Nevertheless, he sincerely thought Mr. Snyder's terms exorbitant7. He was not of the race of literary aspirants8 who are eager to be published at any price. Literature had no fatal fascination9 for him. His wholly sensible idea now was that, having written a book, he might as well get it printed and make an honest penny out of it, if possible. However, the effect of the visit to Kenilworth Mansions10 was to persuade him to resolve to abandon the enterprise; Mr. Mark Snyder had indeed discouraged him. And in the evening, when he reached Dawes Road, he gave his mother and aunt a truthful11 account of the episode, and stated, pleasantly but plainly, that he should burn Love in Babylon. And his mother and aunt, perceiving that he was in earnest, refrained from comment.
And after they had gone to bed he took Love in Babylon out of the brown paper in which he had wrapped it, and folded the brown paper and tied up the string; and he was in the very act of putting Love in Babylon bodily on the fire, when he paused.
'Suppose I give it one more chance?' he reflected.
He had suddenly thought of the name of Mr. Onions Winter, and of Mr. Snyder's interrupted observations upon that publisher. He decided12 to send Love in Babylon to Mr. Winter. He untied13 the string, unfolded the brown paper, indited14 a brief letter, and made the parcel anew.
A week later, only a week, Mr. Onions Winter wrote asking Henry to call upon him without delay, and Henry called. The establishment of Mr. Onions Winter was in Leicester Square, between the Ottoman Music Hall and a milliner's shop. Architecturally it presented rather a peculiar16 appearance. The leading feature of the ground-floor was a vast arch, extending across the entire frontage in something more than a semicircle. Projecting from the keystone of the arch was a wrought-iron sign bearing a portrait in copper17, and under the portrait the words 'Ye Shakspere Head.' Away beneath the arch was concealed18 the shop-window, an affair of small square panes19, and in the middle of every small pane20 was stuck a small card, 'The Satin Library—Onions Winter.' This mystic phrase was repeated a hundred and sixty-five times. To the right of the window was a low green door with a copper handle in the shape of a sow's tail, and the legend 'Ye Office of Onions Winter.'
'Is Mr. Winter in?' Henry demanded of a young man in a very high collar, after he had mastered the mechanism21 of the sow's tail.
'Yes, he's in,' said the young man rudely, as Henry thought. (How different from Goldenhair was this high collar!)
'Do you want to see him?' asked the young man, when he had hummed an air and stared out of the window.
Henry had these flashes of brilliance24 from time to time. They came of themselves, as Love in Babylon came. He felt that he was beginning better with Mr. Onions Winter than he had begun with Mr. Mark Snyder.
In another moment he was seated opposite Mr. Winter in a charming but littered apartment on the first-floor. He came to the conclusion that all literary offices must be drawing-rooms.
'And so you are the author of Love in Babylon?' began Mr. Winter. He was a tall man, with burning eyes, grey hair, a grey beard which stuck out like the sun's rays, but no moustache. The naked grey upper lip was very deep, and somehow gave him a formidable appearance. He wore a silk hat at the back of his head, and a Melton overcoat rather like Henry's own, but much longer.
'You like it?' said Henry boldly.
'I think—— The fact is, I will be frank with you, Mr. Knight.' Here Mr. Onions Winter picked up Love in Babylon, which lay before him, and sniffed25 at it exactly as Mr. Snyder had done. 'The fact is, I shouldn't have thought twice about it if it hadn't been for this peculiar odour——'
Here Henry explained the odour.
'Ah yes. Very interesting!' observed Mr. Winter without a smile. 'Very curious! We might make a par15 out of that. Onions—onions. The public likes these coincidences. Well, as I tell you, I shouldn't have thought twice about it if it hadn't been for this——' (Sniff26, sniff.) 'Then I happened to glance at the title, and the title attracted me. I must admit that the title attracted me. You have hit on a very pretty title, Mr. Knight, a very pretty title indeed. I took your book home and read it myself, Mr. Knight. I didn't send it to any of my readers. Not a soul in this office has read it except me. I'm a bit superstitious27, you know. We all are—everyone is, when it comes to the point. And that Onions—onions! And then the pretty title! I like your book, Mr. Knight. I tell you candidly28, I like it. It's graceful29 and touching30, and original. It's got atmosphere. It's got that indefinable something—je ne sais quoi—that we publishers are always searching for. Of course it's crude—very crude in places. It might be improved. What do you want for it, Mr. Knight? What are you asking?'
Mr. Onions Winter rose and walked to the window in order, apparently31, to drink his fill of the statue of Shakspere in the middle of the square.
'I don't know,' said Henry, overjoyed but none the less perplexed32. 'I have not considered the question of price.'
'Will you take twenty-five pounds cash down for it—lock, stock, and barrel? You know it's very short. In fact, I'm just about the only publisher in London who would be likely to deal with it.'
Henry kept silence.
'Eh?' demanded Mr. Onions Winter, still perusing33 the Shaksperean forehead. 'Cash down. Will you take it?'
'No, I won't, thank you,' said Henry.
'Then what will you take?'
'I'll take a hundred.'
'My dear young man!' Mr. Onions Winter turned suddenly to reason blandly34 with Henry. 'Are you aware that that means five pounds a thousand words? Many authors of established reputation would be glad to receive as much. No, I should like to publish your book, but I am neither a philanthropist nor a millionaire.'
'What I should really prefer,' said Henry, 'would be so much on every copy sold.'
'Yes. A royalty. I think that is fairer to both parties,' said Henry judicially36.
'So you'd prefer a royalty,' Mr. Onions Winter addressed Shakspere again. 'Well. Let me begin by telling you that first books by new authors never pay expenses. Never! Never! I always lose money on them. But you believe in your book? You believe in it, don't you?' He faced Henry once more.
'Yes,' said Henry.
'Then, you must have the courage of your convictions. I will give you a royalty of three halfpence in the shilling on every copy after the first five thousand. Thus, if it succeeds, you will share in the profit. If it fails, my loss will be the less. That's fair, isn't it?'
It seemed fair to Henry. But he was not Sir George's private secretary for nothing.
'Very well,' Mr. Onions Winter surrendered at once. 'We'll say twopence, and end it.'
'And what will the price of the book be?' Henry inquired.
'Two shillings, naturally. I intend it for the Satin Library. You know about the Satin Library? You don't know about the Satin Library? My dear sir, I hope it's going to be the hit of the day. Here's a dummy38 copy.' Mr. Winter picked up an orange-tinted object from a side-table. 'Feel that cover! Look at it! Doesn't it feel like satin? Doesn't it look like satin? But it isn't satin. It's paper—a new invention, the latest thing. You notice the book-marker is of satin—real satin. Now observe the shape—isn't that original? And yet quite simple—it's exactly square! And that faint design of sunflowers! These books will be perfect bibelots; that's what they'll be—bibelots. Of course, between you and me, there isn't going to be very much for the money—a hundred and fifty quite small pages. But that's between you and me. And the satin will carry it off. You'll see these charming bijou volumes in every West End drawing-room, Mr. Knight, in a few weeks. Take my word for it. By the way, will you sign our form of agreement now?'
So Henry perpended legally on the form of agreement, and, finding nothing in it seriously to offend the legal sense, signed it with due ceremony.
'Can you correct the proofs instantly, if I send them?' Mr. Winter asked at parting.
'Yes,' said Henry, who had never corrected a proof in his life. 'Are you in a hurry?'
'Well,' Mr. Winter replied, 'I had meant to inaugurate the Satin Library with another book. In fact, I have already bought five books for it. But I have a fancy to begin it with yours. I have[Pg 114] a fancy, and when I have a fancy, I—I generally act on it. I like the title. It's a very pretty title. I'm taking the book on the title. And, really, in these days a pretty, attractive title is half the battle.'
Within two months, Love in Babylon, by Henry S. Knight, was published as the first volume of Mr. Onions Winter's Satin Library, and Henry saw his name in the papers under the heading 'Books Received.' The sight gave him a passing thrill, but it was impossible for him not to observe that in all essential respects he remained the same person as before. The presence of six author's copies of Love in Babylon at Dawes Road alone indicated the great step in his development. One of these copies he inscribed39 to his mother, another to his aunt, and another to Sir George. Sir George accepted the book with a preoccupied40 air, and made no remark on it for a week or more. Then one morning he said: 'By the way, Knight, I ran through that little thing of yours last night. Capital! Capital! I congratulate you. Take down this letter.'
Henry deemed that Sir George's perspective was somewhat awry41, but he said nothing. Worse was in store for him. On the evening of that same day he bought the Whitehall Gazette as usual to read in the train, and he encountered the following sentences:
'Twaddle in Satin.
'Mr. Onions Winter's new venture, the Satin Library, is a pretty enough thing in its satinesque way. The format42 is pleasant, the book-marker voluptuous43, the binding44 Arty-and-Crafty. We cannot, however, congratulate Mr. Winter on the literary quality of the first volume. Mr. Henry S. Knight, the author of Love in Babylon (2s.), is evidently a beginner, but he is a beginner from whom nothing is to be expected. That he has a certain gross facility in the management of sentimental45 narrative46 we will not deny. It is possible that he is destined47 to be the delight of "the great public." It is possible—but improbable. He has no knowledge of life, no feeling for style, no real sense of the dramatic. Throughout, from the first line to the last, his story moves on the plane of tawdriness, theatricality48, and ballad49 pathos50. There are some authors of whom it may be said that they will never better themselves. They are born with a certain rhapsodic gift of commonness, a gift which neither improves nor deteriorates51. Richly dowered with crass52 mediocrity, they proceed from the cradle to the grave at one low dead level. We suspect that Mr. Knight is of these. In saying that it is a pity that he ever took up a pen, we have no desire to seem severe. He is doubtless a quite excellent and harmless person. But he has mistaken his vocation53, and that is always a pity. We do not care so see the admirable grocery trade robbed by the literary trade of a talent which was clearly intended by Providence54 to adorn55 it. As for the Satin Library, we hope superior things from the second volume.'
Henry had the fortitude56 to read this pronouncement aloud to his mother and Aunt Annie at the tea-table.
'The cowards!' exclaimed Mrs. Knight.
Aunt Annie flushed. 'Let me look,' she whispered; she could scarcely control her voice. Having looked, she cast the paper with a magnificent gesture to the ground. It lay on the hearth-rug, open at a page to which Henry had not previously57 turned. From his arm-chair he could read in the large displayed type of one of Mr. Onions Winter's advertisements: 'Onions Winter. The Satin Library. The success of the year. Love in Babylon. By Henry S. Knight. Two shillings. Eighteenth thousand.—Onions Winter. The Satin Library. The success of the year. Love in Babylon. By Henry S. Knight. Two shillings. Eighteenth thousand.'
And so it went on, repeated and repeated, down the whole length of the twenty inches which constitute a column of the Whitehall Gazette.
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1
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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tally
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| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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format
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| n.设计，版式；[计算机]格式，DOS命令:格式化(磁盘)，用于空盘或使用过的磁盘建立新空盘来存储数据；v.使格式化，设计，安排 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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theatricality
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| n.戏剧风格，不自然 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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51
deteriorates
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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crass
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| adj.愚钝的，粗糙的；彻底的 | |
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53
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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56
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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