supernatural. Why because I feel
the existence of the supernatural, and feeling it, I must
speak of it. I understand that the religion we profess
to follow emanates from the supernatural, and I presume that
churches exist for the solemn worship of the supernatural. Wherefore,
(14:37):
if the supernatural be thus universally acknowledged as a guide
for thought in marls, I fail to see why I,
and as many others as choose to do so, should
not write on the subject. An author has quite as
much right to characterize angels and saints in his or
her pages as a painter has to depict them on
his canvas. And I do not keep my belief in
(14:59):
the supernatural as a sort of special mood to be
entered into on Sundays only. It accompanies me in my
daily round and helps me along in all my business.
But I distinctly wish to be understood that I am
neither a spiritualist nor a theosophist. I am not a
strong minded woman with egotistical ideas of a mission. I
(15:22):
have no other supernatural belief than that which is taught
by the founder of our faith, and this can never
be shaken from me or sneered down. If critics object
to my dealing with this in my books, they are
very welcome to do so. Their objections will not turn
me from what they are pleased to consider the error
of my ways. I know that unrelieved naturalism and atheism
(15:45):
are much more admired subjects with a critical faculty, But
the public differ from this view. The public, being in
the main healthy minded and honest, do not care for
positivism and pessimism. They like to believe in something better
than themselves. They like to rest on the ennobling idea
that there is a great, loving maker of this splendid universe.
(16:08):
And they have no lasting affection for any author whose
tendency in teaching is to despise the hope of heaven
and reason away the existence of God. It's very clever,
no doubt, and very brilliant to deny the creator. It's
as if a monkey, should, while being caged and fed
by man, deny man's existence. Such a circumstance would make
(16:29):
us laugh. Of course, we should think it uncommonly smart
of the monkey, but we should not take his statement
for a fact. All the same of the mechanical part
of my work, there is little to say. I write
every day from ten in the morning till two in
the afternoon, alone and undisturbed, save for the tin pot
tinkling of unmusical neighbour's pianos, and the perpetual organ grinding
(16:53):
which is freely permitted to interfere. Add libtum with the
quiet and comfort of all the patient brain workers who
pay rent and taxes in this great and glorious metropolis.
I generally scribble off the first rough draft of a
story very rapidly in pencil. Then I copy it out
in pen and ink chapter by chapter with fastidious care,
(17:15):
not only because I like a neat manuscript, but because
I think everything that is worth doing at all is
worth doing well. And I do not see why my
publishers should have to pay for more printers errors than
the printers themselves make necessary. I find too, that in
the gradual process of copying by hand, the original draft,
(17:37):
like a painter's first sketch, gets improved and enlarged. No
one sees my manuscript before it goes to press. As
I am now able to refuse to submit my work
to the judgment of readers, these worthies treated me roughly
in the beginning, but they will never have the chance again.
I correct my proofs myself, though I regret to say
(17:59):
my instruction, auctions and revisions are not always followed. In
my novel Wormwood, I corrected the French article left Shows
to lat Chows three times, but apparently the printers preferred
their own French, for it is still let shows in
the favorite edition, and the error is stereotyped. In accordance
(18:21):
with the arrangement made by mister George Bentley for my
first book, I retained to myself sole possession of all
my copyrights, and as all my novels are successes, the
financial results are distinctly pleasing. America, of course, is always
a thorn in the side of an author. The romance Vendetta, Thelma,
(18:41):
and Ardath were all pirated over there before the passing
of the American Copyright Act, it being apparently out of
Messrs Bentley and sons line to make even an attempt
to protect my rights. After the Act was passed, I
was paid a sum for Wormwood and a larger sum
for the so of Lilith, but as everyone knows, the
(19:03):
usual honorarium offered by American publishers for the rights of
a successful English novel are totally inadequate to the sales
they are able to command. American critics, however, have been
very good to me. They have at least read my
books before starting to review them, which is a great thing.
I've always kept my Tauschnitz rights, and very pleasant have
(19:24):
all my dealings been with the courteous and generous Baron.
All wanderers on the continent love the Tauschnitz volumes. Their neatness,
handy form, and remarkably clear type given them precedence over
every other foreign series. Baron Tauschnitz pays his authors excellently
well and takes a literary as well as commercial interest
(19:46):
in their fortunes. Perhaps one of the pleasantest things connected
with my success is the popularity I've won in many
quarters of the continent without any exertion on my own part.
My name is as well known in Germany as anywhere,
while in Sweden they have been good enough to elect
me as one of their favorite authors thanks to the
(20:07):
admirable translations made of all my books by Miss Emily
Coleman of Stockholm, whose energy did not desert her even
when she had so difficult a task to perform as
the rendering of Artath into Swedish. In Italy and Spain,
Vendetta translated into the languages of those countries is popular.
Madame Emma Gore Ducci Giaconi is the translator of Wormwood
(20:30):
into Italian, and her almost literal and perfect rendering has
been running as the Fulton in the Florentine journal Le
Nazione under the title leal Kulismo Oodrama di Parigi. The
Romance of two Worlds is to be had in Russian,
so I am told, and it will shortly be published
at Athens, rendered into modern Greek. While engaged in writing
(20:54):
this article, I have received a letter asking for permission
to translate this same romance into one of the dialects
of northwest India, a request I shall very readily grant
in its eastern dress. The book will, I understand, be
published at luck Now. I may here state that I
gain no financial advantage from these numerous translations, nor do
(21:16):
I seek any. Sometimes the translators do not even ask
my permission to translate, but content themselves with sending me
a copy of the book when completed, without any word
of explanation. And now to wind up, if I have
made a name. If I have made a career, as
it seems I have, I have only one piece of
(21:37):
pride connected with it, not pride in my work. For
no one with a grain of sense or modesty would
in these days dare to consider his or her literary
efforts of much worth as compared with what has already
been done by the past great authors. My pride is
simply this, that I have fought my fight alone, and
(21:57):
that I have no thanks to offer to anyone save
those legitimately due to the publisher who launched my first book,
but who it must be remembered, would, as a good businessman,
have unquestionably published nothing else of mine. Had I been
a failure, I count no friend on the press, and
I own no distinguished critic, any debt of gratitude. I
(22:18):
have come, by happy chance, straight into close and sympathetic
union with my public, and attained to independence and good fortune,
while still young and able to enjoy both. An incomprehensibly
successful novelist, I was called last summer by an irritated
correspondent of life who chanced to see me sharing in
the full flow of pleasure and social amusement during the
(22:40):
season at Hamburg. Well, if it be so, this incomprehensible
success has been attained, I rejoice to say, without either
log roller or boom, and worry of the old Greek faith,
I should poor libation to the gods for giving me
this victory. Certainly I used to hope for what Britishers
(23:00):
aptly call fair play from the critics, but I have
ceased to expect that. Now it is evidently a delight
to them to abuse me, else they would not go
out of their way to do it, And I have
no wish to interfere with either their copy or their fun.
The public are beyond them altogether, And literature is like
(23:21):
that famous hill told of in the Arabian Nights, where threatening,
anominous voices shouted the most deadly insults and injuries to
anyone who attempted to climb it. If the adventurer turned
back to listen, he was instantly changed into stone. But
if he pressed boldly on, he reached the summit and
found magic talismans. Now I am only at the commencement
(23:42):
of the journey, and am ascending the hill with a
light heart and in good humor. I hear the taunting
voices on all sides, but I do not stop to listen,
nor have I once turned back. My eyes are fixed
on the distinct peak of the mountain, and my mind
is set on arriving there if possible. My ambition may
be too great, and I may never arrive. That is
(24:05):
a matter for the fates to settle. But in the
meanwhile I enjoy climbing. I have nothing to grumble about.
I consider literature the noblest art in the world, and
have no complaint whatever to urge against it. As a profession.
Its rewards, whether great or small, are sufficient for me
inasmuch as I love my work, and love makes all
(24:27):
things easy. Note. Since writing the above, I have been
asked to state whether, in my arrangements for publishing, I
employ a literary agent or use a typewriter. I do not.
With regard to the first part of the query. I
consider that authors, like other people, should learn how to
manage their own affairs themselves, and that when they take
(24:49):
a paid agent into their confidence, they make open confession
of their business incapacity, and voluntarily elect to remain in
foolish ignorance of the practical part of their life profession. Secondly,
I disliked typewriting, and preferred to make my own ms
distinctly legible. It takes no more time to write clearly
than in spidery hieroglyphics, and a slovenly scribble is no
(25:13):
proof of cleverness, but rather of carelessness and a tendency
to scamp work. End of Chapter sixteen, recording by Lynn Handler,
Chapter sixteen of my first book. This is a LibriVox recording.
All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. A
Romance of Two Worlds by Marie Corelli. It is an
unromantic thing for an author to have had no literary vicissitudes.
(00:24):
One cannot expect to be considered interesting unless one has
come up to London with the proverbial solitary shilling, and
gone about, hungry and footsore, begging from one hard hearted
publisher's house to another, with one's perpetually rejected manuscript under
one's arm. One ought to have consumed the midnight oil,
to have coined one heart's blood, to borrow the tragic
(00:47):
expression of a contemporary gentleman novelist, to have sacrificed one's
self respect by metaphorically crawling on all fours to the
critical faculty, and to have become esthetically cadaverous and through
the action of inspired dyspepsia. Now I am obliged to
confess that I have done none of these things, which,
(01:08):
to quote the Prayer Book, I ought to have done.
I have had no difficulty in making my career or
winning my public And I attribute my good fortune to
the simple fact that I have always tried to write
straight from my own heart to the hearts of others,
regardless of opinions and indifferent to results. My object in
(01:28):
writing has never been, and never will be, to concoct
a mere story which shall bring me to a certain
amount of cash or notoriety, but solely because I wish
to say something which be it ill or well said,
is the candid and independent expression of a thought which
I will have uttered at all risks in the spirit.
I wrote my first book, A Romance of Two Worlds,
(01:51):
now in its seventh edition. It was the simply worded
narration of a singular psychical experience, and included certain theories
on religion which I personally speaking except and believe, I
had no sort of literary pride in my work whatsoever.
There was nothing of self in the wish I had
that my ideas, such as they were, should reach the public,
(02:13):
for I had no particular need of money, and certainly
no hankering after fame. When the book was written, I
doubted whether it would ever find a publisher, though I
determined to try and launch it if possible, My notion
was to offer it to Arrowsmith as a shilling railway
volume under the title Lifted Up, but in the interim,
(02:34):
as a kind of test of its merit or demerit,
I sent the ms to mister George Bentley, head of
the long established and famous Bentley publishing firm. It ran
the gauntlet of his readers first, and they all advised
its summary rejection. Among these readers at that time was
mister hall Kane. His strictures on my work were peculiarly bitter,
(02:58):
though strange to relate. He afterwards forgot the nature of
his own report. For on being introduced to me at
a ball given by Miss Eastlake, when my name was
made in my success assured, he blandly remarked before a
select circle of interested auditors that he had had the
pleasure of recommending my first book to mister Bentley. Comment
(03:21):
on this were needless and unkind. He tells stories so
admirably that I readily excuse him for his slip of
memory and accept the whole incident as a delightful example
of his inventive faculty. His severe judgment pronounced upon me,
combined with similar but perhaps milder severity on the part
of the other readers had, however, an unexpected result. Mister
(03:45):
George Bentley, moved by curiosity and possibly by compassion for
the impending fate of a young woman, so sat upon
by his selected censors, decided to read my ms himself.
Happily for me, the consequence of his unprejudiced and impartial
perusal was acceptance, and I still keep the kind and
(04:05):
encouraging letter he wrote to me at the time informing
me of his decision and stating the terms of his offer.
These terms were a sum down for one year's rights
the copyright of the work to remain my own entire property.
I did not then understand what an advantage this retaining
of my copyright in my own possession was to prove
(04:26):
to me financially speaking. But I am willing to do
mister Bentley the full justice of supposing that he foresaw
the success of the book, and that therefore his action
in leaving me the sole owner of my then very
small literary estate, redounds very much to his credit and
as an evident proof amongst many of his manifest honor
(04:46):
and integrity. Of course, the copyright of an unsuccessful book
is valueless. But my Romance was destined to prove a
sound investment. Though I never dreamed that it would be
so glad of my chance of reaching the public with
what I had to say, I gratefully closed with mister
Bentley's proposal. He considered the title lifted up as lacking attractiveness.
(05:11):
It was therefore discarded, and mister Eric Mackay, the poet,
gave the book its present name, A Romance of two Worlds.
Once published, the career of the Romance became singular and
totally apart from that of any other so called novel.
It only received four reviews, all brief and distinctly unfavorable.
(05:34):
The one which appeared in the Dignified Morning Post is
a fair sample of the rest. I keep it by
me preciously because it serves as a wholesome tonic to
my mind and proves to me that when a leading
journal can so review a book, one need fear nothing
from the literary knowledge, acumen, or discernment of reviewers. I
(05:55):
quote it verbatim. Miss Corelli would have been better advised
had she bodied her ridiculous ideas and a sixpenny pamphlet.
The names of Heliobas and Zara are alone sufficient indications
of the dullness of this book. This was all. No
explanation was vouchsafed as to why my ideas were ridiculous,
(06:15):
though such explanation was justly due. Nor did the reviewer
state why he or she found the names of characters
sufficient indications of dullness, a curious discovery which I believe
is unique. However, the so called critique did one good thing.
It moved me to sincere laughter and showed me what
(06:37):
I might expect from the critical brethren in these days,
days which can no longer boast of a Lord Maclai,
a brilliant if bitter Jeffrey, or a generous Sir Walter Scott.
To resume the four notices. Having been grudgingly bestowed, the
press drop the romance, considering no doubt that it was
quashed and would die the usual death of women's novels,
(07:00):
as they are contemptuously called in the prescribed year. But
it did nothing of the sort. Ignored by the press.
It attracted the public. Letters concerning it and its theories
began to pour in from strangers in all parts of
the United Kingdom, and at the end of its twelve
months run in the circulating libraries, mister Bentley brought it
(07:21):
out in one volume in his favorite series. Then it
started off at full gallop. The great majority got at it,
and what is more, kept at it. It was pirated
in America, chosen out and liberally paid for by Baron
Tauschnitz for the Tauschnitz series, translated into various languages on
the continent, and became a topic of social discussion. A
(07:43):
perfect notion of correspondents flowed in upon me from India, Africa,
Australia and America. And at this very time I count
through correspondence a host of friends in all parts of
the world, whom I do not suppose I shall ever
see even carry their enthusiasm so far as to place
their houses at my disposal for a year or two years.
(08:06):
And surely the force of hospitality can no further go.
With all these attentions, I began to find out the
advantage my practical publisher had given me in the retaining
of my copyright. My royalties commenced, increased and accumulated with
every quarter, and at the present moment continues still to accumulate,
so much so that The Romance of Two Worlds alone,
(08:29):
apart from all my other works, is the source of
a very pleasant income, and I have great satisfaction in
knowing that its prolonged success is not due to any
influence save that which is contained within itself. It certainly
has not been helped on by the press, for since
I began my career six years ago, I have never
had a word of open encouragement or kindness from any
(08:52):
leading English critic. The only real reviews I ever received
worthy of the name appeared in the Spectator and the
Literary World. The first was on my book Ardath, the
Story of a Dead Self, and in this the overabundant
praise in the beginning was all smothered by the unmitigated
abuse at the end. The second, in the literary World
(09:16):
was eminently generous. It dealt with my last book, The
Soul of Lilith. So taken aback was I with surprise
at receiving and all through kindly as well as scholarly
criticism from any court of the press, that though I
knew nothing about the literary world. I wrote a letter
of thanks to my unknown reviewer, begging the editor to
(09:36):
forward it in the right direction. He did so, and
my generous critic turned out to be a woman, a
literary woman too, fighting a hard fight herself, who would
have had an excuse to slate me as an unrequired
rival in literature had she so chosen, but who, instead
of this easy course, adopted the more difficult path of
(09:56):
justice and unselfishness. After the Romance of Two Worlds, I
wrote Vendetta. Then followed Thelma, and then Ardath, the Story
of a Dead Self, which among other purely personal rewards,
brought me a charming autograph letter from the late Lord
Tennyson full of valuable encouragement. Then followed Wormwood, a Drama
(10:19):
of Paris, now in its fifth edition, Ardath and Thelma
being in their seventh editions. My publishers seldom advertised the
number of my editions, which is, I suppose, the reason
why the continuous run of the books escapes the press
comment of the great success supposed to attend various other
novels which only attained to third or fourth editions. The
(10:42):
Soul of Lilith, published only last year, ran through four
editions in three volume form. It is issued now in
one volume by Messrs Bentley, to whom, however, I have
not offered any new work. A change of publishers is
sometimes advisable, but I have a since year personal liking
for mister George Bentley, who is himself an author of
(11:04):
distinct originality and ability. Though his literary gifts are only
known to his own private circle. His book of essays
entitled After Business is a delightful volume full of point
and brilliancy. Two specially admirable papers being those on Villain
and Carlisle. While it would be difficult to discover a
(11:24):
more taking prose bit than the concluding chapter under an
old Poplar, a very foolish and erroneous rumor has of
late been circulated concerning me, asserting that I owe a
great measure of my literary success to the kindly recognition
and interest of the Queen. I take the present opportunity
to clear up this perverse misunderstanding. My books have been
(11:47):
running successfully through several editions for six years, and the
much commented upon presentation of a complete set of them
to her Majesty took place only last year. If it
were possible to regret the honor of the Queen's acceptance
of these volumes, I should certainly have cause to do so,
as the extraordinary spite and malice that has since been
(12:07):
poured on my unoffending head has shown me a very
bad side of human nature, which I am sorry to
have seen. There is very little cause to envy me
in this matter. I have but received the courteously formal
thanks of the Queen and the Empress Frederick, conveyed through
the medium of their ladies in waiting for the special
copies of the books their majesties were pleased to admire.
(12:29):
Yet for this simple and quite ordinary honor, I've been
subjected to such forms of gratuitous abuse, as I did
nothing possible to adjust and noble English press. I've often
wondered why I was not equally assailed when the Queen
of Italy, not content with merely accepting a copy of
the Romance of Two Worlds, send me an autograph portrait
(12:50):
of herself, accompanied by a charming letter, a souvenir which
I value not at all because the sender is a queen,
but because she's a sweet and no whose every action
is marked by grace and unselfishness, and who has deservedly
won the title given her by her people. The blessing
of Italy. I repeat, I owe nothing whatever of my popularity,
(13:13):
such as it is, to any royal notice or favor,
though I am naturally glad to have been kindly recognized
and encouraged by those throned powers who command the nation's
utmost love and loyalty. But my appeal for hearing was
first made to the great public, and the public responded. Moreover,
they do still respond with so much heartiness and goodwill,
(13:34):
that I should be the most ungrateful scribbler that ever
scribbled if I did not, despite pressed drubbings and the
amusing total ignoring of my very existence by certain cliquet
literary magazines, take up my courage in both hands, as
the French say, and march steadily onward to such generous
cheering and encouragement. I'm told by an eminent literary authority
(13:56):
that critics are down upon me because I write about
the supernatural. I do not entirely believe the eminent literary authority.
And as much as I have not always written about
the supernatural, neither Vendetta, north Elma nor wormwood is supernatural,
but says the eminent literary authority, why write it all
(14:17):
at any time about the supernatural. Why because I feel
the existence of the supernatural, and feeling it, I must
speak of it. I understand that the religion we profess
to follow emanates from the supernatural, and I presume that
churches exist for the solemn worship of the supernatural. Wherefore,
(14:37):
if the supernatural be thus universally acknowledged as a guide
for thought in marls, I fail to see why I,
and as many others as choose to do so, should
not write on the subject. An author has quite as
much right to characterize angels and saints in his or
her pages as a painter has to depict them on
his canvas. And I do not keep my belief in
(14:59):
the supernatural as a sort of special mood to be
entered into on Sundays only. It accompanies me in my
daily round and helps me along in all my business.
But I distinctly wish to be understood that I am
neither a spiritualist nor a theosophist. I am not a
strong minded woman with egotistical ideas of a mission. I
(15:22):
have no other supernatural belief than that which is taught
by the founder of our faith, and this can never
be shaken from me or sneered down. If critics object
to my dealing with this in my books, they are
very welcome to do so. Their objections will not turn
me from what they are pleased to consider the error
of my ways. I know that unrelieved naturalism and atheism
(15:45):
are much more admired subjects with a critical faculty, But
the public differ from this view. The public, being in
the main healthy minded and honest, do not care for
positivism and pessimism. They like to believe in something better
than themselves. They like to rest on the ennobling idea
that there is a great, loving maker of this splendid universe.
(16:08):
And they have no lasting affection for any author whose
tendency in teaching is to despise the hope of heaven
and reason away the existence of God. It's very clever,
no doubt, and very brilliant to deny the creator. It's
as if a monkey, should, while being caged and fed
by man, deny man's existence. Such a circumstance would make
(16:29):
us laugh. Of course, we should think it uncommonly smart
of the monkey, but we should not take his statement
for a fact. All the same of the mechanical part
of my work, there is little to say. I write
every day from ten in the morning till two in
the afternoon, alone and undisturbed, save for the tin pot
tinkling of unmusical neighbour's pianos, and the perpetual organ grinding
(16:53):
which is freely permitted to interfere. Add libtum with the
quiet and comfort of all the patient brain workers who
pay rent and taxes in this great and glorious metropolis.
I generally scribble off the first rough draft of a
story very rapidly in pencil. Then I copy it out
in pen and ink chapter by chapter with fastidious care,
(17:15):
not only because I like a neat manuscript, but because
I think everything that is worth doing at all is
worth doing well. And I do not see why my
publishers should have to pay for more printers errors than
the printers themselves make necessary. I find too, that in
the gradual process of copying by hand, the original draft,
(17:37):
like a painter's first sketch, gets improved and enlarged. No
one sees my manuscript before it goes to press. As
I am now able to refuse to submit my work
to the judgment of readers, these worthies treated me roughly
in the beginning, but they will never have the chance again.
I correct my proofs myself, though I regret to say
(17:59):
my instruction, auctions and revisions are not always followed. In
my novel Wormwood, I corrected the French article left Shows
to lat Chows three times, but apparently the printers preferred
their own French, for it is still let shows in
the favorite edition, and the error is stereotyped. In accordance
(18:21):
with the arrangement made by mister George Bentley for my
first book, I retained to myself sole possession of all
my copyrights, and as all my novels are successes, the
financial results are distinctly pleasing. America, of course, is always
a thorn in the side of an author. The romance Vendetta, Thelma,
(18:41):
and Ardath were all pirated over there before the passing
of the American Copyright Act, it being apparently out of
Messrs Bentley and sons line to make even an attempt
to protect my rights. After the Act was passed, I
was paid a sum for Wormwood and a larger sum
for the so of Lilith, but as everyone knows, the
(19:03):
usual honorarium offered by American publishers for the rights of
a successful English novel are totally inadequate to the sales
they are able to command. American critics, however, have been
very good to me. They have at least read my
books before starting to review them, which is a great thing.
I've always kept my Tauschnitz rights, and very pleasant have
(19:24):
all my dealings been with the courteous and generous Baron.
All wanderers on the continent love the Tauschnitz volumes. Their neatness,
handy form, and remarkably clear type given them precedence over
every other foreign series. Baron Tauschnitz pays his authors excellently
well and takes a literary as well as commercial interest
(19:46):
in their fortunes. Perhaps one of the pleasantest things connected
with my success is the popularity I've won in many
quarters of the continent without any exertion on my own part.
My name is as well known in Germany as anywhere,
while in Sweden they have been good enough to elect
me as one of their favorite authors thanks to the
(20:07):
admirable translations made of all my books by Miss Emily
Coleman of Stockholm, whose energy did not desert her even
when she had so difficult a task to perform as
the rendering of Artath into Swedish. In Italy and Spain,
Vendetta translated into the languages of those countries is popular.
Madame Emma Gore Ducci Giaconi is the translator of Wormwood
(20:30):
into Italian, and her almost literal and perfect rendering has
been running as the Fulton in the Florentine journal Le
Nazione under the title leal Kulismo Oodrama di Parigi. The
Romance of two Worlds is to be had in Russian,
so I am told, and it will shortly be published
at Athens, rendered into modern Greek. While engaged in writing
(20:54):
this article, I have received a letter asking for permission
to translate this same romance into one of the dialects
of northwest India, a request I shall very readily grant
in its eastern dress. The book will, I understand, be
published at luck Now. I may here state that I
gain no financial advantage from these numerous translations, nor do
(21:16):
I seek any. Sometimes the translators do not even ask
my permission to translate, but content themselves with sending me
a copy of the book when completed, without any word
of explanation. And now to wind up, if I have
made a name. If I have made a career, as
it seems I have, I have only one piece of
(21:37):
pride connected with it, not pride in my work. For
no one with a grain of sense or modesty would
in these days dare to consider his or her literary
efforts of much worth as compared with what has already
been done by the past great authors. My pride is
simply this, that I have fought my fight alone, and
(21:57):
that I have no thanks to offer to anyone save
those legitimately due to the publisher who launched my first book,
but who it must be remembered, would, as a good businessman,
have unquestionably published nothing else of mine. Had I been
a failure, I count no friend on the press, and
I own no distinguished critic, any debt of gratitude. I
(22:18):
have come, by happy chance, straight into close and sympathetic
union with my public, and attained to independence and good fortune,
while still young and able to enjoy both. An incomprehensibly
successful novelist, I was called last summer by an irritated
correspondent of life who chanced to see me sharing in
the full flow of pleasure and social amusement during the
(22:40):
season at Hamburg. Well, if it be so, this incomprehensible
success has been attained, I rejoice to say, without either
log roller or boom, and worry of the old Greek faith,
I should poor libation to the gods for giving me
this victory. Certainly I used to hope for what Britishers
(23:00):
aptly call fair play from the critics, but I have
ceased to expect that. Now it is evidently a delight
to them to abuse me, else they would not go
out of their way to do it, And I have
no wish to interfere with either their copy or their fun.
The public are beyond them altogether, And literature is like
(23:21):
that famous hill told of in the Arabian Nights, where threatening,
anominous voices shouted the most deadly insults and injuries to
anyone who attempted to climb it. If the adventurer turned
back to listen, he was instantly changed into stone. But
if he pressed boldly on, he reached the summit and
found magic talismans. Now I am only at the commencement
(23:42):
of the journey, and am ascending the hill with a
light heart and in good humor. I hear the taunting
voices on all sides, but I do not stop to listen,
nor have I once turned back. My eyes are fixed
on the distinct peak of the mountain, and my mind
is set on arriving there if possible. My ambition may
be too great, and I may never arrive. That is
(24:05):
a matter for the fates to settle. But in the
meanwhile I enjoy climbing. I have nothing to grumble about.
I consider literature the noblest art in the world, and
have no complaint whatever to urge against it. As a profession.
Its rewards, whether great or small, are sufficient for me
inasmuch as I love my work, and love makes all
(24:27):
things easy. Note. Since writing the above, I have been
asked to state whether, in my arrangements for publishing, I
employ a literary agent or use a typewriter. I do not.
With regard to the first part of the query. I
consider that authors, like other people, should learn how to
manage their own affairs themselves, and that when they take
(24:49):
a paid agent into their confidence, they make open confession
of their business incapacity, and voluntarily elect to remain in
foolish ignorance of the practical part of their life profession. Secondly,
I disliked typewriting, and preferred to make my own ms
distinctly legible. It takes no more time to write clearly
than in spidery hieroglyphics, and a slovenly scribble is no
(25:13):
proof of cleverness, but rather of carelessness and a tendency
to scamp work. End of Chapter sixteen, recording by Lynn Handler,
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