Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel
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CHAPTER 11
JULIAN'S IDEA_(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)_
I had been relating, on the morning after the Blake affair, thestirring episode of the previous night to Julian. He agreed with methat it was curious that our potato-thrower of Covent Garden marketshould have crossed my path again. But I noticed that, though helistened intently enough, he lay flat on his back in his hammock, notlooking at me, but blinking at the ceiling; and when I had finished heturned his face towards the wall--which was unusual, since I generallylunched on his breakfast, as I was doing then, to the accompaniment ofquite a flow of languid abuse.
I was in particularly high spirits that morning, for I fancied that Ihad found a way out of my difficulty about Margaret. That subject beinguppermost in my mind, I guessed at once what Julian's trouble was.
"I think you'd like to know, Julian," I said, "whether I'd written toGuernsey."
"Well?"
"It's all right," I said.
"You've told her to come?"
"No; but I'm able to take my respite without wounding her. That's asgood as writing, isn't it? We agreed on that."
"Yes; that was the idea. If you could find a way of keeping her fromknowing how well you were getting on with your writing, you were totake it. What's your idea?"
"I've hit on a very simple way out of the difficulty," I said. "It cameto me only this morning. All I need do is to sign my stuff with apseudonym."
"You only thought of that this morning?"
"Yes. Why?"
"My dear chap, I thought of it as soon as you told me of the fix youwere in."
"You might have suggested it."
Julian slid to the floor, drained the almost empty teapot, rescued thelast kidney, and began his breakfast.
"I would have suggested it," he said, "if the idea had been worthanything."
"What! What's wrong with it?"
"My dear man, it's too risky. It's not as though you kept to one formof literary work. You're so confoundedly versatile. Let's suppose youdid sign your work with a _nom de plume_."
"Say, George Chandos."
"All right. George Chandos. Well, how long would it be, do you think,before paragraphs appeared, announcing to the public, not only ofEngland but of the Channel Islands, that George Chandos was reallyJimmy Cloyster?"
"What rot!" I said. "Why the deuce should they want to write paragraphsabout me? I'm not a celebrity. You're talking through your hat,Julian."
Julian lit his pipe.
"Not at all," he said. "Count the number of people who must necessarilybe in the secret from the beginning. There are your publishers, Prodderand Way. Then there are the editors of the magazine which publishesyour Society dialogue bilge, and of all the newspapers, other than the_Orb_, in which your serious verse appears. My dear Jimmy, thenews that you and George Chandos were the same man would go up and downFleet Street and into the Barrel like wildfire. And after that theparagraphs."
I saw the truth of his reasoning before he had finished speaking. Oncemore my spirits fell to the point where they had been before I hit uponwhat I thought was such a bright scheme.
Julian's pipe had gone out while he was talking. He lit it again, andspoke through the smoke:
"The weak point of your idea, of course, is that you and George Chandosare a single individual."
"But why should the editors know that? Why shouldn't I simply send inmy stuff, typed, by post, and never appear myself at all?"
"My dear Jimmy, you know as well as I do that that wouldn't work. Itwould do all right for a bit. Then one morning: 'Dear Mr. Chandos,--Ishould be glad if you could make it convenient to call here some timebetween Tuesday and Thursday.--Yours faithfully. Editor ofSomething-or-other.' Sooner or later a man who writes at all regularlyfor the papers is bound to meet the editors of them. A successfulauthor can't conduct all his business through the post. Of course, ifyou chucked London and went to live in the country----"
"I couldn't," I said. "I simply couldn't do it. London's got into mybones."
"It does," said Julian.
"I like the country, but I couldn't live there. Besides, I don'tbelieve I could write there--not for long. All my ideas would go."
Julian nodded.
"Just so," he said. "Then exit George Chandos."
"My scheme is worthless, you think, then?"
"As you state it, yes."
"You mean----?" I prompted quickly, clutching at something in his tonewhich seemed to suggest that he did not consider the matter entirelyhopeless.
"I mean this. The weak spot in your idea, as I told you, is that youand George Chandos have the same body. Now, if you could manage toprovide George with separate flesh and blood of his own, there's noreason----"
"By Jove! you've hit it. Go on."
"Listen. Here is my rough draft of what I think might be a sound,working system. How many divisions does your work fall into, notcounting the _Orb_?"
I reflected.
"Well, of course, I do a certain amount of odd work, but lately I'verather narrowed it down, and concentrated my output. It seemed to me abetter plan than sowing stuff indiscriminately through all the papersin London."
"Well, how many stunts have you got? There's your serious verse--one.And your Society stuff--two. Any more?"
"Novels and short stories."
"Class them together--three. Any more?
"No; that's all."
"Very well, then. What you must do is to look about you, and pickcarefully three men on whom you can rely. Divide your signed stuffbetween these three men. They will receive your copy, sign it withtheir own names, and see that it gets to wherever you want to send it.As far as the editorial world is concerned, and as far as the public isconcerned, they will become actually the authors of the manuscriptswhich you have prepared for them to sign. They will forward you thecheques when they arrive, and keep accounts to which you will haveaccess. I suppose you will have to pay them a commission on a scale tobe fixed by mutual arrangement. As regards your unsigned work, there isnothing to prevent your doing that yourself--'On Your Way,' I mean,whenever there's any holiday work going: general articles, and lightverse. I say, though, half a moment."
"Why, what?"
"I've thought of a difficulty. The editors who have been taking yourstuff hitherto may have a respect for the name of James OrlebarCloyster which they may not extend to the name of John Smith or GeorgeChandos, or whoever it is. I mean, it's quite likely the withdrawal ofthe name will lead to the rejection of the manuscript."
"Oh no; that's all right," I said. "It's the stuff they want, not thename. I don't say that names don't matter. They do. But only if they'rebig names. Kipling might get a story rejected if he sent it in under afalse name, which they'd have taken otherwise just because he wasKipling. What they want from me is the goods. I can shove any label onthem I like. The editor will read my ghosts' stuff, see it's what hewants, and put it in. He may say, 'It's rather like Cloyster's style,'but he'll certainly add, 'Anyhow, it's what I want.' You can scratchthat difficulty, Julian. Any more?"
"I think not. Of course, there's the objection that you'll lose anycelebrity you might have got. No one'll say, 'Oh, Mr. Cloyster, Ienjoyed your last book so much!'"
"And no one'll say, 'Oh, do you _write_, Mr. Cloyster? Howinteresting! What have you written? You must send me a copy.'"
"That's true. In any case, it's celebrity against the respite,obscurity against Miss Goodwin. While the system is in operation youwill be free but inglorious. You choose freedom? All right, then. Passthe matches."