by Ken Methold
‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain that to me.’
‘Of course. The least risky business arrangement for both author and publisher is for the book to be published against guaranteed sales. This is achieved by the author or publisher persuading potential purchasers to subscribe to it in advance. As soon as there are sufficient subscribers to cover the costs of printing, the book is put into production. Depending on circumstances, the author receives either a royalty or a percentage of the profits. This arrangement was at one time very popular, but it involves a lot of what may appear to be begging letters to potential subscribers, and in recent years it has fallen out of favour.’
‘Did you suggest it to Mr Austen?’
‘Oh, yes. I had no intention of investing in his book. However, he was opposed to the suggestion, mainly on the grounds that success in obtaining subscriptions would surely depend on the author’s identity being known.’
‘Of course.’
‘Another arrangement is for the publisher to buy the copyright in the work. He pays the author a mutually agreed sum of money in advance of publication or shortly after. This gives him the exclusive rights to publish the work for fourteen years for no additional payment. He takes all the risk and all the profit from the sales of the work. Some authors prefer this arrangement, especially if, as is often the case, they are in urgent need of money.’
‘And the arrangement is popular with publishers?’
‘That depends on the quality and commercial potential of the work and whether a mutually acceptable fee for the copyright can be negotiated.’
‘The author never receives any further payment, you say? Regardless of sales?’
‘Occasionally publishers will make further payments usually to ensure that they are offered further works by the author.’
‘I understand. And the third arrangement?’
‘That is publishing on commission. In short, the author pays the publisher to print, advertise and sell the work, and receives all the income from sales less a commission to the publisher of ten percent. This removes all risk from the publisher but reduces his potential income to very little.’
Sarah considered this and then said, ‘So Mr Austen had to pay you to publish Miss Austen’s novel.’
‘That is correct.’
‘Would it be possible for me to know the financial details?’
‘I have them here in readiness.’ Egerton opened a ledger and ran a finger down a column of figures.
‘In this case, because Mr Austen was known to one of my authors and was a partner in a bank that had connections with various military organisations, I did not consider it necessary to ask him to pay any costs in advance. Now here we are. I accepted Sense and Sensibility in 1810 and it was available on sale early the following year. Type-setting and printing costs for 750 copies amounted to £150 with a further £24 spent on advertising. The book was priced at 15 shillings less a discount of a third to the trade. Sales income amounted to £356. I received a commission of £36. After deduction of all costs including our commission, the profit for the author was £140, and this was paid to Mr Austen early in 1812. At that time, we did not know that his sister was the author.’
‘That is most interesting,’ Sarah said. ‘She did quite well out of it.’
‘Indeed, yes. If I had taken all the risk, she would have been offered considerably less for the copyright. From my point of view, the income from the publication was hardly worth all the work involved. From the author’s point of view, it had been a good deal. £140 for the first printing should have been very encouraging. It was unusually good, I was told, for a first novel by a totally unknown author. All copies were sold in less than two years.’
‘Your advertising must have been very effective. Were there any reviews?’
‘Two that I know of. Both favourable. One long one in Critical which included many extracts from the novel and a shorter in The British Critic. The good sales were really due, though, to the fact that we are also booksellers, and we supply many of the over 1,000 circulating libraries in the country.’
‘Is that the main market for fiction?’
‘Libraries and book clubs, yes. Books are expensive and beyond the pockets of most people. Inevitably a great deal of borrowing and sharing goes on. With the second book, Pride and Prejudice, I purchased the copyright in 1812 for£110. At the time, I did not expect sales to be large enough to be worth doing all the work on a commission basis.’
‘And was Miss Austen—or her brother—happy with that, even though it was significantly less than she had earned from her first book for which she had retained the copyright?’
‘Yes. I got the impression the author or her brother—it was difficult to know who was actually benefitting financially from the books—badly needed money. It also seemed to be important to publish the book without delay, even though she, or her brother, had nothing much to gain from its sales. She stood to earn nothing more and the book would be “By a Lady, the author of Sense and Sensibility.” I had very little expectations from it and, much to Miss Austen’s annoyance, was rather slow in bringing it out.’ Egerton smiled wryly. ‘I received several somewhat tart letters from her demanding an explanation for the delay and insisting that I publish the book immediately.’
‘Which you then did.’
Egerton nodded. Consulting the ledger again, he said, ‘It did rather better than the first novel, selling 1,000 copies of the first printing and 750 of a second. It received three good reviews. I believe, though, I heard that a number of people took exception to the character of Elizabeth Bennett. She was not the kind of meek heroine they were used to.’ He laughed. ‘Apparently, some readers considered her behaviour towards Mr Darcy quite shameful.’
‘Did you ever meet Miss Austen?’ Sarah asked.
‘Yes. She called on me to discuss the publication of her third novel, Mansfield Park.’
‘What did you think of her?’
‘I thought her a strange woman. Very cold and diffident. She seemed to lack all interest in her work except what it could earn for her. She had no interest in discussing her writing. Unlike many other authors, she did not want to talk about her plans for the future. She was very sarcastic, even cruel, about the novels of other women writers. She was especially critical of Mrs Radcliffe’s very popular gothic stories. To be blunt, I found her unattractive in every way. She dressed drably and unfashionably, had no social conversation, and had rather a mean little face, I thought. And she could have been selling me soap for all she had to say about her writing. I really did not want to have further dealings with her, but Pride and Prejudice had been profitable, and I decided that if she would accept the same amount for the copyright of the new novel, Mansfield Park, I was prepared to publish it. She declined the offer and insisted that I publish it on commission. I was far from happy with this, especially as she still insisted on not being identified as the author. I decided that it would be the last book I took from her on this basis. She had shown herself to be a very troublesome author, always complaining, usually by letter, about delays and sending her brother to persuade the printer to hurry up getting proofs to her.’
‘So you published it on commission.’
‘Yes. It sold 1,250 copies and earned £310 for her. She was beginning to do quite well from her writing.’
‘So after Mansfield Park you had no further dealings with her.’
‘That is correct. She moved to John Murray.’ Egerton smiled. ‘That dour Scot would have not given way to her, of that I was sure. He would want the copyrights.’
‘Why do you think she went to him?’
‘He is Lord Byron’s publisher, and his business is much larger than mine. He brings out over 200 titles a year.’
‘Are those titles mostly fiction?’
‘No. His fiction list is small. But there’s quality there. It was probably a sensible move for her.’
When the time came for Sarah to leave, she said, ‘Mr Egerton, you
have been extraordinarily helpful. I am deeply obliged to you. You have provided me with some valuable insights into the book trade and Miss Austen’s first experiences with it. May I ask just one more question?’
‘Please do. I will be happy to help with anything.’
‘Would you tell me about Mr Austen? He seems to have been her agent.’
‘Oh, he was more than that. He supervised the printing of the two books I published on commission and, I think, was initially prepared to finance them. But his situation changed. He was very ill for most of 1812, and then, with hostilities dying down with the French, he had less business with the military. In 1815 his bank failed. He left London, a broken, bankrupt man and took holy orders. I believe he obtained a curacy at Chawton, the village in Hampshire where Miss Austen lived with her mother and, I think, a sister. I liked Henry Austen. He was a decent, amiable and straight-forward man. I much preferred dealing with him than with his sister.’
‘Does he have a wife and children?’
‘His wife, who was a French countess, I believe, died about five years ago. There were no children of whom he spoke.’
‘It seems that a visit to Chawton will be necessary.’ Sarah stood. ‘I would like to purchase a complete set of the novels, including those published by John Murray if you have them in stock. Please send them to my address in Portman Place.’ She handed Egerton her card and took out her purse to pay for the books.
Egerton waved the money away. Completely captivated by Sarah’s charm and intelligence, as well as by her theatrical fame, he was determined to maintain a good impression of himself and of his business. He thought it possible that he might later persuade her to allow him to publish her plays. Play scripts by successful writers were in demand by the many families, often of the aristocracy, who indulged in play readings and amateur dramatics.
Chapter-5
While taking a chair back to Portman Place, Sarah resolved to put all thoughts of Jane Austen out of her mind. She had a play to rewrite before becoming further involved in the investigation of the author’s life and works. After several hours of writing, she might have time to relax with one of Jane Austen’s novels. She had already read Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice and enjoyed them both, especially the latter novel. Its lively and often witty dialogue would make a great play. She decided that on the coming Sunday, she would go with her friend Elizabeth to Winchester, and from there to Chawton where Henry Austen might agree to talk to her.
She had forgotten to ask Elizabeth whether she had read any of the novels, so she decided to ask one of her father’s office messengers to take her copies of the first two. Elizabeth could read them while she rewrote her play. They would then be able to discuss the books during the day-long journey by coach from London to Winchester.
Sarah found the effort of asking intelligent questions about a subject she knew little or nothing about exhausting, especially after the rather troubling visit to the theatre and then the anxiety over whether the Reverend Clarke could help her with the Lord Chamberlain’s office. Overcome by tiredness, she sat back in the chair and closed her eyes. By the time she reached home she was ready for a light dinner and an early night. She needed to be fully refreshed for the morning’s writing. Her plays were popular because they were amusing and rich in witty dialogue. Unfortunately, being witty to order was much more difficult than being tragic or dramatic. Often she stared for what seemed like hours at the wall of the library, almost praying for something clever to pop into her head that would get a laugh from an audience. Her best lines popped in as if from nowhere. They arrived fully clothed, as it were, all ready to be spoken. She couldn’t help wondering if Egerton’s description of Jane Austen as a tight-faced, simply dressed spinster was accurate. If it was, she thought, the woman could not possibly have written Pride and Prejudice. It was all rather odd, especially when one took into consideration the author’s determination to remain anonymous.
Sarah also realised that Sense and Sensibility may not have been the author’s first book. She could have a pile of manuscripts that were either unfinished, completed but rejected by publishers, or never even submitted. Other Jane Austen novels might have been published under a pseudonym. At this stage, she felt unable to come to any conclusion about the author, and it was likely that the more Sarah discovered, the more she would realise how much more there was to learn. Only time and questioning a lot of people would, if she were lucky, provide at least some answers. What she needed to find and read, she concluded, was Jane Austen’s journal. It would contain much that she needed to know. She wondered in whose possession it was and whether she would be allowed access to it.
When the chair arrived at her Portman Place home, she paid the chairmen and went inside.
As she passed the door of James’s room, he looked up from what he was reading and said, ‘Feel like a brandy? I have things to tell you.’
‘A splendid idea. I’ll organise them and see you in the drawing room. Give me ten minutes.’
When they had settled with their drinks in the comfortable high-backed chairs, James said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, Sarah, and I’m not for a minute wanting to interfere, but I thought I’d save you from what could be a long and profitless task.’
‘Go on,’ Sarah said, knowing that James was incapable of not becoming involved somehow in the Jane Austen project.
‘Well, it occurred to me that Jane Austen, like most authors, would probably have approached a number of publishers before finding one who would take her on. I thought it might be useful—though I admit I don’t know how—to know whom she approached and with what.’
‘You’ve been reading my mind again, James,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Thank goodness we’re not married. I couldn’t bear to be such an open book to the man with whom I lived. Without some mystery, I’m just one more out of work actress.’
‘Precisely,’ James said. ‘So I sent one of the apprentices around the town to check with booksellers and publishers as to whether they had had any dealings with either Jane or her brother, Henry. More about him in a minute. I told the lad to begin with the Minerva Circulating Library. It’s not only the largest in the country but it’s also owned by the Minerva Press which publishes more fiction written by and for women than most of the others put together.’
‘I know it,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s in Leadenhall Street.’
‘Correct. Anyway, they hadn’t been approached by anyone by the name of Austen, but they gave the lad the names of several publishers and booksellers who might have been offered something. The lad set off on what he was sure was going to be a wild goose chase. After all, there are scores of places to visit. But the assistant at Minerva had been sufficiently helpful to list the possibilities in the order of the most likely. The lad was lucky. Out of the first dozen he called on, two remembered being approached by an Austen. A man working for Cadell and Davies, a highly successful publisher of fiction, remembered receiving a parcel from a Reverend George Austen of Steventon Rectory in about 1797 or perhaps a year or so later. Having been instructed not to accept, and therefore have to pay the carriage on what was clearly an unsolicited manuscript, and, thinking from the return address that it was probably a book of sermons, he returned it to sender unopened. He didn’t even read any covering letter that might have been inside the parcel.’
‘He’ll be kicking himself now,’ Sarah said.
‘Very likely. But it might have been sermons, of course.’
‘1797.’ Sarah did a quick mental calculation. ‘Jane would have been twenty-two. The manuscript could have been her first novel. I wonder if it was.’
‘We may never know. Crosby and Company are another publisher who were offered a novel “By a Lady”. Crosby admits to having purchased the copyright of a novel called Susan for ten pound in 1802.’
‘When did he publish it?’
‘He didn’t. He never got around to doing it. It was listed in his catalogue for that year as “In the press,” but it never
appeared. He doesn’t think much of it, apparently. It’s a sort of gothic novel, but not in the least exciting. He told our lad that his reader said that it takes half the book before the plot gets going. He decided not to risk money on it.’
‘So it will just rot forever in his office.’
‘Seems like it.’
‘That’s a shame, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but he said he’d be willing to release the copyright for what he paid for it. And he’s told the author that.’
‘Jane?’
‘No. Henry Austen, acting as agent, made the contact.’
‘This is really interesting, James. You are clever to have sent the lad around.’
‘I gave him a shilling for a pie and ale and extra shoe leather,’ James said with a laugh. ‘He’s had a great day. He’s fast asleep in his room now.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. He can call on some more tomorrow, but I doubt if there’ll be anything more of interest.’
‘Henry Austen,’ Sarah said, remembering that James had said he would talk about him later.
‘Yes. Henry Austen. And his brother, James. They published a weekly magazine called The Loiterer. It ran for over fifty issues. I understand that they wrote most of it themselves.’
‘Did it serialise fiction?’
‘I don’t know. I doubt it. I think it was probably inspired by Johnson’s The Idler. It all happened a long time ago. They were both students at Oxford at the time. It was a very considerable achievement. I assume that after a year they ran out of money. James left Oxford and became a clergyman. Henry stayed in the city and joined the Oxford Militia.’
‘When was this?’
‘1789.’
‘One thing is becoming clear,’ Sarah said. ‘The family is obviously literary. I suppose it could be possible that either James or Henry authored the novels. Men hiding their identity behind a dress.’
