August 18, 2025 • 30 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 seventeen 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. My
first book by various On the Stage and Off by
(00:23):
Jerome k Jerome. The Story of One's first book I
take to be the last chapter of one's literary romance.
The long wooing is over. The ardent young author has
at last won his koi public, The good publisher has
joined their hands. The merry critics invited to the feast
(00:44):
of reason that blessed the union and thrown the rice
and slippers, occasionally other things. The bridegroom sits alone with
his bride, none between them, and ponders the fierce struggle,
with its wild hopes and fears, its heart leapings and
heart achings, Its rose pink dawns of endless promise, its
(01:07):
gray twilights of despair, its passion and its pain, lies
behind before him, stretches the long level road of daily doing.
Will he please her to all time? Will she always
be sweet and gracious to him? Will she never tire
of him? The echo of the wedding bells floats faintly
(01:28):
through the darkening room. The fair forms of half forgotten
dreams rise up around him. He springs to his feet
with a slight shiver, and rings for the lamps to
be lighted. Ah, that first book we meant to write.
How it pressed forward an auraphlum of joy through all
ranks and peoples. How the world rang with the wonder
(01:50):
of it, How men and women laughed and cried over it.
From every page there leaped to light a new idea.
It's every paragraph scintillated with fresh wit, deep thought, and
new humor. And yet, gods, how the critics praised it,
how they rejoiced over the discovery of the new genius.
How ably they pointed out to the reading public its
(02:13):
manifold merits, its marvelous charm. I was a great work,
that book we wrote as we strode laughing through the
silent streets beneath the little stars. And hey, hope, what
a poor thing it was, the book that we did write.
I draw him from my shelf. He is of a
(02:33):
faint pink color, as though blushing all over for his sins,
and standing him up before me on the desk. Jerome
k Jerome, the k, very big, followed by a small jay,
so that in many quarters the author is spoken of
as Jerome could Jerome, a name that in certain smoke
laden circles still clings to me on the stage and off,
(02:58):
the brief career of a would be actor one shilling.
I suppose I ought to be ashamed of him? But
how can I be? Is he not my first born?
Did he not come to me in the days of
weariness making my heart glad and proud? Do I not
love him the more for her shortcomings? Somehow, as I
(03:18):
stare at him in this dim candle light, he seems
to take odd shape. Slowly he grows into a little
pink imp sitting cross legged among the litter of my
books and papers, squinting at me. I think the squint
is caused by the big K, and I find myself
chatting with him. It is an interesting conversation to me,
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for it is entirely about myself, and I do nearly
all the talking, he merely throwing in an occasional necessary reply,
or recalling to my memory a forgotten name or face.
We chat of this little room in Whitfield Street, off
the Tottenham Court Road, where he was born of our
(04:01):
depressing meet god old landlady, and how one day, during
the course of chance talk, it came out that she,
in the far back days of her youth, had been
an actress when he staged love and breaking stage hearts
with the best of them. Of how the faded face
would light up as standing with the tea tray in
her hands, she would tell us of her triumphs and
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repeat to us her press notices which she had learned
by heart. And of how from her we heard not
a few facts and stories useful to us. We talked
of the footsteps that of evenings would climb the creaking
stairs and enter at our door. Of George, who always
believed in us, God bless him, though he could never
(04:44):
explain why, the practical Charlie who thought we should do
better if we left literature alone and stuck to work. Ah, Well,
he meant kindly, and there'd be many who would like
that he had prevailed. We remember the difficulties we had
to contend with the couple in the room below, who
would come in and go to bed at twelve and
(05:05):
lie there quarreling loudly until sleep overcame them about two,
driving our tender and philosophical sentences entirely out of our head.
Of the asthmatical old law rider who's never ceasing cough
troubled us greatly. Maybe it troubled him also. But I
fear we did not consider that of the rickety table
(05:28):
that wabbled as we wrote, and that, whenever in a
forgetful moment we leant upon gently but firmly collapsed. Yes,
I said to the little pink imp. As a study,
the room had its drawbacks, But we lived some grand
hours there, didn't we. We laughed and sang there, and
the songs we chose breathed ever of hope and victory,
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and so loudly we sang them. We might have been
modern Joshuas, thinking to capture a city with our breath.
And then that wonderful view used to see from its
dingy window panes, that golden country that lay stretched before us,
beyond the thousand chimney pots, above the drifting smoke, above
the creeping fog. Do you remember that it was worth
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living in that cramped room, worth sleeping on that knobbly
bed to gain an occasional glimpse of the shining land
with its marble palaces, where one day we should enter
an honored guest, its wide market places, where the people
thronged to listen to our words. I've climbed many stairs,
peered through many windows in this London town since then,
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but never have I seen that view again. Yet from
somewhere in our miss it must be visible for friends
of mine, as we have said alone, And the talk
is sunk into low tones, broken by long silences. Had
told me that they too have looked upon those same
glittering towers and streets. But the odd thing is that
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one of us has seen them since he was a
very young man. So maybe it is only that the
country is a long way off, and our eyes have
grown dimmer as we have grown older. And who was
that old fellow that helped us so much? I ask
of my little pink friend. You remember him, surely a
very ancient fellow, the oldest actor on the boards, he
(07:21):
always boasted himself, had played with Edmund Keene and Mcreadi.
I used to put you in my pocket of a
night and meet him outside the stage door of the Princesses,
and we would adjourn to a little tavern in an
old Oxford market to talk you over. And he would
tell me anecdotes and stories to put in you. You mean, Johnson,
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says the pink N J. B. Johnson. He was with
you in your first engagement at Astley's under Murray Wood
and Virginia Blackwood. He and you were the high priests
in Mazeppa, if you remember, and had to carry Lisa
Weber across the stage, you taking your head and hear
her heels. You recollect what he said to her on
(08:03):
the first night as you were both staggering towards the couch. Well,
I've played with Fanny Kimball, Cushmunt Glynn and all of them.
But hang me, my dear, you ain't the heaviest lead
I've ever supported. That's the old fellow, I replied. I
owe a good deal to him, and so do you.
(08:24):
I used to read bits of you to him in
a whisper as we stood in the bar, and he
always had one formula, praise for you. Damn clever, young,
damn clever. I shouldn't have thought it of you, and
that reminds me. I continue. I hesitate a little here,
for I fear what I'm about to say may offend him.
(08:44):
What have you done to yourself since I wrote you.
I was looking you over the other day, and really
I could scarcely recognize you. You were full of brilliancy
and originality when you were in manuscript. What have you
done with it? All by some mysterious process. He contrives
to introduce an extra twist into the squint with which
(09:05):
he is regarding me, but makes no reply. And I continued.
Take for example, that gem I lighted upon one drisly
night in Portland Place. I remember the circumstance distinctly. I've
been walking the deserted streets, working at you, my notebook
in one hand and a pencil on the other. I
was coming home through Portland Place when suddenly, just beyond
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the third lamp post from the Crescent, there flashed into
my brain a thought so original, so deep, so true,
that involuntarily I exclaimed, my God, what a grand idea.
And a coffee stall keeper passing with his barrow just
at that moment sang out, tell it us, gov'nor, there
ain't many knocking about. I took no notice of the man,
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but hurried on to the next lamp post to jot
down that brilliant idea before I should forget it. In
the moment I reached home my told you out of
your drawer and copied it out onto your pages, and
sat long staring at it, wondering what the world would
say when it came to read it. Altogether. I must
have put into you nearly a dozen startling original thoughts.
(10:14):
What have you done with them? They're certainly not there now?
Still he keeps silence, and I wax indignant at the
evident amusement with which he regards my accusation, and the
bright wit, the rollicking humor with which I made your
pages sparkle. Where are they? I asked him, reproachfully, those
(10:37):
epigrammatic flashes that, when struck, illumined the little room with
a blaze of sudden light, showing each cobweb in its
dusty corner and dying out, leaving my dazzled eyes groping
for the lamp. Those grand jokes it which I myself
as I have made them laugh till the rickety iron
bedstead beneath me shook in sympathy with harsh italic laughter.
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Where are they, my friend? I've read you through page
by page, and the thoughts in you are thoughts that
the world has grown tired of thinking at your wit
one smiles, thinking that anyone could think it wit in
your humor, your severest critic could hardly accuse of being
very new. What has happened to you? What wicked fairy
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has bewitched? You? Poured gold into your love, and you
yield me back only crumpled leaves with a jerk of
his quaint legs. He assumes a more upright posture, My
dear parent, He begins, in a tone that at once
reverses our positions, so that he becomes the monitor, and
II the wriggling admonished. Don't I pray you turn prig
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in your old age. Don't sink into the superior person
who mistakes carping for criticism and jeering for judgment. Any
fool can see false they on the surface. The merit
of a thing is hidden within it and is visible
only to insight. And there is merit in me in
(12:08):
spite of your cheap sneers. Sir, maybe I do not
contain an original idea, show me the book published since
the days of Caxton. That does. Are our young men,
as are the youth of China, to be forbidden to
think because Confucius thought years ago. The wit you appreciate
now seems to be more pungent than the wit that
(12:31):
satisfied you at twenty. Are you sure it is as wholesome?
You cannot smile at humor you would once have laughed at.
Is it you or the humor that has grown old
and stale. I'm the work of a very young man who,
writing of that which he knew and had felt, put
down all things truthfully as they appeared to him, in
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such ways seem most natural to him, having no thought
of popular taste, standing in no fear of what critics
might say, be sure that all your future books are
as free from unworthy aims. Besides, he adds, after a
short pause during which I have started to reply, but
have turned back to think again. Is not this idle
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talk between you and me? This apologetic attitude? Is it
not the cant of the literary profession? At the bottom
of your heart? You are proud of me, as every
author is, of every book he has written. Some of
them he thinks better than others, But as the irishman
said of whiskies, they are all good. He sees their shortcomings.
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He dreams he could have done better, But he is
positivef no one else could. His little twinkling eyes looked
sternly at me, and, feeling that the discussion is drifting
into awkward channels, I hasten to divert it, and we
return to the chat about our early experiences. I ask
him if he remembers those ruis days, When written neatly
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in round hand on sermon paper, he journeyed a ceaseless
round from newspaper to newspaper, from magazine to magazine, returning
always soiled and limp to Whitfield Street, still further darkening
the ill lit room as he entered. Some would keep
him for a month, making me indignant at the waste
(14:21):
of precious time. Others would send him back by the
next post, insulting me by their indecent haste. Many, in
returning him would thank me for having given them the
privilege and pleasure of reading him, and I would curse
them for hypocrites. Others would reject him with no pretense
at regret whatever, and I would marvel at their rudeness.
(14:45):
I hated the dismal little slady who twice a week
on an average, would bring him up to me. If
she smiled as she handed me the packet. I fancied
she was jeering at me if she looked sad, as
she often did, poor little overwork slut, I thought she
was pitying me. I shunned the post minute I saw
(15:06):
him in the street, sure that he guessed my shame.
Did any one ever read you? Out of all those
I sent you to? I asked him to editors read
manuscript by unknown authors, He asked me in return, I
fear no more than they can help. I confess they
would have little else to do. Oh, he remarked demurely.
(15:29):
I thought I had read that they did. Very likely,
I replied, I've also read that theatrical managers read all
the place sent to them, eager to discover new talent.
One obtains much curious information by reading. But some one
did read me. Eventually, he reminds me, and liked me
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give credit where credit is due. Ah, yes, I admit
my My good friend Islemere Gowing, the Walter Gordon of
the old Hay Market in Buckstone's time. Gentleman Gordon, as
Charles Matthews nicknamed him, kindliest and most genial of men,
shall ever forget the brief note that came to me
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four days after I have posted you to the editor play.
Dear sir, I like your articles very much. Can you
call on me tomorrow morning before twelve yours truly w
Alemere Gowan. So success has come at last, not the
glorious goddess I had pictured, but a quiet, pleasant faced lady.
(16:34):
I'd imagine the editor of Cornhill, or the nineteenth Century
or the Illustrated London News writing me that my manuscript
was the most brilliant, witty and powerful story he had
ever read, inclosing me a check for two hundred guineas
the play was an almost unknown little penny weekly run
by mister Gowan, who, though retired, could not bear to
(16:58):
be altogether unconnected with his beloved stage, adding no inconsiderable
yearly loss. It could give me a little faig and
less wealth. But a crust is a feast to a
man who has grown weary of dreaming dinners. And as
I sat with that letter in my hand, a mist
rose before my eyes, and I acted in a way
(17:20):
that would have read foolish if written down. The next morning,
at eleven I stood beneath the porch of thirty seven
Victoria Road, Kensington, Wushing. I did not feel so hot
and nervous, and that I had not pulled the bell
rope quite so vigorously. But when mister Galling and smoking
coat and slippers came forward and shook me by the hand,
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my shyness left me in his study, lined with theatrical books.
We sat and talked. Mister Gowing's voice seemed the sweetest
I had ever listened to, for with unprofessional frankness, it
sang the praises of my work. He and his young
acting days had been through the Provincial mill and found
my pictures true, and many of my pages seemed to him,
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so he said, as good as punch. He meant it complimentary.
He explained to me the position of his paper, and
I agreed only too gladly to give him the use
of the book for nothing. As I was leaving, however,
he called me back and slipped a five pound note
into my hand, a different price from what friend A p.
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Watt charms out of proprietor's pockets for me nowadays. Yet
never since have I felt as rich as on that
foggy November morning when I walked across Kensington Gardens with
that bit of flimsy held tight in my left hand
could not bear the idea of spending it on mere
mundane things. Now and then, during the long days of apprenticeship,
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I drew it from its hiding place and looked at
it sorely tempted. But it always went back. And later,
when the luck began to turn, I purchased with it
at a secondhand shop in Goudach Street, an old Dutch
bureau that I had long had my eye upon. It
is an inconvenient piece of furniture. One cannot stretch one's
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legs as one sits writing at it, and if one
rises suddenly, it knocks bad language into one's knees and
out of one's mouth. But one must pay for sentiment.
As for other things in the play, the papers gained
a fair amount of notice, and one for me some
kindly words, notably I remember from John Clayton and Palgrave Simpson.
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I thought, in the glory of print they would readily
find a publisher. But I was mistaken. The same weary
work lay before me, only now I had more heartened me,
and having wrestled once with fate and prevailed, stood less
in fear of her, sometimes with a letter of introduction,
sometimes without sometimes with a bold face, sometimes with a
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timid step. I visited nearly every publisher in London. A
few received me kindly, others curtly, many not at all.
For most of them I gathered that the making of
books was a pernicious and unprofitable occupation. Some thought the
work would prove highly successful if I paid the expense
(20:23):
of publication, but were less impressed with its merits. On
my explaining to them my financial position, all kept me
waiting long before seeing me, but made haste to say
good day to me. I suppose all young authors have
had to go through the same course. I sat one
evening a few months ago with a literary friend of mine.
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The talk turned upon early struggles, and with a laugh
he said, do you know one of the foolish things
I love to do? I like to go with a
paper parcel under my arm into some big publishing house
and to ask, in a low nervous voice if mister
so and so is disengaged. The clerk, with a contemptuous
glance towards me, says that he is not sure and
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asks if I have an appointment. No, I replied, not exactly,
but I think you will see me it's a matter
of importance. I shall not detain him a minute. The
clerk goes on with his writing, and I stand waiting.
At the end of five minutes, he without looking up,
says curtly, what name? And I hand him my card.
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Up to that point, I've imagined myself a young man again.
But there the fancy is dispelled. The man glances at
the card and then takes a sharp look at me.
I beg your pardon, sir. He says, will you take
a seat? And hear for a moment. In a few
seconds he flies back again with will you kindly step
this way, sir, So I follow him upstairs. I catch
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a glimpse of somebody being hurriedly bustled out of the
private office, and the great man himself comes to the door, smiling,
And as I take his outstretched hand, I am remembering
other times that he has forgotten. In the end, To
make a long story short, as the saying is, mister
tour of ye Leadenhall press urged there too by a
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mutual friend read the book, and I presume found merit
in it, for he offered to publish it if I
would make him a free gift. At the copyright. I
thought the terms hard at the time, though in my
eagerness to see my name upon the cover of a
real book, I quickly agreed to them. But with experience
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I am inclined to admit that the bargain was a
fair one. The English or not a book buying people.
Out of every hundred publications, hardly more than one obtains
a sale of over a thousand, And in the case
of an unknown writer with no personal friends upon the press,
it is surprising how few copies sometimes can be sold.
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I'm happy to think that in this instance, however, nobody suffered.
The book was, as the phrase goes, well received by
the public, who were possibly attracted to it by its subject,
a perennial popular one. Some of the papers praised it,
others dismissed it as utter rubbish, and then, fifteen months later,
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on reviewing my next book, regretted that a young man
who had written such a capital first book should have
followed it up by so wretched a second. One writer,
the greatest enemy I have ever had, though I exonerate
him of all but thoughtlessness, wrote me down as a
humorous which term of reproach, as it is considered to
(23:44):
be in Merry England has clung to me ever since,
so that now if I panopathetic story, the reviewer calls
it a depressing humor, and if I tell a tragic story,
he says it is false humor, and, quoting the eyeing
speech of the broken hearted heroine, indignantly demands to know
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where he is supposed to laugh. I'm firmly persuaded that
if I committed a murder, half the book reviewers would
allude to it as a melancholy example of the extreme
lengths to which the new humor has descended. Once a humorist,
always a humorist, is the reviewer's model, and all things
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allowed for the unenthusiastic publisher, the insufficiently appreciative public. The
wicked critic says, my little pink friend, breaking a somewhat
long silence, what do you think of literature as a profession?
I take some time to reply, for I wish to
get down to what I really think, not stopping as
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one generally does, at one thinks one ought to think.
I think I begin at length that it depends upon
the literary man. The man think to use literature merely
as a means to fame and fortune, and he will
find it in extremely unsatisfactory profession, And he would have
done better to take up politics or company promoting, be
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trouble himself about his status and position therein loving the
uppermost tables at feasts, and the chief seats in public places,
in greetings in the markets, and to be called of men, master, master,
then he will find it a profession fuller than most professions,
of petty jealousy of little spite, of foolish hating and
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foolish law, grovement, of feminine narrowness, and childish querulousness. He
thinks too much of his prices per thousand words, he
will find it a degrading profession, as the solicitor, thinking
only of his bills of cost, will find the law degrading,
as the doctor working only for two guinea fees will
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find medicine degrading. As the priest, with his eyes ever
fixed on the bishop's miter, will find Christianity degrading. But
if he love his work for the work's sake, if
you remain child enough to be fascinated with his own fancies,
to laugh at his own jests, to grieve at his
own pathos, to weep at his own tragedy. Then is
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smoking his pipe. He watches the shadows of his brain
coming and going before his half closed eyes, listens to
their voices in the air about him. He will thank
God for making him a literary man. To such a one,
it seems to me literature must prove ennobling. Of all
the professions, It is the one compelling a man to
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use whatever brain he has to its fullest and widest,
with one or two other callings. It invites him. They
compels him to turn from the clamor of the passing day,
to speak for a while with the voices that are
eternal to me. It seems that if anything outside oneself
can help one, the service of literature must strengthen and purify.
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A man, thinking of his heroine's failings, of his villain's virtues,
may not grow more tolerant of all things kinder, thinking
towards man and woman from the sorrow that he dreams,
may not learn sympathy with the sorrow that he sees.
May not his own brave puppets teach him how a
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man should live and die. To the literary man, all
life is a book. The sparrow on the telegraph wire.
Chirp's cheeky nonsense to him as he passes by. The
urchin's face beneath the gas lamp tells him a story.
Sometimes Mary, sometimes sad, Fog and sunshine have their voices
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for him. Nor can I see, even from the most
worldly and business like point of view, that the modern
man of letters has cause of complaint. The old grub
street days when he starved or begged are gone. Thanks
to the men who have brave sneers and misrepresentation and
unthanked championship of his plain rights. He is now in
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a position of dignified independence. And if he cannot attain
to the twenty thousand a year prizes of the fashionable
QC or MD, he does not have to wait their
time for his success. While what he can and does
earn is amply sufficient for all that a man of
sense need desire. His calling is a password into all ranks,
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in all circles. He is honored. He enjoys the luxury
of a power and influence that many a prime minister
might envy. There is still a last prize in the
gift of literature that needs no sentimentalists to appreciate. In
a drawer of my desk lies a pile of letters,
of which, if I were not very proud, I should
(28:55):
be something more or less than human. They have come
to me from the uttermost parts of the earth, from
the streets near at hand. Some are penned in the
stiff phraseology taught when old fashions were new, Some in
the free and easy colloquiism of the rising generation. Some
written on sick beds, are scrawled in pencil, Some written
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by hands unfamiliar with the English language, are weirdly constructed.
Some are crested, some are smeared, Some are learned, some
are ill spelled in different ways. They tell me that
here and there I have brought to someone a smile
or pleasant thought. That to someone in pain and in sorrow,
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I have given a moment's laugh, pinky yawns, or a
shadow thrown by the guttering candle. Makes it seem so well,
He says, Are we finished? And have we talked about ourselves,
glorified our profession, and annihilated our enemies to our entire satisfaction?
Because if so, you might put me back. I'm feeling sleepy.
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I reach out my hand and take him up by
his wide, flat waist. As I draw him towards me,
his little legs vanish into his squat body. The twinkling
eye becomes dull and lifeless. The dawn steals in upon him,
for I have sat working lone to the night, and
I see that he is only a little shilling book
(30:23):
bound in pink paper, wondering whether our talk together has
been as good as at the time I thought it,
or whether he has led me into making a fool
of myself. I replace him in his corner, and of
on the stage, and off
Chapter seventeen 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. My
first book by various On the Stage and Off by
(00:23):
Jerome k Jerome. The Story of One's first book I
take to be the last chapter of one's literary romance.
The long wooing is over. The ardent young author has
at last won his koi public, The good publisher has
joined their hands. The merry critics invited to the feast
(00:44):
of reason that blessed the union and thrown the rice
and slippers, occasionally other things. The bridegroom sits alone with
his bride, none between them, and ponders the fierce struggle,
with its wild hopes and fears, its heart leapings and
heart achings, Its rose pink dawns of endless promise, its
(01:07):
gray twilights of despair, its passion and its pain, lies
behind before him, stretches the long level road of daily doing.
Will he please her to all time? Will she always
be sweet and gracious to him? Will she never tire
of him? The echo of the wedding bells floats faintly
(01:28):
through the darkening room. The fair forms of half forgotten
dreams rise up around him. He springs to his feet
with a slight shiver, and rings for the lamps to
be lighted. Ah, that first book we meant to write.
How it pressed forward an auraphlum of joy through all
ranks and peoples. How the world rang with the wonder
(01:50):
of it, How men and women laughed and cried over it.
From every page there leaped to light a new idea.
It's every paragraph scintillated with fresh wit, deep thought, and
new humor. And yet, gods, how the critics praised it,
how they rejoiced over the discovery of the new genius.
How ably they pointed out to the reading public its
(02:13):
manifold merits, its marvelous charm. I was a great work,
that book we wrote as we strode laughing through the
silent streets beneath the little stars. And hey, hope, what
a poor thing it was, the book that we did write.
I draw him from my shelf. He is of a
(02:33):
faint pink color, as though blushing all over for his sins,
and standing him up before me on the desk. Jerome
k Jerome, the k, very big, followed by a small jay,
so that in many quarters the author is spoken of
as Jerome could Jerome, a name that in certain smoke
laden circles still clings to me on the stage and off,
(02:58):
the brief career of a would be actor one shilling.
I suppose I ought to be ashamed of him? But
how can I be? Is he not my first born?
Did he not come to me in the days of
weariness making my heart glad and proud? Do I not
love him the more for her shortcomings? Somehow, as I
(03:18):
stare at him in this dim candle light, he seems
to take odd shape. Slowly he grows into a little
pink imp sitting cross legged among the litter of my
books and papers, squinting at me. I think the squint
is caused by the big K, and I find myself
chatting with him. It is an interesting conversation to me,
(03:40):
for it is entirely about myself, and I do nearly
all the talking, he merely throwing in an occasional necessary reply,
or recalling to my memory a forgotten name or face.
We chat of this little room in Whitfield Street, off
the Tottenham Court Road, where he was born of our
(04:01):
depressing meet god old landlady, and how one day, during
the course of chance talk, it came out that she,
in the far back days of her youth, had been
an actress when he staged love and breaking stage hearts
with the best of them. Of how the faded face
would light up as standing with the tea tray in
her hands, she would tell us of her triumphs and
(04:24):
repeat to us her press notices which she had learned
by heart. And of how from her we heard not
a few facts and stories useful to us. We talked
of the footsteps that of evenings would climb the creaking
stairs and enter at our door. Of George, who always
believed in us, God bless him, though he could never
(04:44):
explain why, the practical Charlie who thought we should do
better if we left literature alone and stuck to work. Ah, Well,
he meant kindly, and there'd be many who would like
that he had prevailed. We remember the difficulties we had
to contend with the couple in the room below, who
would come in and go to bed at twelve and
(05:05):
lie there quarreling loudly until sleep overcame them about two,
driving our tender and philosophical sentences entirely out of our head.
Of the asthmatical old law rider who's never ceasing cough
troubled us greatly. Maybe it troubled him also. But I
fear we did not consider that of the rickety table
(05:28):
that wabbled as we wrote, and that, whenever in a
forgetful moment we leant upon gently but firmly collapsed. Yes,
I said to the little pink imp. As a study,
the room had its drawbacks, But we lived some grand
hours there, didn't we. We laughed and sang there, and
the songs we chose breathed ever of hope and victory,
(05:51):
and so loudly we sang them. We might have been
modern Joshuas, thinking to capture a city with our breath.
And then that wonderful view used to see from its
dingy window panes, that golden country that lay stretched before us,
beyond the thousand chimney pots, above the drifting smoke, above
the creeping fog. Do you remember that it was worth
(06:15):
living in that cramped room, worth sleeping on that knobbly
bed to gain an occasional glimpse of the shining land
with its marble palaces, where one day we should enter
an honored guest, its wide market places, where the people
thronged to listen to our words. I've climbed many stairs,
peered through many windows in this London town since then,
(06:38):
but never have I seen that view again. Yet from
somewhere in our miss it must be visible for friends
of mine, as we have said alone, And the talk
is sunk into low tones, broken by long silences. Had
told me that they too have looked upon those same
glittering towers and streets. But the odd thing is that
(07:00):
one of us has seen them since he was a
very young man. So maybe it is only that the
country is a long way off, and our eyes have
grown dimmer as we have grown older. And who was
that old fellow that helped us so much? I ask
of my little pink friend. You remember him, surely a
very ancient fellow, the oldest actor on the boards, he
(07:21):
always boasted himself, had played with Edmund Keene and Mcreadi.
I used to put you in my pocket of a
night and meet him outside the stage door of the Princesses,
and we would adjourn to a little tavern in an
old Oxford market to talk you over. And he would
tell me anecdotes and stories to put in you. You mean, Johnson,
(07:41):
says the pink N J. B. Johnson. He was with
you in your first engagement at Astley's under Murray Wood
and Virginia Blackwood. He and you were the high priests
in Mazeppa, if you remember, and had to carry Lisa
Weber across the stage, you taking your head and hear
her heels. You recollect what he said to her on
(08:03):
the first night as you were both staggering towards the couch. Well,
I've played with Fanny Kimball, Cushmunt Glynn and all of them.
But hang me, my dear, you ain't the heaviest lead
I've ever supported. That's the old fellow, I replied. I
owe a good deal to him, and so do you.
(08:24):
I used to read bits of you to him in
a whisper as we stood in the bar, and he
always had one formula, praise for you. Damn clever, young,
damn clever. I shouldn't have thought it of you, and
that reminds me. I continue. I hesitate a little here,
for I fear what I'm about to say may offend him.
(08:44):
What have you done to yourself since I wrote you.
I was looking you over the other day, and really
I could scarcely recognize you. You were full of brilliancy
and originality when you were in manuscript. What have you
done with it? All by some mysterious process. He contrives
to introduce an extra twist into the squint with which
(09:05):
he is regarding me, but makes no reply. And I continued.
Take for example, that gem I lighted upon one drisly
night in Portland Place. I remember the circumstance distinctly. I've
been walking the deserted streets, working at you, my notebook
in one hand and a pencil on the other. I
was coming home through Portland Place when suddenly, just beyond
(09:29):
the third lamp post from the Crescent, there flashed into
my brain a thought so original, so deep, so true,
that involuntarily I exclaimed, my God, what a grand idea.
And a coffee stall keeper passing with his barrow just
at that moment sang out, tell it us, gov'nor, there
ain't many knocking about. I took no notice of the man,
(09:51):
but hurried on to the next lamp post to jot
down that brilliant idea before I should forget it. In
the moment I reached home my told you out of
your drawer and copied it out onto your pages, and
sat long staring at it, wondering what the world would
say when it came to read it. Altogether. I must
have put into you nearly a dozen startling original thoughts.
(10:14):
What have you done with them? They're certainly not there now?
Still he keeps silence, and I wax indignant at the
evident amusement with which he regards my accusation, and the
bright wit, the rollicking humor with which I made your
pages sparkle. Where are they? I asked him, reproachfully, those
(10:37):
epigrammatic flashes that, when struck, illumined the little room with
a blaze of sudden light, showing each cobweb in its
dusty corner and dying out, leaving my dazzled eyes groping
for the lamp. Those grand jokes it which I myself
as I have made them laugh till the rickety iron
bedstead beneath me shook in sympathy with harsh italic laughter.
(11:01):
Where are they, my friend? I've read you through page
by page, and the thoughts in you are thoughts that
the world has grown tired of thinking at your wit
one smiles, thinking that anyone could think it wit in
your humor, your severest critic could hardly accuse of being
very new. What has happened to you? What wicked fairy
(11:24):
has bewitched? You? Poured gold into your love, and you
yield me back only crumpled leaves with a jerk of
his quaint legs. He assumes a more upright posture, My
dear parent, He begins, in a tone that at once
reverses our positions, so that he becomes the monitor, and
II the wriggling admonished. Don't I pray you turn prig
(11:48):
in your old age. Don't sink into the superior person
who mistakes carping for criticism and jeering for judgment. Any
fool can see false they on the surface. The merit
of a thing is hidden within it and is visible
only to insight. And there is merit in me in
(12:08):
spite of your cheap sneers. Sir, maybe I do not
contain an original idea, show me the book published since
the days of Caxton. That does. Are our young men,
as are the youth of China, to be forbidden to
think because Confucius thought years ago. The wit you appreciate
now seems to be more pungent than the wit that
(12:31):
satisfied you at twenty. Are you sure it is as wholesome?
You cannot smile at humor you would once have laughed at.
Is it you or the humor that has grown old
and stale. I'm the work of a very young man who,
writing of that which he knew and had felt, put
down all things truthfully as they appeared to him, in
(12:53):
such ways seem most natural to him, having no thought
of popular taste, standing in no fear of what critics
might say, be sure that all your future books are
as free from unworthy aims. Besides, he adds, after a
short pause during which I have started to reply, but
have turned back to think again. Is not this idle
(13:16):
talk between you and me? This apologetic attitude? Is it
not the cant of the literary profession? At the bottom
of your heart? You are proud of me, as every
author is, of every book he has written. Some of
them he thinks better than others, But as the irishman
said of whiskies, they are all good. He sees their shortcomings.
(13:39):
He dreams he could have done better, But he is
positivef no one else could. His little twinkling eyes looked
sternly at me, and, feeling that the discussion is drifting
into awkward channels, I hasten to divert it, and we
return to the chat about our early experiences. I ask
him if he remembers those ruis days, When written neatly
(14:01):
in round hand on sermon paper, he journeyed a ceaseless
round from newspaper to newspaper, from magazine to magazine, returning
always soiled and limp to Whitfield Street, still further darkening
the ill lit room as he entered. Some would keep
him for a month, making me indignant at the waste
(14:21):
of precious time. Others would send him back by the
next post, insulting me by their indecent haste. Many, in
returning him would thank me for having given them the
privilege and pleasure of reading him, and I would curse
them for hypocrites. Others would reject him with no pretense
at regret whatever, and I would marvel at their rudeness.
(14:45):
I hated the dismal little slady who twice a week
on an average, would bring him up to me. If
she smiled as she handed me the packet. I fancied
she was jeering at me if she looked sad, as
she often did, poor little overwork slut, I thought she
was pitying me. I shunned the post minute I saw
(15:06):
him in the street, sure that he guessed my shame.
Did any one ever read you? Out of all those
I sent you to? I asked him to editors read
manuscript by unknown authors, He asked me in return, I
fear no more than they can help. I confess they
would have little else to do. Oh, he remarked demurely.
(15:29):
I thought I had read that they did. Very likely,
I replied, I've also read that theatrical managers read all
the place sent to them, eager to discover new talent.
One obtains much curious information by reading. But some one
did read me. Eventually, he reminds me, and liked me
(15:49):
give credit where credit is due. Ah, yes, I admit
my My good friend Islemere Gowing, the Walter Gordon of
the old Hay Market in Buckstone's time. Gentleman Gordon, as
Charles Matthews nicknamed him, kindliest and most genial of men,
shall ever forget the brief note that came to me
(16:10):
four days after I have posted you to the editor play.
Dear sir, I like your articles very much. Can you
call on me tomorrow morning before twelve yours truly w
Alemere Gowan. So success has come at last, not the
glorious goddess I had pictured, but a quiet, pleasant faced lady.
(16:34):
I'd imagine the editor of Cornhill, or the nineteenth Century
or the Illustrated London News writing me that my manuscript
was the most brilliant, witty and powerful story he had
ever read, inclosing me a check for two hundred guineas
the play was an almost unknown little penny weekly run
by mister Gowan, who, though retired, could not bear to
(16:58):
be altogether unconnected with his beloved stage, adding no inconsiderable
yearly loss. It could give me a little faig and
less wealth. But a crust is a feast to a
man who has grown weary of dreaming dinners. And as
I sat with that letter in my hand, a mist
rose before my eyes, and I acted in a way
(17:20):
that would have read foolish if written down. The next morning,
at eleven I stood beneath the porch of thirty seven
Victoria Road, Kensington, Wushing. I did not feel so hot
and nervous, and that I had not pulled the bell
rope quite so vigorously. But when mister Galling and smoking
coat and slippers came forward and shook me by the hand,
(17:42):
my shyness left me in his study, lined with theatrical books.
We sat and talked. Mister Gowing's voice seemed the sweetest
I had ever listened to, for with unprofessional frankness, it
sang the praises of my work. He and his young
acting days had been through the Provincial mill and found
my pictures true, and many of my pages seemed to him,
(18:06):
so he said, as good as punch. He meant it complimentary.
He explained to me the position of his paper, and
I agreed only too gladly to give him the use
of the book for nothing. As I was leaving, however,
he called me back and slipped a five pound note
into my hand, a different price from what friend A p.
(18:28):
Watt charms out of proprietor's pockets for me nowadays. Yet
never since have I felt as rich as on that
foggy November morning when I walked across Kensington Gardens with
that bit of flimsy held tight in my left hand
could not bear the idea of spending it on mere
mundane things. Now and then, during the long days of apprenticeship,
(18:52):
I drew it from its hiding place and looked at
it sorely tempted. But it always went back. And later,
when the luck began to turn, I purchased with it
at a secondhand shop in Goudach Street, an old Dutch
bureau that I had long had my eye upon. It
is an inconvenient piece of furniture. One cannot stretch one's
(19:13):
legs as one sits writing at it, and if one
rises suddenly, it knocks bad language into one's knees and
out of one's mouth. But one must pay for sentiment.
As for other things in the play, the papers gained
a fair amount of notice, and one for me some
kindly words, notably I remember from John Clayton and Palgrave Simpson.
(19:38):
I thought, in the glory of print they would readily
find a publisher. But I was mistaken. The same weary
work lay before me, only now I had more heartened me,
and having wrestled once with fate and prevailed, stood less
in fear of her, sometimes with a letter of introduction,
sometimes without sometimes with a bold face, sometimes with a
(20:02):
timid step. I visited nearly every publisher in London. A
few received me kindly, others curtly, many not at all.
For most of them I gathered that the making of
books was a pernicious and unprofitable occupation. Some thought the
work would prove highly successful if I paid the expense
(20:23):
of publication, but were less impressed with its merits. On
my explaining to them my financial position, all kept me
waiting long before seeing me, but made haste to say
good day to me. I suppose all young authors have
had to go through the same course. I sat one
evening a few months ago with a literary friend of mine.
(20:46):
The talk turned upon early struggles, and with a laugh
he said, do you know one of the foolish things
I love to do? I like to go with a
paper parcel under my arm into some big publishing house
and to ask, in a low nervous voice if mister
so and so is disengaged. The clerk, with a contemptuous
glance towards me, says that he is not sure and
(21:09):
asks if I have an appointment. No, I replied, not exactly,
but I think you will see me it's a matter
of importance. I shall not detain him a minute. The
clerk goes on with his writing, and I stand waiting.
At the end of five minutes, he without looking up,
says curtly, what name? And I hand him my card.
(21:31):
Up to that point, I've imagined myself a young man again.
But there the fancy is dispelled. The man glances at
the card and then takes a sharp look at me.
I beg your pardon, sir. He says, will you take
a seat? And hear for a moment. In a few
seconds he flies back again with will you kindly step
this way, sir, So I follow him upstairs. I catch
(21:54):
a glimpse of somebody being hurriedly bustled out of the
private office, and the great man himself comes to the door, smiling,
And as I take his outstretched hand, I am remembering
other times that he has forgotten. In the end, To
make a long story short, as the saying is, mister
tour of ye Leadenhall press urged there too by a
(22:17):
mutual friend read the book, and I presume found merit
in it, for he offered to publish it if I
would make him a free gift. At the copyright. I
thought the terms hard at the time, though in my
eagerness to see my name upon the cover of a
real book, I quickly agreed to them. But with experience
(22:38):
I am inclined to admit that the bargain was a
fair one. The English or not a book buying people.
Out of every hundred publications, hardly more than one obtains
a sale of over a thousand, And in the case
of an unknown writer with no personal friends upon the press,
it is surprising how few copies sometimes can be sold.
(23:00):
I'm happy to think that in this instance, however, nobody suffered.
The book was, as the phrase goes, well received by
the public, who were possibly attracted to it by its subject,
a perennial popular one. Some of the papers praised it,
others dismissed it as utter rubbish, and then, fifteen months later,
(23:21):
on reviewing my next book, regretted that a young man
who had written such a capital first book should have
followed it up by so wretched a second. One writer,
the greatest enemy I have ever had, though I exonerate
him of all but thoughtlessness, wrote me down as a
humorous which term of reproach, as it is considered to
(23:44):
be in Merry England has clung to me ever since,
so that now if I panopathetic story, the reviewer calls
it a depressing humor, and if I tell a tragic story,
he says it is false humor, and, quoting the eyeing
speech of the broken hearted heroine, indignantly demands to know
(24:05):
where he is supposed to laugh. I'm firmly persuaded that
if I committed a murder, half the book reviewers would
allude to it as a melancholy example of the extreme
lengths to which the new humor has descended. Once a humorist,
always a humorist, is the reviewer's model, and all things
(24:26):
allowed for the unenthusiastic publisher, the insufficiently appreciative public. The
wicked critic says, my little pink friend, breaking a somewhat
long silence, what do you think of literature as a profession?
I take some time to reply, for I wish to
get down to what I really think, not stopping as
(24:48):
one generally does, at one thinks one ought to think.
I think I begin at length that it depends upon
the literary man. The man think to use literature merely
as a means to fame and fortune, and he will
find it in extremely unsatisfactory profession, And he would have
done better to take up politics or company promoting, be
(25:12):
trouble himself about his status and position therein loving the
uppermost tables at feasts, and the chief seats in public places,
in greetings in the markets, and to be called of men, master, master,
then he will find it a profession fuller than most professions,
of petty jealousy of little spite, of foolish hating and
(25:33):
foolish law, grovement, of feminine narrowness, and childish querulousness. He
thinks too much of his prices per thousand words, he
will find it a degrading profession, as the solicitor, thinking
only of his bills of cost, will find the law degrading,
as the doctor working only for two guinea fees will
(25:56):
find medicine degrading. As the priest, with his eyes ever
fixed on the bishop's miter, will find Christianity degrading. But
if he love his work for the work's sake, if
you remain child enough to be fascinated with his own fancies,
to laugh at his own jests, to grieve at his
own pathos, to weep at his own tragedy. Then is
(26:20):
smoking his pipe. He watches the shadows of his brain
coming and going before his half closed eyes, listens to
their voices in the air about him. He will thank
God for making him a literary man. To such a one,
it seems to me literature must prove ennobling. Of all
the professions, It is the one compelling a man to
(26:42):
use whatever brain he has to its fullest and widest,
with one or two other callings. It invites him. They
compels him to turn from the clamor of the passing day,
to speak for a while with the voices that are
eternal to me. It seems that if anything outside oneself
can help one, the service of literature must strengthen and purify.
(27:06):
A man, thinking of his heroine's failings, of his villain's virtues,
may not grow more tolerant of all things kinder, thinking
towards man and woman from the sorrow that he dreams,
may not learn sympathy with the sorrow that he sees.
May not his own brave puppets teach him how a
(27:26):
man should live and die. To the literary man, all
life is a book. The sparrow on the telegraph wire.
Chirp's cheeky nonsense to him as he passes by. The
urchin's face beneath the gas lamp tells him a story.
Sometimes Mary, sometimes sad, Fog and sunshine have their voices
(27:46):
for him. Nor can I see, even from the most
worldly and business like point of view, that the modern
man of letters has cause of complaint. The old grub
street days when he starved or begged are gone. Thanks
to the men who have brave sneers and misrepresentation and
unthanked championship of his plain rights. He is now in
(28:09):
a position of dignified independence. And if he cannot attain
to the twenty thousand a year prizes of the fashionable
QC or MD, he does not have to wait their
time for his success. While what he can and does
earn is amply sufficient for all that a man of
sense need desire. His calling is a password into all ranks,
(28:34):
in all circles. He is honored. He enjoys the luxury
of a power and influence that many a prime minister
might envy. There is still a last prize in the
gift of literature that needs no sentimentalists to appreciate. In
a drawer of my desk lies a pile of letters,
of which, if I were not very proud, I should
(28:55):
be something more or less than human. They have come
to me from the uttermost parts of the earth, from
the streets near at hand. Some are penned in the
stiff phraseology taught when old fashions were new, Some in
the free and easy colloquiism of the rising generation. Some
written on sick beds, are scrawled in pencil, Some written
(29:18):
by hands unfamiliar with the English language, are weirdly constructed.
Some are crested, some are smeared, Some are learned, some
are ill spelled in different ways. They tell me that
here and there I have brought to someone a smile
or pleasant thought. That to someone in pain and in sorrow,
(29:38):
I have given a moment's laugh, pinky yawns, or a
shadow thrown by the guttering candle. Makes it seem so well,
He says, Are we finished? And have we talked about ourselves,
glorified our profession, and annihilated our enemies to our entire satisfaction?
Because if so, you might put me back. I'm feeling sleepy.
(30:03):
I reach out my hand and take him up by
his wide, flat waist. As I draw him towards me,
his little legs vanish into his squat body. The twinkling
eye becomes dull and lifeless. The dawn steals in upon him,
for I have sat working lone to the night, and
I see that he is only a little shilling book
(30:23):
bound in pink paper, wondering whether our talk together has
been as good as at the time I thought it,
or whether he has led me into making a fool
of myself. I replace him in his corner, and of
on the stage, and off
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