“Why?”
“Why?” and the worthy Morgeson laughed sweetly—“I see, my dear Mr Tempest, you are like most men of genius—you do not understand business. The reason why we give the first two hundred and fifty copies away is in order to be able to announce at once in all the papers that ‘The First Large Edition of the New Novel by Geoffrey Tempest being exhausted on the day of publication, a Second is in Rapid Preparation.’
You see we thus hoodwink the public, who of course are not in our secrets, and are not to know whether an edition is two hundred or two thousand. The Second Edition will of course be ready behind the scenes, and will consist of another two hundred and fifty.”
“Do you call that course of procedure honest?” I asked quietly.
“Honest? My dear sir! Honest?” And his countenance wore a virtuously injured expression—“Of course it is honest! Look at the daily papers! Such announcements appear every day—in fact they are getting rather too common. I freely admit that there are a few publishers here and there who stick up for exactitude and go to the trouble of not only giving the number of copies in an Edition, but also publishing the date of each one as it was issued,—this may be principle if they like to call it so, but it involves a great deal of precise calculation and worry! If the public like to be deceived, what is the use of being exact! Now, to resume,—your second edition will be sent off ‘on sale or return’ to provincial booksellers, and then we shall announce—“In consequence of the Enormous Demand for the new novel by Geoffrey Tempest, the Large Second Edition is out of print. A Third will be issued in the course of next week.” And so on, and so on, till we get to the sixth or seventh edition (always numbering two hundred and fifty each) in three volumes; perhaps we can by skilful [p 99] management work it to a tenth. It is only a question of diplomacy and a little dexterous humbugging of the trade. Then we shall arrive at the one-volume issue, which will require different handling. But there’s time enough for that. The frequent advertisements will add to the expense a bit, but if you don’t mind—”
“I don’t mind anything,” I said—“so long as I have my fun.”
“Your fun?” he queried surprisedly—“I thought it was fame you wanted, more than fun!”
I laughed aloud.
“I’m not such a fool as to suppose that fame is secured by advertisement,” I said—“For instance I am one of those who think the fame of Millais as an artist was marred when he degraded himself to the level of painting the little green boy blowing bubbles of Pears’s Soap. That was an advertisement. And that very incident in his career, trifling though it seems, will prevent his ever standing on the same dignified height of distinction with such masters in art as Romney, Sir Peter Lely, Gainsborough or Reynolds.”
“I believe there is a great deal of justice in what you say;” and Morgeson shook his head wisely—“Viewed from a purely artistic and sentimental standpoint you are right.” And he became suddenly downcast and dubious. “Yes,—it is a most extraordinary thing how fame does escape people sometimes just when they seem on the point of grasping it. They are ‘boomed’ in every imaginable way, and yet after a time nothing will keep them up. And there are others again who get kicked and buffeted and mocked and derided——”