"Did you never hear of the man who left the theatre in the middle of Hamlet because, he said, he didn"t care to hear a play that was all quotations?" I asked, with a touch of irony.
"I presume the story has some connection in your mind with the subject in hand, but I am unable to see the appositeness?" he said interrogatively and evidently puzzled.
"I merely mentioned it lest you might not know that Pope never lived in Grub Street."
He looked at me, still ignorant that I was laughing at him. "You think it injudicious to have it done by Mather?" he questioned, naming a fellow who did special work for the paper at times.
"Not at all," I replied, "provided you label the address "hash," so that people who have some discrimination won"t suppose you ignorant that it is twice-cooked meat you are giving them," and, turning, I went on with my work as if the matter were ended.
But the next day he told me, "I have concluded to have you compose that oration, Dr. Hartzmann;" and from that moment of petty victory I have not feared my employer.
I wrote the address, and it so pleased Mr. Whitely that, not content with delivering it, he had it handsomely printed, and sent copies to all his friends.
The resulting praise he received clearly whetted his appet.i.te for authorship, for not long after he said to me, "Dr. Hartzmann, you told me, when you sold me this library, that you were writing a history of the Turks. How nearly completed is it?"
"I hope to have it ready for press within three months."
"For some time," he remarked, "I have meditated the writing of a book, and possibly yours will serve my purpose."
I was so taken by surprise that for a moment I merely gazed at him, since it seemed impossible that even egotism so overwhelming as his could be capable of such blindness; but he was in earnest, and I could only revert to Mr. Blodgett"s idea that a business man comes to think in time that anything he can buy is his. I smiled, and answered, "My book is not petroleum, Mr. Whitely."
"If it is what I desire, I will amply remunerate you," he offered.
"It is not for sale."
"I presume," he replied, "that you know what disposition of your book suits you best. I have, however, noticed in you a strong desire to obtain money, and I feel sure that we could arrange terms that will bring you more than you would otherwise receive."
Even before Mr. Whitely finished speaking, I realized that I was not a free agent. I owed a debt, and till it was paid I had no right to think of my own ambition or feelings. I caught my breath in anguish at the thought, and then, fearing that my courage would fail me, I spoke hastily: "What do you offer me?"
He smiled blandly as he predicted: "It is hardly a work that will have a large sale. The Turkish nation has not played an important part in history."
"Only conquered the key of the Old World, caused the Crusades, forced the discovery of America and of the Cape pa.s.sage, compelled Europe to develop its own civilization instead of adopting that of the East, and furnished a question to modern statesmen that they have yet found no OEdipus to answer," I retorted.
"Your special pleading does tend to magnify their position," he a.s.sented. "I shall be happy to look the work over, leaving the terms to be decided later."
I am ashamed to confess what a night of suffering I went through, battling with the love and pride that had grown into my heart for my book. I knew from the first moment his proposition had been suggested that he would give me more than I could ever hope to make from the work, and therefore my course was only too plain; but I had a terrible struggle to force myself to carry my ma.n.u.script to him the following afternoon.
For the next week he was full of what he was reading; and had the circ.u.mstances been different, I could have asked no higher compliment as regards its popular interest than the enthusiasm of this unlettered business man for my book.
"It is quite as diverting as a romance!" he exclaimed. "I can already see how astonished people will be when they read of the far-reaching influence of that nation."
Since the pound of flesh was to be sold, I took advantage of this mood.
After much haggling, which irritated and pained me more than it should, Mr. Whitely agreed to give me six thousand dollars and the royalties.
Good as the terms were, my heart nearly broke, the day the ma.n.u.script left my hands, for I had put so much thought into the book that it had almost become part of myself. My father, too, had toiled over it, with fondest predictions of the fame it would bring me; spending, as it proved, his very life in the endeavor to make it a great work. That his love, that the love of my dear professors, and that my own hopes should all be brought to market and sold as if they were mere merchandise was so mercenary and cruel that at the last moment it was all I could do to bring myself to fulfill the bargain. Nothing but my small progress in paying my debt would have forced me to sell, and I hope nothing but that would have led me to join in such dishonesty. It was, after all, part of the price I was paying for the original wrong, and but just retribution against which I had no right to cry out. Yet for a month I was so sad that I could scarcely go through my day"s toil; and though that was a year ago, I have never been able to work with the same vim, life seems to have so little left in it for me. And idle as the thought is, when I think of your praise of the book I cannot help dreaming of what might have been if it had been published in my name; if--Ah, well, to talk of "ifs" is only to confess that I am beaten, and that I will not do. Nor is the fight over. I never hoped nor attempted to gain your love, and that he has won you does not mean failure. To pay my debt is all I have to do, and though I may feel more ill and disheartened than I do to-night, I will pay it, come what may.
Good-night, my darling.
XVI
_March 7._ It is little to be proud of, yet I like to think that though I have behaved dishonestly, I have not entirely lost my sense of right and wrong. Twice at least have I faced temptation and been strong enough to resist.
When I carried to Mr. Blodgett the money I received for my book, I was so profoundly discouraged that my mood was only too apparent. In his kindness he suggested that I buy certain bonds of a railroad his firm was then reorganizing,--telling me from his inside knowledge that a year"s holding would give me a profit of thirty per cent. It was so sore a temptation to make money without exertion and practically without risk that I a.s.sented, and authorized him to buy the securities; but a night"s reflection made the dishonesty of my act clear to me, and the next morning I went to his office and told him I wished to countermand my order.
"What"s that for?" he inquired.
"I have thought better of the matter, and do not think I have the right."
"Why not?"
"If this money were a trust in my hands, it would not be honest to use it in speculation, would it?"
"No."
"That is practically what it is, since it was stolen from a trust, and is to be returned to it."
He smiled rather grimly. "It"s lucky for Wall Street," he said, "that you literary fellows don"t have the making and enforcing of laws; and it"s luckier still that you don"t have to earn your living down here, for the money you"d make wouldn"t pay your burial insurance." Yet though he laughed cynically, he shook my hand, I thought, more warmly than usual when we parted, as if he felt at heart that I had done right.
Much easier to resist was an offer of another kind. Very foolishly, I told Mr. Whitely that I had received a letter from the literary editor of the leading American review asking if I would write the criticism of the History of the Turks.
"That is a singular piece of good fortune," Mr. Whitely said cheerfully, "and guarantees me a complimentary notice in a periodical that rarely praises."
"That is by no means certain," I answered. "You know as well as I that it does not gloze a poor book, nor pa.s.s over defects in silence."
"But you can hardly write critically of your own book!" cried Mr.
Whitely, for once giving me a share in our literary partnership. "For if there are defects you ought to have corrected them in proof."
"Of course I do not intend to write the review!" I exclaimed.
"Not write it? Why not?" he questioned in amazement equal to mine.
"Because I am absolutely unfitted to do it."
"Why, you know all about the subject!"
"I mean that no author can for a moment write discriminatingly of his own work; and besides, the offer would never have been made if my connection with the book were known."
"But they will never know."
"I should."
"You mean to say you do not intend to do it?"
"I shall write to-night declining."
"But I want you to do it."