“How Quince upset me to-night! So I made a chance hit with my first book? Well, it’s true the public were up on their toes for it. But then I would have succeeded anyway. As to catering to the mass—I admit it. I’m between the devil and the deep sea. The publishers keep rushing me for the sort of thing that will sell, and the million Porkinsons keep clamouring for the sort of thing they can read without having to think. For the sake of his theoretical wife and six children, what can a poor devil do but commercialise his ideals?”
Here I paused thoughtfully, with one arm out of my coat.
“After all, is a book of fiction not entertainment just as much as a play? There’s your audience, the public. You’ve got to try and please them, to be entertaining from cover to cover. Better be immoral than be dull. And when it comes to audiences, give me a big one of just plain ‘folks,’ to a small one of highbrows.”
With knitted brows and lips pursed doubtfully, I proceeded to wind up my watch.
“Anyway, I haven’t written for money; I’ve written for popularity. It’s nice to think you can get on a train and find some one reading your books—even if it’s only the nigger porter. True, my popularity has meant about twenty-five thousand a year to me; but it’s not my fault if my publishers insist on paying me such big royalties. And I’ve not spent the money. I’ve gone on living on my private income. Then the writing itself has been such a distraction. Lord! how I have enjoyed it! Granted that my notion of Hades would be to be condemned to read my own books, yet, such as they are, I’ve done my best with them. I’ve lived them as I wrote. I’ve laughed with joy at their humour. I’ve shed real tears (with just as much joy) at their pathos.”
I gave a wrench at my collar, expressive of savage perplexity; on which the stud shot out, and cheerfully proceeded to roll under the wardrobe.
“Perhaps I’ve done things I shouldn’t? I’ve made coincidence work overtime; I’ve grafted on love scenes so that the artist could get in one or two ‘clinch pictures.’ On my last page you’ll find the heroine clutched to the hero’s waistcoat; but—they all do it. One’s got to, or get out of the game.”
Here I disappeared for a moment; and when I re-entered, clad in pale-blue pyjamas, I was calm and cheerful again.
“So old Quince said I’d succeeded by a fluke. Well, I’d just like to bet my year’s income against his that I could make a fresh start and do the same thing all over again. By Jove! What an idea! Why not? Go away to London, cut adrift from friends and funds, fight my way up the ladder from the very bottom. After all, I’ve had the devil’s own luck, everything in my favour. It’s hardly been a fair test. Perhaps I really am a four-flusher. Even now I begin to doubt myself. It seems like a challenge.”
Switching off the light I jumped into bed.