“You will never succeed without ambition,” Johnson repeated confidently.
“Then I am afraid I shall never succeed at all, for I have not a spark of that sort of ambition. I do not care a straw for being thought better than any one else, nor for being a celebrity. I want to satisfy myself, my own idea of what is a good book, and I am afraid I never shall. I suppose that is a sort of ambition too.”
“It is not the right sort.”
George knew his friend very well and was familiar with most of his ideas. He respected his character, and he valued his opinion more than that of any man in his acquaintance, but he could never accept his theories as infallible. He felt that if he ever succeeded in writing a book that pleased him he would recognise its merits sooner than any one, and but for the necessity of earning a livelihood he would have systematically destroyed all his writings until he had attained a satisfactory result. That a certain amount of reputation might be gained by publishing what he regarded as incomplete or inartistic work was to him a matter of indifference, except for the material advantages which resulted from the transaction. Such, at least, was his belief about himself. That he was able to appreciate flattery when it was of a good and subtle quality, only showed him that he was human, but did not improve his own estimation of his productions.
A week later, Johnson returned the manuscript with a note in which he gave his opinion of it.
“It will sell,” he wrote. “You are quite mistaken about yourself, as usual. You told me the other day that you had no ambition. Your book proves that you have. You have taken the subject treated by Wiggins in his last great novel. It made a sensation, but in my opinion you have handled it better than he did, though he is called a great novelist. It was a very ambitious thing to do, and it is wonderful that, while taking a precisely similar situation, there should not be a word in your work that recalls his. After this, do not tell me that you have no ambition, for it is sheer nonsense. As for the last chapter, I should not have known that it was not written under the same circumstances as all the rest.”
George laughed aloud to himself. He knew the name of Wiggins well enough, but he had never read one of the celebrated author’s books, and if he had he would assuredly not have taken his plot.
“But Johnson could not know that,” he said to himself, “and I have written just such stuff about other people.”
The book went to the publisher and he thought no more of it. During the time that followed, his days were very fully occupied. Between making the necessary preparations for his approaching marriage, and the pleasant duty of spending a certain number of hours with Mamie every day, he had very little time to call his own, although nothing of any importance happened to vary the course of his life. At the beginning of November Constance Fearing and her sister returned to town, and at about the same time he was informed by Sherrington Trimm that it would be necessary for him to visit Mr. Thomas Craik, as he was about to become that gentleman’s nephew by marriage.
“Of course, I know all about the old story, George,” said Sherry. “But if I were you I would at least try and be civil. The fact is, I have reason to know that he is haunted by a sort of half-stagey, half-honest remorse for what he did, and he is very much pleased with the marriage, besides being a great admirer of your books.”