But another matter is beginning to occupy my mind and to give me a strange mixture of satisfaction and regret. This is the apparent success of Tom, Dick and Harry. About a month ago I received my six presentation copies. MacWaddy and Wedge had done their work well. The cover was stirring in the extreme. An American publicity man on his probation had seized on it as a medium for his first efforts. It was advertised in the weekly, and even in the daily papers; a royal princess was announced as having included it in her library, and more or less picturesque paragraphs about the author began to go the round of the press. The imaginative efforts of the publicity man were not stultified by any sordid knowledge of his subject.
Then press clippings began to come in. A great many of these were a repetition of the puff on the paper wrapper, which I had written myself, and therefore were favourable. But the reviewers who read the books they review did not let me down so easily. The Times was tolerant; The Academy acidulous; The Spectator severe. On the whole, however, my début was decidedly successful. Nearly all concluded by saying that “despite its obvious faults, the faults of a beginner, its crudeness, its obviousness, its thinness of character-drawing, this first book of Silenus Starset showed more than the average promise, and his future work should be looked forward to with some expectation.”
I gave copies to Helstern and Lorrimer, and they were both enthusiastic in that tolerant way one’s friends have of applauding one’s performances.
“For a first novel, it’s wonderful,” said the sculptor.
“You’re a marvel for a beginner,” said the artist.
These back-handed compliments rather discounted my pleasure. On the other hand, Anastasia, who read it with rapture, thought it the most wonderful production since “Les Misérables.” She hugged and treasured it as if it were something rarely precious, and verily I believe if she had been asked to choose between it and the Bible she would have chosen Tom, Dick and Harry.
Yes, it had all the appearance of success, and yet I was, in a way, disappointed. It was the equal of my other work—no better, no worse. It had the same fresh, impetuous spirit, the same wheedling, human quality, the same light-hearted ingenuity. It had the points that made for popularity: yet I had hoped to strike a truer note. I had a fatal faculty for success. I began to fear that I was doomed irrevocably to be a best-sellermonger.
Well, it must be as the public willed. I could only write in the way that was natural to me. Still I hoped that in The Great Quietus I would show that I could aspire to better things. There were opportunities in it for idyllic description, for the display of imagination. I would try to rise to this new occasion.
So I was deep in the book the following Sunday morning when Anastasia reminded me it was the day we had promised to dine with her mother. The old lady, she said, had asked her to go in the afternoon and help to prepare dinner. Would I follow about six in the evening? I promised, glad to get the extra time on my manuscript.
About six, then, I looked up from my work; suddenly remembered the important engagement, and rushed on my best garments. I called a taxi and told the chauffeur to stop at the beginning of the street. Anastasia, if she saw me, would give me a lecture on extravagance.