Martin Merrivale his X mark |
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| 16. | XVI.
PROFESSIONAL PROGRESS. |
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 | XVI.
PROFESSIONAL PROGRESS. Martin Merrivale |  |
16. XVI.
PROFESSIONAL PROGRESS.
EARLY Monday morning, the
hopeful Martin set out to call
on the publisher with whom
he had left his Romance to
be examined.
“Good-morning,” said Mr.
Dime, in a mumbling, melancholy
tone, as the young
author entered the bookstore.
“You have come to see about
that manuscript, I suppose.”
Martin bowed, smiled
cheerfully, and made a careless
remark about the weather.
“These sudden changes use
me up,” replied Mr. Dime, dismally. “I 've had a cold in my
head nearly all the fall, more or less, and it is worse than ever this
morning.” He made a painful attempt to ventilate his nasal
organ; but it was in so dreadful a condition that his face became
purple under the operation.
“You expose yourself too much, possibly,” suggested Martin.
“I don't think I do,” replied the other, rubbing his fingers on
middle of September. I never go out in an east wind, if I can
help it; and when I do, I take an omnibus.”
“Perhaps you are too careful of yourself. Cold baths and outdoor
exercise might give a vigorous tone to your constitution.”
“Cold baths and exposure in east winds would carry me out of
the world pretty soon,” said Mr. Dime, with a melancholy shake
of the head. “I han't had time to look over your manuscript
yet,” he added, taking The Beggar of Bagdad from his desk;
“besides, I han't felt like it, either.”
“I am sorry,” said Martin, with a disappointed look. “I was
in hopes of raising a few dollars on it, this morning.”
The publisher turned over the sheets and studied the chapter-headings
for some moments, in silence.
“I don't know about taking hold of anything of this kind just
now,” he at length observed, in his most depressed manner. “I
an't hardly decided yet.”
Martin, vexed and impatient, replied promptly that, if such was
the case, he would relieve him of the romance without more ado.
“If you 've a mind to let me keep it till day after to-morrow,”
said Mr. Dime, “I 'll try to read it by that time, and tell you
what I 'm prepared to do about it.”
Martin concluded to accept this proposition, and once more
departed, leaving the Beggar of Bagdad in the hands of the
melancholy publisher.
A few minutes later, he entered the office of the Streamer of
the Free, and was complacently received by Mr. Drove.
“How is it about `White Hairs'?” asked Martin, with a show
of gayety, seating himself in a chair opposite the responsible
editor.
“Your sketch,” replied Mr. Drove, with his ready smirk, “has
not been read. I left it here for my assistant, Saturday; but
he did n't come near the office, and here it is yet.”
Mr. Drove took the manuscript from a pigeon-hole in his desk,
and glanced at the title, winking and nodding sagaciously, with
his chin out. Martin's brows gathered, and he gnawed his lip in
silence.
“A pretty fair title,” Mr. Drove resumed. “We want something
to catch the eye at the head of the column, you know.
`White Hairs and Auburn Tresses,' — that 'll pass. If I can get
time, I 'll read it myself in a day or two. I find I can't place
any dependence on my assistant, and — this is in confidence,” said
Mr. Drove, lowering his voice, — “I 've about made up my mind
to git red of him. He 's a man of splendid talents! He 's
Quintus Quilldriver.”
He looked up with his old smirk to observe the effect of this
bold announcement upon Martin; and Martin said,
“Is he, indeed?”
“A great genius!” pursued the responsible editor, with an
expressive shake of his head. “But irregular — eccentric; in
short, he sprees it.”
“That 's bad,” said Martin.
“If 't wan't for that, I would n't part with him on any account.
He has immense ability. Why, sir, if he was a mind to, he could
make the biggest reputation of any man in the country. He 's
wonderful sharp. He comes in here along about ten o'clock,
sometimes, and I say, `Chaffer, you 're late; the printers want
copy. Set right down and dash off a column of editorial, as soon
as ever you can.' That 's the way I have to ketch him; and
then I 'm sure of him. He 'll set down, without any study
other, never stopping till the work 's done. Drunk or sober, it
don't make any difference, apparently; though I often think he
does best when he 's a good deal over the bay.”
Martin thought of Caleb Thorne, and asked, with earnest feeling,
if there was no way to reform that better class of persons
over whom the morbid appetite for drink has such power.
“I 'd like to have somebody try Chaffer's case,” replied Mr.
Drove, significantly. “I 've threatened to turn him off fifty
times, but it don't do any good.”
“He must be aware what ruin he brings upon himself, — is
he not?”
“He knows all about that, you better believe! Why, he has
sworn off from drink once a week, on an average, for the past
year. Talk with him when he 's sober, and he 'll tell you what a
fool he has been, and how much harm liquor has done him and his
family, and pledge his word that he will never taste another drop.
Meet him an hour after, perhaps, and he will be tight. Then he 's
of a different opinion. Every man of genius drinks, the world
over, he says. If he has asked me once, he has asked me a
hundred times, `what would Byron have done without gin?' He
even likes to be pitied, and to have people say, `What a splendid
mind Chaffer has, if he would only let liquor alone!' Well, I 've
give him up. Here my inside goes to press on Thursday, and
there 's not a line of copy for the editorial columns, which ought
all to be in type to-morrow. I write a good many articles, now
and then,” added Mr. Drove, with an air of importance; “but
my time is exceedingly valuable, and it is cheaper to hire such
work done, when I can. Have you ever written much on general
subjects?”
“Never for the press; but I think I might be able to do what
you want.”
“Would you like to try your hand at a leader?”
“On what subject?”
“O, almost any subject of general interest. Make it pointed
and pithy as you can, — eloquent and patriotic, you know. The
Standard of the Free has been having a series of editorials on the
`Tyranny of Capital,' — a pretty taking sort of a subject. It
won't do for us to be behind the Standard in such matters; so,
supposing you write a scathing and fiery article, blowing up the
rich and siding with the laboring classes? Them kind of articles
tell first-rate; and there 's a chance now for you to lay yourself
out on one. Make it brilliant, so 's 't Chaffer can't crow about
it.”
Martin agreed to undertake the leader. Thereupon Mr. Drove
asked him how he would like to write a few puffs for the daily
papers.
“Write what?”
“Puffs — notices of this week's Streamer, you know. I 'll
show you.”
Mr. Drove produced a blank book, and opened upon a page
covered with brief newspaper paragraphs pasted in, and credited
variously to the daily press.
“Chaffer was to have written the notices for this morning's
papers. Our paper is out on Monday, and the advertisements
ought to appear Monday morning.”
“Some of these must have been written by the editors who
printed them, I take it,” said Martin, glancing his eye over the
puffs. “This one, for instance, — `The Streamer of the Free, for
this week, is, by all odds, the best number of that best of papers
Mule-Driver's Oath; or, the Perilous Pass of San Satilla,'
is truly a thrilling romance of love, treachery and revenge.
The enterprising publisher, Mr. Drove, deserves great credit
for his liberality in securing such writers for the Streamer as
Robin Bowsprit.' These are voluntary notices by the editors, I
suppose.”
“Do they read like it?” asked Mr. Drove, chuckling.
“Certainly,” said the unsophisticated Martin.
“It 's all right, then,” observed Mr. Drove, with his chin out
further than before. “That shows that they were well done. Do
you think you can get up something in the same style? Make 'em
read like genuine editorial notices, — disinterested compliments,
you know.”
“I should n't think the thing would be at all difficult.”
“Chaffer says that puff-writing is an art by itself, — d' ye
know it? You have to make your paragraphs terse and pointed,
'cause they have to be paid for at so much a line, you know; and
people won't read 'em, if they 're long. I let you into our
secrets a little,” said Mr. Drove, complacently; “but of course
this is between ourselves. Would you like to try your hand, now,
at half a dozen puffs of this week's Streamer?”
“If there 's money to be earned that way,” said Martin, with a
smile of rather melancholy humor, “I am not in a condition to
neglect the opportunity.”
“Sit right up here, then, at Chaffer's desk, and let 's see what
you can do.”
“But I shall want to read this week's Streamer first, — shall
I not?”
“What for?”
“To know what I am going to puff, to be sure.”
“Nonsense,” laughed Mr. Drove. “Chaffer says he can always
puff best a thing he knows nothing about. Draw on your imagination.
Say, `It is a magnificent number. The Streamer of this
week is truly a superb affair. The new novelette, continued from
last week, promises to be the most brilliant romance ever published
in America; it is by the author of the “Pirate's Royal
Bride,” whose services, we are glad to learn, have been secured
by the praiseworthy proprietor of the Streamer, at an immense
expense; and so forth, and so forth. The Streamer has distanced
all competitors, and waves alone in its glory.' That 's the
sort of thing we want.”
Martin observed that he should think that, with his brilliant
imagination, Mr. Drove would prefer to write the notices
himself.
“I have my reasons,” replied the responsible editor, winking,
with a look of extraordinary sagacity.
“O!” said Martin. Having glanced unconsciously at a letter
Mr. Drove was writing, and discovered certain inaccuracies of
orthography and construction, he did not question the validity of
those “reasons.” Drawing his chair to the desk, he rubbed his
temples for a moment thoughtfully, then dashed off half a dozen
paragraphs with a rapidity and ease which gave the publisher an
exalted idea of his literary abilities.
“Capital!” said Mr. Drove, as Martin finished reading what
he had written. “That 's just the thing!”
Martin was laughing heartily. His friend desired to know
what amused him.
“My unexpected success,” he answered, with tears in his eyes.
“To tell the truth, I thought the puffs mere burlesques. I tried
you would use them.”
Mr. Drove was a little dashed by this frank confession. But,
so far from being offended, as Martin had good reason to suppose
he would be, he seemed only to conceive a still higher respect for
his character and talents.
“Of course,” he observed, with his chin out, smiling and laying
his finger on the page of puffs, “they look ridiculous to you and
me; but the masses won't see any fun in 'em. I shall use every
one of these.”
“For decency's sake, then,” cried Martin, “let me alter the
style of them a little. It is too absurd. `In brilliancy of wit,
overwhelming pathos and terrible dramatic power, Robin Bowsprit
stands at the head of living writers,' — that 's awful!” he exclaimed,
convulsed with mirth.
“It an't a bit too strong,” insisted the responsible editor.
“But this,” laughed Martin: “`The continued story is one of
absorbing interest. The chapter entitled The Conflict in the
Cave is decidedly the most fearfully thrilling and soul-harrowing
narrative we have met with in the whole range of modern
literature!'”
“It 's the best puff we have had in a month,” said Mr. Drove,
good-naturedly. “You are a fresh hand at it, and your new
phrases will tell with the reader. Ah!” added the speaker,
lowering his voice, “there comes Chaffer! Sit still; I 'll introduce
him to you.”
But Chaffer was scarcely in a fit state to be introduced. He
had a fine figure and an intellectual face; but his beard was
unshaven, his dress was in disorder, the crown of his hat was
broken, and there was an uncertain, swimming look in his eyes,
seemed only by a strenuous effort that he was able to approach
Mr. Drove and stop, without pitching over him headlong.
“Here I am!” said he, slapping his employer on the shoulder.
“Prompt as the day!”
“Not quite,” replied Mr. Drove, sarcastically. “You should
have been here Saturday morning.”
“Was n't I here Sa'd'y morn'n'?” demanded Chaffer, indignantly.
“And, supposing I was n't? Would you deny a man —
a man of genius, you un'stan' — a day's recreation, now and
then?”
“Well, are you ready for work?”
“All ready! When there 's work to be done, Walter S. Chaffer
's on hand. I want you lend me a couple of dollars first,
though. I must have a beefsteak and a cup of coffee b'fore I
un'take do anything.”
“I han't got two dollars to spare, I 'm sorry to say.”
“See here, Mr. Drove!” exclaimed Chaffer, with a frown,
steadying himself by the desk. “Look me i' the eye! You say
you have n't got two dollars to spare?”
“Not this morning, Walter. Come,” said Mr. Drove, coaxingly;
“sit down and work half an hour; then we 'll go out
together and get a lunch. But first let me make you acquainted
with Mr. Merrivale, a new contributor.”
The pugnacious Chaffer compressed his lips and shook his hand
with a warning gesture at his employer, then turned and regarded
Martin for a moment with a look of solemn scrutiny.
“Mist' Berryfiel', I 'm rejoice' t' know ye!” he cried, staggering
forward and grasping the young man's hand. “You 're a
true man, I know by your eye! I shall be happy to cullivate
word, my young frien'; come right along! You 'll lend me a
couple of dollars, I know.”
“My dear sir,” replied Martin, with a good-humored smile,
“I have n't a dollar in the world.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Chaffer, grasping his hand once
more, “and I sympathize with you. You are an author?”
“I have made some attempt at authorship.”
“Then it 's absurd to ask you to lend money. Authors are
proverb'ally short. Look here, now, Mr. Drove! will you let me
have the money? — that 's the question. I 'm going to treat
my young friend.”
“Excuse me,” said Martin; “I never drink.”
Chaffer raised his hand in an attitude which seemed to say,
“I know all about that; so not a word;” and kept his swimming
eyes fixed with a stern expression on his employer's face.
“I tell you I can't spare the money,” said Mr. Drove.
“Then you and I are done!” exclaimed Chaffer, shaking his
fist heavily. “That settles it. My shadow never 'll darken your
floor again. And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating
on the floor shall be lifted — nevermore! Wait for me five minutes,
my young friend,” he added, embracing Martin; “I 'll bo'r'r
the money, and call at the door for ye.”
Martin persisted in declining the kind invitation; but Chaffer
put up his hand as before, in an attitude of friendly remonstrance,
and went reeling out of the office.
“He has gone off so a dozen times before,” said Mr. Drove,
laughing. “He 'll be sober enough by about to-morrow morning
to come back and go to work as if nothing had happened. You 'll
bring in the leader as early as four o'clock?”
Martin promised, and took his leave. On his way to the
office of the Portfolio, he unfortunately fell in with Mr. Chaffer,
who recognized him, and stopped him in the street.
“Mr. Berryfield!” exclaimed that gentleman, with contracted
features, extending his hand with a gesture intended to be very
solemn and impressive, “I thought you were a friend of mine.”
“So I am,” said Martin.
“And you could n't wait for me five minutes! Is that friendship?
Should Brutus Cassius answer Caius Marcus so?” cried
Chaffer, dramatically.
“I 'm in a hurry, Mr. Chaffer.”
“In a hurry? Where you going?”
“I 'm on my way to the Portfolio office.”
“Good! Jus' the place I was thinking of going to. I want
to see Killings. He 's a great fellow, Killings is.”
“Do you think so?” asked Martin.
“I 'm bound to think so, if he 'll lend me five dollars. If he
won't —” Chaffer snapped his fingers contemptuously, — “You
un'stand. That 's what I think of Killings.”
Martin was not at all pleased with his companion. But Chaffer
was not to be got rid of easily. He clung to the young man's
arm, and went staggering by his side along the street, shaking his
fist and talking thickly.
“Are you a married man?” asked Martin, on the way.
“Yes, thank Heaven! I 've a wife and four honest, lovely
babes, as the fellow says in the play. Some men think when
they 're away from home they 're released from all mor'l obligations;
but I don't. I 'm a marr'd man at home and abroad, — I
glory to say it!” cried Chaffer, walking nobly erect.
“That 's right,” responded Martin. “I 'm glad to hear it.
noble wife and those four lovely babes of yours are more fortunate.”
“See here,” returned Chaffer, sternly. “I want to see your
face. Did you mean to insinuate anything by that remark?”
“Look in my face, and see.”
“I believe you 're a true man. I overlook the remark; though,
Heaven knows,” added Chaffer, with feeling, “I have n't always
done my duty to my family.”
“In all essential points I 'm sure you have. You have never
left them to suffer from cold and want, whilst enjoying yourself
abroad; and you are never anything but kind to them at home, I
know,” said Martin.
“No more! no more!” cried Chaffer, in maudlin accents,
much affected. “You touch a tender spot. You bring up dark
scenes in my history. You urge me to confess it; — I 've been a
bad man, — I 'm a bad man to-day.”
Chaffer began to weep. Martin was touched, yet he could not
refrain from laughing.
“O, no; not a bad man,” said he, cheeringly.
“A monster!” murmured the remorseful Chaffer. “If I
should tell you how I 've blasted the life of one of God's noblest
women, — but that 's a sacred page; it mus'n' be opened. Forgive
me for mention'n' it.”
“You exaggerate,” replied Martin. “If you have ever
appeared like the monster you call yourself, it has been owing to
circumstances.”
“Circumstances, — that 's the word. I don't believe I 've got
a bad heart,” said Chaffer, striking his breast. “No, sir! it 's
circumstances. People say, There 's Chaffer, — he 's got a glo
That 's just my case.”
“Why don't you let liquor alone, then?”
“Let liquor alone! — I, a man of genius? Impossible! I
believe in the doctrine of compensation. Nature's gifts are
always hedged round with penalties. If you have one blessing,
there 's some affliction thrown into the other scale of the bal'nce,
to make the equilibrium, you un'stand. So genius is accompanied
with infirmity. Then, what 's the use for me to complain?
I 've tried faithfully — yes, prayerfully — to put aside the
fatal cup; but what 's the use of striving against destiny?”
demanded Chaffer, stopping Martin with a jerk, and looking
full in his face. “Answer me that question b'fore you stir
another step.”
“There is a destiny which shapes our ends,” replied Martin.
“Well answered, — in the words of the sublime poet!” exclaimed
Chaffer. “Aha! here comes Redwort — the glorious Ned
Redwort. Redwort, I 'm enraptured! Shall I have the pleasure
of making you acquaint'd with my particular friend — an
aspirant for literary fame — Mr. Berryfield.”
Mr. Redwort — a gentleman with long black hair, an iron-gray
moustache, and a defective eye — greeted Martin in an off-hand,
dashing style, and declared himself delighted to make the acquaintance
of a brother author.
“Mr. Redwort is better known as Robin Bowsprit,” suggested
Chaffer.
“Robin Bowsprit — indeed!” said Martin. “Bowsprit is a
familiar name.”
“You are kind to say so,” replied Redwort, with an air of indifference.
“I have written a few trifles under that signature,
pretension to style; I tell a story on paper just as I 'd tell it to
my messmates on shipboard.”
“That 's the beauty of it,” observed Chaffer. “You 're natural
as the day 's long.”
“How could I be otherwise? I never wrote a fictitious story
in my life. Everything I describe I 've been through with
myself. I 've seen more wild and exciting incident than a man
could put on paper in a lifetime.”
“Ned 's been all over the world,” said Chaffer, aside to Martin.
“He 's a great fellow.”
“Mr. Berryfield reminds me —”
“Merrivale, if you please,” said Martin.
“Merriville, — thank you for the correction. Your friend Merriville
reminds me,” resumed Redwort, “of an officer in the Brazilian
service, — Colonel Rokee; we were like brothers together.
He saved my life once in a skirmish, and I afterwards had the good
fortune to return the favor. Have you read the cave scene in this
week's Streamer? That 's an exact description of the fight in
which I saved his life. Señor Rokero is the colonel, and Don
Edwardo, who flings his arms about him, and receives the point of
the dagger in his hand, as the robber is about to run him through
the body, is myself. I can show you the scar,” said Redwort, displaying
a wound in his palm. “You are the very picture of the
colonel,” he added, turning the glassy glimmer of his defective eye
on Martin. “Poor Rokee! he afterwards fell in battle by my
side. We both went down together, our horses shot under us, and
a whole regiment of Brazilian cavalry swept over us. When I
came to my senses, I found myself in a gorgeous chamber in a
Don Alvarez' villa; and when I asked for Señor Rokero, I was
taken care of by the beautiful Donna Inez, who figures in `The
Saintly Assassin; or, the Stiletto and the Cross,' which ran
through six numbers of the Streamer. Poor Inez! she left her
father's estates to follow my fortunes, and died of a fever, six
months after, at Havana. I have described the death-scene, and
the arrival of her father in pursuit just as she breathed her last,
in `The Stolen Bride of the Sierras,' published in the True
Standard.”
Redwort stroked his iron-gray moustache, and regarded Martin
complacently, to observe the effect of his confessions on his new
acquaintance.
“You have written a great deal for the newspapers, I should
judge,” observed Martin.
“Rather so,” returned Redwort. “I 'm Bowsprit in the
Streamer, Jack Mizzen in the Standard of the Free, Don Marvello
in the True Standard, and Don Edwardo Redvorto in the
Portfolio. Besides this, I write letters in Spanish for three
papers in South America, and correspondence for other papers all
over the United States. I 'm a contributor to Blackwood, too;
Professor Wilson being a particular friend of mine. I write
eighty foolscap pages a day, on an average. Come, boys,” added
the great Bowsprit, taking Chaffer by the arm to steady his irregular
steps, “let 's go to Smith's to celebrate this meeting, and
drink to the success of Mr. Merriville.”
“Spoken nobly! — like Ned Redwort!” exclaimed Chaffer.
Martin, however, declined the invitation and the honor.
“You must come,” insisted Chaffer, solemnly; “or I shall be
offended.”
“Come, if you don't drink anything,” added Bowsprit. “I
you about, where the cavalry swept over us.”
“There 's a seam across the back of his head you can lay your
finger in,” said Chaffer, in a mysterious growl.
Martin had seen enough of a certain low kind of dissipation to
loathe and abhor it; and all the persuasive eloquence of his new
friends was insufficient to induce him to accompany them to
“Smith's.” Perceiving his determination, they finally released
him; and while he hastened to the office of the Portfolio, Chaffer
staggered into the nearest alley, on the support of the redoubtable
Redwort's arm.
Killings received our author with distinguished patronage.
“I was away when you called on Sanurnay,” said he,
through his nose; “but I have taken occasion to look over
the song and the sketch you left. The song is n't quite as good
as the other — do you think it is?” he asked, with a pleasant
grimace.
“I thought it was better,” replied Martin, modestly.
“O, I don't find fault with it,” Killings hastened to say;
“though I think it doubtful whether I make use of it,” in a discouraging
tone. “What — a — that is, how much — did you
intend to charge me for it?”
Martin, disheartened and disgusted, answered, that he had no
idea of fixing a price on such trifles.
“Sumposing, then, I should say amout fifty cents —”
“Fifty cents for two songs!”
“Two? — ah, yes; but I thought you gave me the first one,”
said Killings, in a fawning manner. “Well, say a dollar, then,
— will that be about the right thing?”
“If that is all the songs are worth to you, I am satisfied,”
generosity.”
“I am afraid you are not satisfied,” resumed Killings, with an
anxious look. “But I will make it all right with you, some time.
I shall want to employ you regularly,” he added, in a whisper,
behind the editor's back, “when the Portfolio comes into my
hands. The sketch you left is admirably written. You have a
decided genius for humorous description.”
“I am glad you like it,” said Martin, encouraged.
“It 's not just what I wanted, however. You don't make your
hero quite enough of a wag to make it an omject for me to pay a
high price for it. I 'll take it of you, though, seeing I engaged
it. Will a dollar and a half be a fair price? I 'll pay you more
for the others, you know; and I shall take a good many of you,
promably, in the course of the winter.”
“A dollar and a half, did I understand you?” articulated Martin,
with a sickening sensation.
“Yes — a dollar and a half; and I 'll have it printed in the
Portfolio, with a complimentary notice of the author,” returned
the magnanimous Killings, with his pleasant grimace. “That
makes two dollars and a half. Can you break an X?”
Martin could not, of course; and Killings, who probably
anticipated as much, made the circumstance an excuse for
paying him in small change, received at the door of his “Panorama.”
Opening a leather pouch, taken from the safe, he counted out
forty antiquated fourpences, nearly every one of which was worn
smooth, and tendered them to Martin on the crown of his hat.
With an expression in which a sense of the ludicrous and a
feeling of despondency were blended, the author of the Beggar of
into it; he tied it up in a little ball, and struck it on his
knee, to hear its musical chink; and thus, with sensations he
little expected to experience on that great occasion, he carried off
his first pecuniary fee earned in the sacred and exalted literary
profession.
| XVI.
PROFESSIONAL PROGRESS. Martin Merrivale | |