Mary Gresley, and An Editor's Tales

by Anthony Trollope

When we had eaten and drunk we began the work of the evening by giving in the names of our papers, and describing the nature of the work we had done. Mrs. St. Quinten was the first, and read her title from a scrap of paper. “A Review of Bishop Berkeley’s Theory.” Churchill Smith remarked that it was a very dangerous subject. The lady begged him to wait till he should hear the paper read. “Of course I will hear it read,” said her cousin. To me it was evident that Smith would object to this essay without any scruple, if he did not in truth approve of it. Then it was my turn, and I explained in the quietest tone which I could assume that I had written a little tale called “The New Inmate.” It was very simple, I said, but I trusted it might not be rejected on that score. There was silence for a moment, and I prompted Regan to proceed; but I was interrupted by Walter Watt. “I thought,” said he, “that we had positively decided against ‘prose fiction.’” I protested that the decision had been given against novels, against long serial stories to be continued from number to number. This was a little thing, completed within my twenty-one allotted pages. “Our vote was taken as to prose fiction,” said Watt. I appealed to Hallam, who at once took my part,—as also did Regan. “Walter is quite correct as to the purport of our decision,” said Churchill Smith. I turned to Mrs. St. Quinten. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a short story,” she said. I then declared that with their permission I would at any rate read it, and again requested Regan to proceed. Upon this Walter Watt rose upon his feet, and made a speech. The vote had been taken, and could not be rescinded. After such a vote it was not open to me to read my story. The story, no doubt, was very good,—he was pleased to say so,—but it was not matter of the sort which they intended to use. Seeing the purpose which they had in view, he thought that the reading of the story would be waste of time. “It will clearly be waste of time,” said Churchill Smith. Walter Watt went on to explain to us that if from one meeting to another we did not allow ourselves to be bound by our own decisions, we should never appear before the public.

I will acknowledge that I was enraged. It seemed to me impossible that such folly should be allowed to prevail, or that after all my efforts I should be treated by my own friends after such a fashion. I also got upon my legs and protested loudly that Mr. Watt and Mr. Smith did not even know what had been the subject under discussion, when the vote adverse to novels had been taken. No record was kept of our proceedings; and, as I clearly showed to them, Mr. Regan and Mr. Hallam were quite as likely to hold correct views on this subject as were Mr. Watt and Mr. Smith. All calling of men Pat, and Jack, and Walter, was for the moment over. Watt admitted the truth of this argument, and declared that they must again decide whether my story of “The New Inmate” was or was not a novel in the sense intended when the previous vote was taken. If not,—if the decision on that point should be in my favour,—then the privilege of reading it would at any rate belong to me. I believed so thoroughly in my own work that I desired nothing beyond this. We went to work, therefore, and took the votes on the proposition,—Was or was not the story of “The New Inmate” debarred by the previous resolution against the admission of novels?

The decision manifestly rested with Mrs. St. Quinten. I was master, easily master, of three votes. Hallam and Regan were altogether with me, and in a matter of such import I had no hesitation in voting for myself. Had the question been the acceptance or rejection of the story for the magazine, then, by the nature of our constitution, I should have had no voice in the matter. But this was not the case, and I recorded my own vote in my own favour without a blush. Having done so, I turned to Mrs. St. Quinten with an air of supplication in my face of which I myself was aware, and of which I became at once ashamed. She looked round at me almost furtively, keeping her eyes otherwise fixed upon Churchill Smith’s immovable countenance. I did not condescend to speak a word to her. What words I had to say, I had spoken to them all, and was confident in the justice of my cause. I quickly dropped that look of supplication and threw myself back in my chair. The moment was one of intense interest, almost of agony, but I could not allow myself to think that in very truth my work would be rejected by them before it was seen. If such were to be their decision, how would it be possible that the “Panjandrum” should ever be brought into existence? Who could endure such ignominy and still persevere?

There was silence among us, which to me in the intensity of my feelings seemed to last for minutes. Regan was the first to speak. “Now, Mrs. St. Quinten,” he said, “it all rests with you.” An idea shot across my mind at the moment, of the folly of which we had been guilty in placing our most vital interests in the hands of a woman merely on the score of gallantry. Two votes had been given to her as against one of ours simply because,—she was a woman. It may be that there had been something in the arrangement of compensation for the tea and muffins; but if so, how poor was the cause for so great an effect! She sat there the arbiter of our destinies. “You had better give your vote,” said Smith roughly. “You think it is a novel?” she said, appealing to him. “There can be no doubt of it,” he replied; “a novel is not a novel because it is long or short. Such is the matter which we intended to declare that we would not put forth in our magazine.” “I protest,” said I, jumping up,—“I protest against this interference.”

Then there was a loud and very angry discussion whether Churchill Smith was justified in his endeavour to bias Mrs. St. Quinten; and we were nearly brought to a vote upon that. I myself was very anxious to have that question decided,—to have any question decided in which Churchill Smith could be shown to be in the wrong. But no one would back me, and it seemed to me as though even Regan and Jack Hallam were falling off from me,—though Jack had never yet restored to me that article of clothing to which allusion was made in the first chapter of this little history, and I had been almost as anxious for Pat’s Latin translation as for my own production. It was decided without a vote that any amount of free questioning as to each other’s opinions, and of free answering, was to be considered fair. “I tell her my opinion. You can tell her yours,” said Churchill Smith. “It is my opinion,” said I, “that you want to dictate to everybody and to rule the whole thing.” “I think we did mean to exclude all story-telling,” said Mrs. St. Quinten, and so the decision was given against me.

Looking back at it I know that they were right on the exact point then under discussion. They had intended to exclude all stories. But,—heaven and earth,—was there ever such folly as that of which they had been guilty in coming to such a resolution? I have often suggested to myself since, that had “The New Inmate” been read on that evening, the “Panjandrum” might have become a living reality, and that the fortieth volume of the publication might now have been standing on the shelves of many a well-filled library. The decision, however, had been given against me, and I sat like one stricken dumb, paralysed, or turned to stone. I remember it as though it were yesterday. I did not speak a word, but simply moving my chair an inch or two, I turned my face away from the lady who had thus blasted all my hopes. I fear that my eyes were wet, and that a hot tear trickled down each cheek. No note of triumph was sounded, and I verily believe they all suffered in my too conspicuous sufferings. To both Watt and Smith it had been a matter of pure conscience. Mrs. St. Quinten, woman-like, had obeyed the man in whose strength she trusted. There was silence for a few moments, and then Watt invited Regan to proceed. He had divided his work into three portions, but what they were called, whether they were verse or prose, translations or original, comic or serious, I never knew. I could not listen then. For me to continue my services to the “Panjandrum” was an impossibility. I had been crushed—so crushed that I had not vitality left me to escape from the room, or I should not have remained there. Pat Regan’s papers were nothing to me now. Watt I knew had written an essay called “The Real Aristocrat,” which was published elsewhere afterwards. Jack Hallam’s work was not ready. There was something said of his delinquency, but I cared not what. I only wish that my work also had been unready. Churchill Smith also had some essay, “On the Basis of Political Right.” That, if I remember rightly, was its title. I often talked the matter over in after days with Pat Regan, and I know that from the moment in which my consternation was made apparent to them, the thing went very heavily. At the time, and for some hours after the adverse decision, I was altogether unmanned and unable to collect my thoughts. Before the evening was over there occurred a further episode in our affairs which awakened me.

The names of the papers had been given in, and Mrs. St. Quinten began to read her essay. Nothing more than the drone of her voice reached the tympanum of my ears. I did not look at her, or think of her, or care to hear a word that she uttered. I believe I almost slept in my agony; but sleeping or waking I was turning over in my mind, wearily and incapably, the idea of declining to give any opinion as to the propriety of inserting or rejecting the review of Bishop Berkeley’s theory, on the score that my connection with the “Panjandrum” had been severed. But the sound of the reading went on, and I did not make up my mind. I hardly endeavoured to make it up, but sat dreamily revelling in my own grievance, and pondering over the suicidal folly of the “Panjandrum” Company. The reading went on and on without interruption, without question and without applause. I know I slept during some portion of the time, for I remember that Regan kicked my shin. And I remember, also, a feeling of compassion for the reader, who was hardly able to rouse herself up to the pitch of spirit necessary for the occasion,—but allowed herself to be quelled by the cold steady gaze of her cousin Churchill. Watt sat immovable, with his hands in his trousers pockets, leaning back in his chair, the very picture of dispassionate criticism. Jack Hallam amused himself by firing paper pellets at Regan, sundry of which struck me on the head and face. Once Mrs. St. Quinten burst forth in offence. “Mr. Hallam,” she said, “I am sorry to be so tedious.” “I like it of all things,” said Jack. It was certainly very long. Half comatose, as I was, with my own sufferings, I had begun to ask myself before Mrs. St. Quinten had finished her task whether it would be possible to endure three other readings lengthy as this. Ah! if I might have read “My New Inmate,” how different would the feeling have been! Of what the lady said about Berkeley, I did not catch a word; but the name of the philosophical bishop seemed to be repeated usque ad nauseam. Of a sudden I was aware that I had snored,—a kick from Pat Regan wounded my shin; a pellet from Jack Hallam fell on my nose; and the essay was completed. I looked up, and could see that drops of perspiration were standing on the lady’s brow.

There was a pause, and even I was now aroused to attention. We were to write our verdicts on paper,—simply the word, “Insert,” or “Reject,”—and what should I write? Instead of doing so, should I declare at once that I was severed from the “Panjandrum” by the treatment I had received? That I was severed, in fact, I was very sure. Could any human flesh and blood have continued its services to any magazine after such humiliation as I had suffered? Nevertheless it might perhaps be more manly were I to accept the responsibility of voting on the present occasion,—and if so, how should I vote? I had not followed a single sentence, and yet I was convinced that matter such as that would never stir the British public mind. But as the thing went, we were not called upon for our formal verdicts. “Lydia,” as soon as she had done reading, turned at once to her cousin. She cared for no verdict but his. “Well,” said she, “what do you think of it?” At first he did not answer. “I know I read it badly,” she continued, “but I hope you caught my meaning.”

“It is utter nonsense,” he said, without moving his head.

“Oh, Churchill!” she exclaimed.