IV.—THE MAN WHO WOULD BE A CRITIC.
St. Barbe, as a literary man and critic, always professed a desire to live in a quiet neighbourhood. Therefore, as I approached his house, on the almost inaccessible slopes of Campden Hill, I was amazed to see a large and increasing crowd assembled in the vicinity. Pushing my way through, I saw that St. Barbe's windows were broken, glass was in a weak minority in the panes, and, what was more singular, the breakage seemed to be done from within! Objects were flying out into the garden, and those objects were books. I had the curiosity and agility to catch a few as they fell, and to pick others up. They were mostly volumes of Poetry, and, in every case, they bore St. Barbe's name on the fly-leaf, with a flattering manuscript inscription by the author. Some of the authors' names were unknown to me; in others I recognised ladies of title whom I had read about in the Society Journals. Urging my way through a hot fire of octavos, I rang the bell. The maid who opened the door said, "You're not an Interviewer, Sir?"
"Great Heavens, no!" I replied.
"It is lucky for you, Sir; he's got an air-gun, and winged two Interviewers to-day, and shot one in the hat."
"I am a friend of Mr. St. Barbe's." I explained, scarcely audible amidst the yells of that man of letters.
"He's awful bad to-day, Sir, assaulted a parcels-delivery man, who was too heavy for him."
So speaking, the maid led me to St. Barbe's study. He was now quiet, and only groaning softly as he reposed on the sofa; the fragments of furniture and the torn letters which covered the floor, proved, however, that the crisis had been severe, for a man who likes a quiet neighbourhood. I felt his pulse, injected morphine, and asked him how he did?
"Better," said St. Barbe, feebly. "I've been clearing them out."
"Clearing what out?" I asked.
"Presentation copies of books, from the authors," he said; and added, "and the devils of publishers."
At this moment the postman knocked, and the maid brought in some letters with an air of anxiety.
St. Barbe tore the envelopes open, "There, and there, and there!" he cried, thrusting them into my hands, while his features bore a satanic expression of hatred and contempt.
As he seemed to wish it, I read his correspondence, while he absently twirled the poker in his hands, and gnashed his teeth.
"What is the matter with you, old man?" I asked. "These notes seem to be very modestly and properly expressed:—
"Dear Sir,—You will be astonished at receiving a letter from a total stranger; but the sympathy of our tastes, which I detect in all you write, induces me to send you my little work on The Folk Lore of Tavern Signs."
Here St. Barbe sat down on the hearth, and scattered ashes on his head, in a manner unbecoming an Englishman.
"I don't see what annoys you so," I remarked, "or in this:—
"Dear Mr. St. Barbe,—You will not remember me, but I met you once at Lady Caerulea Smithfield's, and therefore I take the liberty of sending you my little book of verses."
Here he rolled on the floor and gnawed the castor of a chair. I had heard of things like this in the time of the Plantagenets, but I never expected to see nowadays such ferocity of demeanour.
"It is signed Mary Middlesex," I said. "She's very pretty, and a Countess, or something of that sort. What's the matter with you?"
"Try the next," he said.
"Poor fellow! he is now under restraint."
"My Dear Sir,—Being well aware of the interest you take in the fragments of Dionysius Scytobrachion, I have requested my publisher to send you my little work on his Quelle. Bounder, as you are aware"—— Here he pitched his clock into the mirror, and groaned audibly. I tried another:—
"Dear Mr. St. Barbe,—I know how busy you are, but you can always spare an hour or two for the work of a friend. My Love well Lost, in three volumes, is on its way to you. I wish you to review it in all the periodicals with which you are connected. Last time I wrote a novel, my nephew reviewed it, very perfunctorily, in the Pandrosium; this time I want only to be reviewed by my friends." He was kicking on the sofa, and apparently trying to commit suicide with the pillows.
"Command yourself, St. Barbe," I said; "this behaviour is unworthy either of a Christian or a philosopher. These letters, which irritate you so much, are conceived in a spirit of respectful admiration. The books which you have been heaving through the window are, no doubt, of interest and value."
"Waste paper, every one of them," he moaned. Then he added, as he rumpled his hair in a frantic manner, "I'd like to see you, old cock, if you had to live this life! It isn't living, it's answering humbugging letters, and opening brown-paper parcels, all day long, all the weary day. And my temper, which was angelic, and my manners, which were the mirror of courtesy, are irretrievably ruined. And my time is wasted, and my stationer's bill is mere perdition. It begins in the morning; I try to be calm; I sit down to write replies to all these pestilent idiots."
"Your admirers?" I said.
"They're not admirers; they only cadge for reviews. Time was, they say, when critics were bribed. Ha! ha! Now they all expect to be praised for nothing. And the parcels of books they send." Here I noticed a London Parcels Delivery van, laden with brown-paper packages of books. Quickly the maid rushed out, and induced the driver to remember that he was a family man, and he went on his way without calling.
"They come all day long," my poor friend went on, "and all of them are trash, rubbish that they shoot here; shoot, ha! ha'" and he took down a Winchester rifle, and crept stealthily to the window. Luckily none of his enemies were in view.
"No waste-paper basket is big enough to hold them all," he said, ruefully, "and once a week I make a clearance. The neighbours are beginning to murmur," he added, "There is no sympathy, in England, for a man of letters." Letters, indeed! I write them all day to these impostors, these amateurs;" and he bit a large piece out of a glass, which was standing handy.
"Is there no way of escaping from this persecution?" I asked, with sympathy.
"None—none! I have written to the Times; I have applied to the Magistrates; I have penned letters which might melt the heart of a stone; I have even been unmannerly, I fear, now and then, for I cannot always dissemble! No!" he cried, "I am doomed,—
'Presentation copies sore Long time he bore'—
write that on my sepulchre."
Here he broke down, and wept like a child. Poor fellow! he is now under restraint, and I expect soon to hear that we have lost St. Barbe, at heart a kind, benevolent man, but sorely treated by authors. Such are the dangers of a critical career, and so wearing are the facilities of the Parcels Post. Others may perish like him, men deserving of a better fate. But to appeal to authors for mercy is vain, I know; far from sympathising with taste and culture in distress, they actually complain that they are harshly treated by critics. They little know what they themselves inflict.