haste,--for I had but an hour at my disposal,--I rushed to Chapman
& Hall in Piccadilly, and said what I had to say to Mr. Edward
Chapman in a quick torrent of words. They were the first of a great
many words which have since been spoken by me in that back-shop.
Looking at me as he might have done at a highway robber who had
stopped him on Hounslow Heath, he said that he supposed he might
as well do as I desired. I considered this to be a sale, and it
was a sale. I remember that he held the poker in his hand all the
time that I was with him;--but in truth, even though he had declined
to buy the book, there would have been no danger.
CHAPTER VII "Doctor thorne"--"THE BERTRAMS"--"THE WEST INDIES" AND "THE SPANISH MAIN"
As I journeyed across France to Marseilles, and made thence a
terribly rough voyage to Alexandria, I wrote my allotted number of
pages every day. On this occasion more than once I left my paper
on the cabin table, rushing away to be sick in the privacy of my
state room. It was February, and the weather was miserable; but
still I did my work. Labor omnia vincit improbus. I do not say that
to all men has been given physical strength sufficient for such
exertion as this, but I do believe that real exertion will enable
most men to work at almost any season. I had previously to this
arranged a system of task-work for myself, which I would strongly
recommend to those who feel as I have felt, that labour, when not
made absolutely obligatory by the circumstances of the hour, should
never be allowed to become spasmodic. There was no day on which
it was my positive duty to write for the publishers, as it was my
duty to write reports for the Post Office. I was free to be idle if
I pleased. But as I had made up my mind to undertake this second
profession, I found it to be expedient to bind myself by certain
self-imposed laws. When I have commenced a new book, I have always
prepared a diary, divided into weeks, and carried it on for the
period which I have allowed myself for the completion of the work.
In this I have entered, day by day, the number of pages I have
written, so that if at any time I have slipped into idleness for
a day or two, the record of that idleness has been there, staring
me in the face, and demanding of me increased labour, so that the
deficiency might be supplied. According to the circumstances of the
time,--whether my other business might be then heavy or light, or
whether the book which I was writing was or was not wanted with
speed,--I have allotted myself so many pages a week. The average
number has been about 40. It has been placed as low as 20, and has
risen to 112. And as a page is an ambiguous term, my page has been
made to contain 250 words; and as words, if not watched, will have
a tendency to straggle, I have had every word counted as I went. In
the bargains I have made with publishers I have,--not, of course,
with their knowledge, but in my own mind,--undertaken always to
supply them with so many words, and I have never put a book out
of hand short of the number by a single word. I may also say that
the excess has been very small. I have prided myself on completing
my work exactly within the proposed dimensions. But I have prided
myself especially in completing it within the proposed time,--and
I have always done so. There has ever been the record before me,
and a week passed with an insufficient number of pages has been a
blister to my eye, and a month so disgraced would have been a sorrow
to my heart.
I have been told that such appliances are beneath the notice of a
man of genius. I have never fancied myself to be a man of genius,
but had I been so I think I might well have subjected myself to
these trammels. Nothing surely is so potent as a law that may not
be disobeyed. It has the force of the water drop that hollows the
stone. A small daily task, If it be really daily, will beat the
labours of a spasmodic Hercules. It is the tortoise which always
catches the hare. The hare has no chance. He loses more time in
glorifying himself for a quick spurt than suffices for the tortoise
to make half his journey.
I have known authors whose lives have always been troublesome and
painful because their tasks have never been done in time. They
have ever been as boys struggling to learn their lessons as they
entered the school gates. Publishers have distrusted them, and they
have failed to write their best because they have seldom written at
ease. I have done double their work--though burdened with another
profession,--and have done it almost without an effort. I have not
once, through all my literary career, felt myself even in danger
of being late with my task. I have known no anxiety as to "copy."
The needed pages far ahead--very far ahead--have almost always
been in the drawer beside me. And that little diary, with its dates
and ruled spaces, its record that must be seen, its daily, weekly
demand upon my industry, has done all that for me.
There are those who would be ashamed to subject themselves to
such a taskmaster, and who think that the man who works with his
imagination should allow himself to wait till--inspiration moves
him. When I have heard such doctrine preached, I have hardly been
able to repress my scorn. To me it would not be more absurd if the
shoemaker were to wait for inspiration, or the tallow-chandler for
the divine moment of melting. If the man whose business it is to
write has eaten too many good things, or has drunk too much, or
smoked too many cigars,--as men who write sometimes will do,--then
his condition may be unfavourable for work; but so will be the
condition of a shoemaker who has been similarly imprudent. I have
sometimes thought that the inspiration wanted has been the remedy
which time will give to the evil results of such imprudence.--Mens
sana in corpore sano. The author wants that as does every other
workman,--that and a habit of industry. I was once told that the
surest aid to the writing of a book was a piece of cobbler's wax on
my chair. I certainly believe in the cobbler's wax much more than
the inspiration.
It will be said, perhaps, that a man whose work has risen to no
higher pitch than mine has attained, has no right to speak of the
strains and impulses to which real genius is exposed. I am ready
to admit the great variations in brain power which are exhibited by
the products of different men, and am not disposed to rank my own
very high; but my own experience tells me that a man can always do
the work for which his brain is fitted if he will give himself the
habit of regarding his work as a normal condition of his life. I
therefore venture to advise young men who look forward to authorship
as the business of their lives, even when they propose that that
authorship be of the highest class known, to avoid enthusiastic
rushes with their pens, and to seat themselves at their desks day
by day as though they were lawyers' clerks;--and so let them sit
until the allotted task shall be accomplished.
While I was in Egypt, I finished Doctor Thorne, and on the following
day began The Bertrams. I was moved now by a determination to excel,
if not in quality, at any rate in quantity. An ignoble ambition
for an author, my readers will no doubt say. But not, I think,
altogether ignoble, if an author can bring himself to look at his
work as does any other workman. This had become my task, this
was the furrow in which my plough was set, this was the thing the
doing of which had fallen into my hands, and I was minded to work
at it with a will. It is not on my conscience that I have ever
scamped my work. My novels, whether good or bad, have been as good
as I could make them. Had I taken three months of idleness between
each they would have been no better. Feeling convinced of that, I
finished Doctor Thorne on one day, and began The Bertrams on the
next.
I had then been nearly two months in Egypt, and had at last
succeeded in settling the terms of a postal treaty. Nearly twenty
years have passed since that time, and other years may yet run on
before these pages are printed. I trust I may commit no official
sin by describing here the nature of the difficulty which met me.
I found, on my arrival, that I was to communicate with an officer
of the Pasha, who was then called Nubar Bey. I presume him to have
been the gentleman who has lately dealt with our Government as to
the Suez Canal shares, and who is now well known to the political
world as Nubar Pasha. I found him a most courteous gentlemen, an
Armenian. I never went to his office, nor do I know that he had an
office. Every other day he would come to me at my hotel, and bring
with him servants, and pipes, and coffee. I enjoyed his coming
greatly; but there was one point on which we could not agree. As
to money and other details, it seemed as though he could hardly
accede fast enough to the wishes of the Postmaster-General; but
on one point he was firmly opposed to me. I was desirous that the
mails should be carried through Egypt in twenty-four hours, and he
thought that forty-eight hours should be allowed. I was obstinate,
and he was obstinate; and for a long time we could come to
no agreement. At last his oriental tranquillity seemed to desert
him, and he took upon himself to assure me, with almost more than
British energy, that, if I insisted on the quick transit, a terrible
responsibility would rest on my head. I made this mistake, he
said,--that I supposed that a rate of travelling which would be
easy and secure in England could be attained with safety in Egypt.
"The Pasha, his master, would," he said, "no doubt accede to
any terms demanded by the British Post Office, so great was his
reverence for everything British. In that case he, Nubar, would at
once resign his position, and retire into obscurity. He would be
ruined; but the loss of life and bloodshed which would certainly
follow so rash an attempt should not be on his head." I smoked my
pipe, or rather his, and drank his coffee, with oriental quiescence
but British firmness. Every now and again, through three or four
visits, I renewed the expression of my opinion that the transit
could easily be made in twenty-four hours. At last he gave way,--and
astonished me by the cordiality of his greeting. There was no
longer any question of bloodshed or of resignation of office, and
he assured me, with energetic complaisance, that it should be his
care to see that the time was punctually kept. It was punctually
kept, and, I believe, is so still. I must confess, however, that my
persistency was not the result of any courage specially personal to
myself. While the matter was being debated, it had been whispered
to me that the Peninsular and Oriental Steamship Company had
conceived that forty-eight hours would suit the purposes of their
traffic better than twenty-four, and that, as they were the great
paymasters on the railway, the Minister of the Egyptian State,
who managed the railway, might probably wish to accommodate them.
I often wondered who originated that frightful picture of blood
and desolation. That it came from an English heart and an English
hand I was always sure.
From Egypt I visited the Holy Land, and on my way inspected the
Post Offices at Malta and Gibraltar. I could fill a volume with
true tales of my adventures. The Tales of All Countries have, most
of them, some foundation in such occurrences. There is one called
John Bull on the Guadalquivir, the chief incident in which occurred
to me and a friend of mine on our way up that river to Seville. We
both of us handled the gold ornaments of a man whom we believed to
be a bull-fighter, but who turned out to be a duke,--and a duke,
too, who could speak English! How gracious he was to us, and yet
how thoroughly he covered us with ridicule!
On my return home I received (pounds)400 from Messrs. Chapman & Hall for
Doctor Thorne, and agreed to sell them The Bertrams for the same sum.
This latter novel was written under very vagrant circumstances,--at
Alexandria, Malta, Gibraltar, Glasgow, then at sea, and at last
finished in Jamaica. Of my journey to the West Indies I will say
a few words presently, but I may as well speak of these two novels
here. Doctor Thorne has, I believe, been the most popular book that
I have written,--if I may take the sale as a proof of comparative
popularity. The Bertrams has had quite an opposite fortune. I do not
know that I have ever heard it well spoken of even by my friends,
and I cannot remember that there is any character in it that has
dwelt in the minds of novel-readers. I myself think that they are
of about equal merit, but that neither of them is good. They fall
away very much from The Three Clerks, both in pathos and humour.
There is no personage in either of them comparable to Chaffanbrass the
lawyer. The plot of Doctor Thorne is good, and I am led therefore
to suppose that a good plot,--which, to my own feeling, is the
most insignificant part of a tale,--is that which will most raise
it or most condemn it in the public judgment. The plots of Tom Jones
and of Ivanhoe are almost perfect, and they are probably the most
popular novels of the schools of the last and of this century; but
to me the delicacy of Amelia, and the rugged strength of Burley
and Meg Merrilies, say more for the power of those great novelists
than the gift of construction shown in the two works I have named.
A novel should give a picture of common life enlivened by humour
and sweetened by pathos. To make that picture worthy of attention,
the canvas should be crowded with real portraits, not of individuals
known to the world or to the author, but of created personages
impregnated with traits of character which are known. To my thinking,
the plot is but the vehicle for all this; and when you have the
vehicle without the passengers, a story of mystery in which the
agents never spring to life, you have but a wooden sho
w. There must,
however, be a story. You must provide a vehicle of some sort. That
of The Bertrams was more than ordinarily bad; and as the book was
relieved by no special character, it failed. Its failure never
surprised me; but I have been surprised by the success of Doctor
Thorne.
At this time there was nothing in the success of the one or the
failure of the other to affect me very greatly. The immediate sale,
and the notices elicited from the critics, and the feeling which
had now come to me of a confident standing with the publishers, all
made me know that I had achieved my object. If I wrote a novel,
I could certainly sell it. And if I could publish three in two
years,--confining myself to half the fecundity of that terrible
author of whom the publisher in Paternoster Row had complained to
me,--I might add (pounds)600 a year to my official income. I was still
living in Ireland, and could keep a good house over my head, insure
my life, educate my two boys, and hunt perhaps twice a week, on (pounds)1400
a year. If more should come, it would be well;--but (pounds)600 a year I
was prepared to reckon as success. It had been slow in coming, but
was very pleasant when it came.
On my return from Egypt I was sent down to Scotland to revise the
Glasgow Post Office. I almost forget now what it was that I had
to do there, but I know that I walked all over the city with the
letter-carriers, going up to the top flats of the houses, as the
men would have declared me incompetent to judge the extent of their
labours had I not trudged every step with them. It was midsummer,
and wearier work I never performed. The men would grumble, and
then I would think how it would be with them if they had to go home
afterwards and write a love-scene. But the love-scenes written in
Glasgow, all belonging to The Bertrams, are not good.
Then in the autumn of that year, 1858, I was asked to go to the West
Indies, and cleanse the Augean stables of our Post Office system
there. Up to that time, and at that time, our Colonial Post Offices
generally were managed from home, and were subject to the British
Postmaster-General. Gentlemen were sent out from England to be
postmasters, surveyors, and what not; and as our West Indian islands
have never been regarded as being of themselves happily situated
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