Chapter 12
THE FIRST GHOST_(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)_
Such was the suggestion Julian made; and I praised its ingenuity,little thinking how bitterly I should come to curse it in the future.
I was immediately all anxiety to set the scheme working.
"Will you be one of my three middlemen, Julian?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"Thanks!" he said; "it's very good of you, but I daren't encroachfurther on my hours of leisure. Skeffington's Sloe Gin has alreadybecome an incubus."
I could not move him from this decision.
It is not everybody who, in a moment of emergency, can put his hand onthree men of his acquaintance capable of carrying through a more orless delicate business for him. Certainly I found a difficulty inmaking my selection. I ran over the list of my friends in my mind. ThenI was compelled to take pencil and paper, and settle down seriously towhat I now saw would be a task of some difficulty. After half an hour Iread through my list, and could not help smiling. I had indeed a mixedlot of acquaintances. First came Julian and Malim, the two pillars ofmy world. I scratched them out. Julian had been asked and had refused;and, as for Malim, I shrank from exposing my absurd compositions to hiscritical eye. A man who could deal so trenchantly over a pipe and awhisky-and-soda with Established Reputations would hardly take kindlyto seeing my work in print under his name. I wished it had beenpossible to secure him, but I did not disguise it from myself that itwas not.
The rest of the list was made up of members of the Barrel Club(impossible because of their inherent tendency to break out intopersonal paragraphs); writers like Fermin and Gresham, above me on theliterary ladder, and consequently unapproachable in a matter of thiskind; certain college friends, who had vanished into space, as men doon coming down from the 'Varsity, leaving no address; John Hatton,Sidney Price, and Tom Blake.
There were only three men in that list to whom I felt I could take mysuggestion. Hatton was one, Price was another, and Blake was the third.Hatton should have my fiction, Price my Society stuff, Blake my seriousverse.
That evening I went off to the Temple to sound Hatton on the subject ofsigning my third book. The wretched sale of my first two had acted assomething of a check to my enthusiasm for novel-writing. I had pausedto take stock of my position. My first two novels had, I found onre-reading them, too much of the 'Varsity tone in them to be popular.That is the mistake a man falls into through being at Cambridge orOxford. He fancies unconsciously that the world is peopled withundergraduates. He forgets that what appeals to an undergraduate publicmay be Greek to the outside reader and, unfortunately, not compulsoryGreek. The reviewers had dealt kindly with my two books ("this pleasantlittle squib," "full of quiet humour," "should amuse all who remembertheir undergraduate days"); but the great heart of the public hadremained untouched, as had the great purse of the public. I haddetermined to adopt a different style. And now my third book was ready.It was called, _When It Was Lurid_, with the sub-title, _A Taleof God and Allah_. There was a piquant admixture of love, religion,and Eastern scenery which seemed to point to a record number ofeditions.
I took the type-script of this book with me to the Temple.
Hatton was in. I flung _When It Was Lurid_ on the table, and satdown.
"What's this?" inquired Hatton, fingering the brown-paper parcel. "Ifit's the corpse of a murdered editor, I think it's only fair to let youknow that I have a prejudice against having my rooms used as acemetery. Go and throw him into the river."
"It's anything but a corpse. It's the most lively bit of writing everdone. There's enough fire in that book to singe your tablecloth."
"You aren't going to read it to me out loud?" he said anxiously.
"No."
"Have I got to read it when you're gone?"
"Not unless you wish to."
"Then why, if I may ask, do you carry about a parcel which, I shouldsay, weighs anything between one and two tons, simply to use it as atemporary table ornament? Is it the Sandow System?"
"No," I said; "it's like this."
And suddenly it dawned on me that it was not going to be particularlyeasy to explain to Hatton just what it was that I wanted him to do.
I made the thing clear at last, suppressing, of course, my reasons forthe move. When he had grasped my meaning, he looked at me rathercuriously.
"Doesn't it strike you," he said, "that what you propose is slightlydishonourable?"
"You mean that I have come deliberately to insult you, Hatton?"
"Our conversation seems to be getting difficult, unless you grant thathonour is not one immovable, intangible landmark, fixed for humanity,but that it is a commodity we all carry with us in varying forms."
"Personally, I believe that, as a help to identification,honour-impressions would be as useful as fingerprints."
"Good! You agree with me. Now, you may have a different view; but, inmy opinion, if I were to pose as the writer of your books, and gainedcredit for a literary skill----"
I laughed.
"You won't get credit for literary skill out of the sort of books Iwant you to put your name to. They're potboilers. You needn't worryabout Fame. You'll be a martyr, not a hero."
"You may be right. You wrote the book. But, in any case, I should bemore of a charlatan than I care about."
"You won't do it?" I said. "I'm sorry. It would have been a greatconvenience to me."
"On the other hand," continued Hatton, ignoring my remark, "there arearguments in favour of such a scheme as you suggest."
"Stout fellow!" I said encouragingly.
"To examine the matter in its--er--financial--to suppose for amoment--briefly, what do I get out of it?"
"Ten per cent."
He looked thoughtful.
"The end shall justify the means," he said. "The money you pay me cando something to help the awful, the continual poverty of Lambeth. Yes,James Cloyster, I will sign whatever you send me."
"Good for you," I said.
"And I shall come better out of the transaction than you."
No one would credit the way that man--a clergyman, too--haggled overterms. He ended by squeezing fifteen per cent out of me.
Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel Page 15
