The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

“The sceptre has passed from my hands, and I need not vindicate the justice of my successor.”

“I shall never know your successor.”

“But I must assure you that on no account should I think of meddling with the literary arrangement of the paper. I would not do it for my sister.” Lady Carbury looked greatly pained. “Send the book out, and let it take its chance. How much prouder you will be to have it praised because it deserves praise, than to know that it has been eulogised as a mark of friendship.”

“No, I shan’t,” said Lady Carbury. “I don’t believe that anything like real selling praise is ever given to anybody, except to friends. I don’t know how they manage it, but they do.” Mr. Alf shook his head. “Oh yes; that is all very well from you. Of course you have been a dragon of virtue; but they tell me that the authoress of the New Cleopatra is a very handsome woman.” Lady Carbury must have been worried much beyond her wont, when she allowed herself so far to lose her temper as to bring against Mr. Alf the double charge of being too fond of the authoress in question, and of having sacrificed the justice of his columns to that improper affection.

“At this moment I do not remember the name of the lady to whom you allude,” said Mr. Alf, getting up to take his leave; “and I am quite sure that the gentleman who reviewed the book⁠—if there be any such lady and any such book⁠—had never seen her!” And so Mr. Alf departed.

Lady Carbury was very angry with herself, and very angry also with Mr. Alf. She had not only meant to be piteous, but had made the attempt and then had allowed herself to be carried away into anger. She had degraded herself to humility, and had then wasted any possible good result by a foolish fit of chagrin. The world in which she had to live was almost too hard for her. When left alone she sat weeping over her sorrows; but when from time to time she thought of Mr. Alf and his conduct, she could hardly repress her scorn. What lies he had told her! Of course he could have done it had he chosen. But the assumed honesty of the man was infinitely worse to her than his lies. No doubt the Pulpit had two objects in its criticisms. Other papers probably had but one. The object common to all papers, that of helping friends and destroying enemies, of course prevailed with the Pulpit. There was the second purpose of enticing readers by crushing authors⁠—as crowds used to be enticed to see men hanged when executions were done in public. But neither the one object nor the other was compatible with that Aristidean justice which Mr. Alf arrogated to himself and to his paper. She hoped with all her heart that Mr. Alf would spend a great deal of money at Westminster, and then lose his seat.

On the following morning she herself took the manuscript to Messrs. Leadham and Loiter, and was hurt again by the small amount of respect which seemed to be paid to the collected sheets. There was the work of six months; her very blood and brains⁠—the concentrated essence of her mind⁠—as she would say herself when talking with energy of her own performances; and Mr. Leadham pitched it across to a clerk, apparently perhaps sixteen years of age, and the lad chucked the parcel unceremoniously under a counter. An author feels that his work should be taken from him with fast-clutching but reverential hands, and held thoughtfully, out of harm’s way, till it be deposited within the very sanctum of an absolutely fireproof safe. Oh, heavens, if it should be lost!⁠—or burned!⁠—or stolen! Those scraps of paper, so easily destroyed, apparently so little respected, may hereafter be acknowledged to have had a value greater, so far greater, than their weight in gold! If Robinson Crusoe had been lost! If Tom Jones had been consumed by flames! And who knows but that this may be another Robinson Crusoe⁠—a better than Tom Jones? “Will it be safe there?” asked Lady Carbury.

“Quite safe⁠—quite safe,” said Mr. Leadham, who was rather busy, and who perhaps saw Lady Carbury more frequently than the nature and amount of her authorship seemed to him to require.

“It seemed to be⁠—put down there⁠—under the counter!”

“That’s quite right, Lady Carbury. They’re left there till they’re packed.”

“Packed!”

“There are two or three dozen going to our reader this week. He’s down in Skye, and we keep them till there’s enough to fill the sack.”

“Do they go by post, Mr. Leadham?”

“Not by post, Lady Carbury. There are not many of them would pay the expense. We send them by long sea to Glasgow, because just at this time of the year there is not much hurry. We can’t publish before the winter.” Oh, heavens! If that ship should be lost on its journey by long sea to Glasgow!

That evening, as was now almost his daily habit, Mr. Broune came to her. There was something in the absolute friendship which now existed between Lady Carbury and the editor of the Morning Breakfast Table, which almost made her scrupulous as to asking from him any further literary favour. She fully recognised⁠—no woman perhaps more fully⁠—the necessity of making use of all aid and furtherance which might come within reach. With such a son, with such need for struggling before her, would she not be wicked not to catch even at every straw? But this man had now become so true to her, that she hardly knew how to beg him to do that which she, with all her mistaken feelings, did in truth know that he ought not to do. He had asked her to marry him, for which⁠—though she had refused him⁠—she felt infinitely grateful. And though she had refused him, he had lent her money, and had