“We don’t think anything about such little matters at Frisco, my lord.”
“You’re fine fellows at Frisco, I dare say. Here we pay up when we can. Sometimes we can’t, and then it is not pleasant.” Fresh adieus were made between the two partners, and between the American and the lord, — and then Fisker was taken off on his way towards Frisco.
“He’s not half a bad fellow, but he’s not a bit like an Englishman,” said Lord Nidderdale, as he walked out of the station.
Chapter XI
Lady Carbury at Home
During the last six weeks Lady Carbury had lived a life of very mixed depression and elevation. Her great work had come out, — the “Criminal Queens,” — and had been very widely reviewed. In this matter it had been by no means all pleasure, inasmuch as many very hard words had been said of her. In spite of the dear friendship between herself and Mr Alf, one of Mr Alf’s most sharp-nailed subordinates had been set upon her book, and had pulled it to pieces with almost rabid malignity. One would have thought that so slight a thing could hardly have been worthy of such protracted attention. Error after error was laid bare with merciless prolixity. No doubt the writer of the article must have had all history at his finger-ends, as in pointing out the various mistakes made he always spoke of the historical facts which had been misquoted, misdated, or misrepresented, as being familiar in all their bearings to every schoolboy of twelve years old. The writer of the criticism never suggested the idea that he himself, having been fully provided with books of reference, and having learned the art of finding in them what he wanted at a moment’s notice, had, as he went on with his work, checked off the blunders without any more permanent knowledge of his own than a housekeeper has of coals when she counts so many sacks into the coal-cellar. He spoke of the parentage of one wicked ancient lady, and the dates of the frailties of another, with an assurance intended to show that an exact knowledge of all these details abided with him always. He must have been a man of vast and varied erudition, and his name was Jones. The world knew him not, but his erudition was always there at the command of Mr Alf, — and his cruelty. The greatness of Mr Alf consisted in this, that he always had a Mr Jones or two ready to do his work for him. It was a great business, this of Mr Alf’s, for he had his Jones also for philology, for science, for poetry, for politics, as well as for history, and one special Jones, extraordinarily accurate and very well posted up in his references, entirely devoted to the Elizabethan drama.
There is the review intended to sell a book, — which comes out immediately after the appearance of the book, or sometimes before it; the review which gives reputation, but does not affect the sale, and which comes a little later; the review which snuffs a book out quietly; the review which is to raise or lower the author a single peg, or two pegs, as the case may be; the review which is suddenly to make an author, and the review which is to crush him. An exuberant Jones has been known before now to declare aloud that he would crush a man, and a self-confident Jones has been known to declare that he has accomplished the deed. Of all reviews, the crushing review is the most popular, as being the most readable. When the rumour goes abroad that some notable man has been actually crushed, — been positively driven over by an entire Juggernaut’s car of criticism till his literary body be a mere amorphous mass, — then a real success has been achieved, and the Alf of the day has done a great thing; but even the crushing of a poor Lady Carbury, if it be absolute, is effective. Such a review will not make all the world call for the “Evening Pulpit”, but it will cause those who do take the paper to be satisfied with their bargain. Whenever the circulation of such a paper begins to slacken, the proprietors should, as a matter of course, admonish their Alf to add a little power to the crushing department.
Lady Carbury had been crushed by the “Evening Pulpit.” We may fancy that it was easy work, and that Mr Alf’s historical Mr Jones was not forced to fatigue himself by the handling of many books of reference. The errors did lie a little near the surface; and the whole scheme of the work, with its pandering to bad tastes by pretended revelations of frequently fabulous crime, was reprobated in Mr Jones’s very best manner. But the poor authoress, though utterly crushed, and reduced to little more than literary pulp for an hour or two, was not destroyed. On the following morning she went to her publishers, and was closeted for half an hour with the senior partner, Mr Leadham. “I’ve got it all in black and white,” she said, full of the wrong which had been done her, “and can prove him to be wrong. It was in 1522 that the man first came to Paris, and he couldn’t have been her lover before that. I got it all out of the ‘Biographie Universelle.’ I’ll write to Mr Alf myself, — a letter to be published, you know.”
“Pray don’t do anything of the kind, Lady Carbury.”
“I can prove that I’m right.”
“And they can prove that you’re wrong.”
“I’ve got all the facts — and the figures.”
Mr Leadham did not care a straw for facts or figures, — had no opinion of his own whether the lady or the reviewer were right; but he knew very well that the “Evening Pulpit” would surely get the better of any mere author in such a contention. “Never fight the newspapers, Lady Carbury. Who ever yet got any satisfaction by that kind of thing? It’s their business, and you are not used to it.”
“And Mr Alf my particular friend! It does seem so hard,” said Lady Carbury, wiping hot tears from her cheeks.
“It won’t do us the least harm, Lady Carbury.”
“It’ll stop the sale?”
“Not much. A book of that sort couldn’t hope to go on very long, you know. The ‘Breakfast Table’ gave it an excellent lift, and came just at the right time. I rather like the notice in the ‘Pulpit,’ myself.”
“Like it!” said Lady Carbury, still suffering in every fibre of her self-love from the soreness produced by those Juggernaut’s car-wheels.
“Anything is better than indifference, Lady Carbury. A great many people remember simply that the book has been noticed, but carry away nothing as to the purport of the review. It’s a very good advertisement.”
“But to be told that I have got to learn the A B C of history after working as I have worked!”
“That’s a mere form of speech, Lady Carbury.”
“You think the book has done pretty well?”
“Pretty well; — just about what we hoped, you know.”
“There’ll be something coming to me, Mr Leadham?”
Mr Leadham sent for a ledger, and turned over a few pages and ran up a few figures, and then scratched his head. There would be something, but Lady Carbury was not to imagine that it could be very much. It did not often happen that a great deal could be made by a first book. Nevertheless, Lady Carbury, when she left the publisher’s shop, did carry a cheque with her. She was smartly dressed and looked very well, and had smiled on Mr Leadham. Mr Leadham, too, was no more than man, and had written — a small cheque.
Mr Alf certainly had behaved badly to her; but both Mr Broune, of the “Breakfast Table” and Mr Booker of the “Literary Chronicle” had been true to her interests. Lady Carbury had, as she promised, “done” Mr Booker’s “New Tale of a Tub” in the “Breakfast Table.” That is, she had been allowed, as a reward for looking into Mr Broune’s eyes, and laying her soft hand on Mr Broune’s sleeve, and suggesting to Mr Broune that no one understood her so well as he did, to bedaub Mr Booker’s very thoughtful book in a very thoughtless fashion, — and to be paid for her work. What had been said about his work in the “Breakfast Table” had been very distasteful to poor Mr Booker. It grieved his inner contemplative intelligence that such rubbish should be thrown upon him; but in his outside experience of life he knew that even the rubbish was valuable, and that he must pay for it in the manner to which he had