The manners and customs of journalism and of the publishing houses have since changed so much,that many people nowadays will not believe what immense efforts were made by writers and publishers of books to secure a newspaper puff;the martyrs of glory,and all those who are condemned to the penal servitude of a life-long success,were reduced to such shifts,and stooped to depths of bribery and corruption as seem fabulous to-day.Every kind of persuasion was brought to bear on journalists--dinners,flattery,and presents.The following story will throw more light on the close connection between the critic and the publisher than any quantity of flat assertions.
There was once upon a time an editor of an important paper,a clever writer with a prospect of becoming a statesman;he was young in those days,and fond of pleasure,and he became the favorite of a well-known publishing house.One Sunday the wealthy head of the firm was entertaining several of the foremost journalists of the time in the country,and the mistress of the house,then a young and pretty woman,went to walk in her park with the illustrious visitor.The head-clerk of the firm,a cool,steady,methodical German with nothing but business in his head,was discussing a project with one of the journalists,and as they chatted they walked on into the woods beyond the park.In among the thickets the German thought he caught a glimpse of his hostess,put up his eyeglass,made a sign to his young companion to be silent,and turned back,stepping softly.--"What did you see?"asked the journalist.--"Nothing particular,"said the clerk.
"Our affair of the long article is settled.To-morrow we shall have at least three columns in the Debats."Another anecdote will show the influence of a single article.
A book of M.de Chateaubriand's on the last of the Stuarts was for some time a "nightingale"on the bookseller's shelves.A single article in the Journal des Debats sold the work in a week.In those days,when there were no lending libraries,a publisher would sell an edition of ten thousand copies of a book by a Liberal if it was well reviewed by the Opposition papers;but then the Belgian pirated editions were not as yet.
The preparatory attacks made by Lucien's friends,followed up by his article on Nathan,proved efficacious;they stopped the sale of his book.Nathan escaped with the mortification;he had been paid;he had nothing to lose;but Dauriat was like to lose thirty thousand francs.
The trade in new books may,in fact,be summed up much on this wise.Aream of blank paper costs fifteen francs,a ream of printed paper is worth anything between a hundred sous and a hundred crowns,according to its success;a favorable or unfavorable review at a critical time often decides the question;and Dauriat having five hundred reams of printed paper on hand,hurried to make terms with Lucien.The sultan was now the slave.
After waiting for some time,fidgeting and making as much noise as he could while parleying with Berenice,he at last obtained speech of Lucien;and,arrogant publisher though he was,he came in with the radiant air of a courtier in the royal presence,mingled,however,with a certain self-sufficiency and easy good humor.
"Don't disturb yourselves,my little dears!How nice they look,just like a pair of turtle-doves!Who would think now,mademoiselle,that he,with that girl's face of his,could be a tiger with claws of steel,ready to tear a reputation to rags,just as he tears your wrappers,I'll be bound,when you are not quick enough to unfasten them,"and he laughed before he had finished his jest.
"My dear boy----"he began,sitting down beside Lucien.--"Mademoiselle,I am Dauriat,"he said,interrupting himself.He judged it expedient to fire his name at her like a pistol shot,for he considered that Coralie was less cordial than she should have been.
"Have you breakfasted,monsieur;will you keep us company?"asked Coralie.
"Why,yes;it is easier to talk at table,"said Dauriat."Besides,by accepting your invitation I shall have a right to expect you to dine with my friend Lucien here,for we must be close friends now,hand and glove!""Berenice!Bring oysters,lemons,fresh butter,and champagne,"said Coralie.
"You are too clever not to know what has brought me here,"said Dauriat,fixing his eyes on Lucien.
"You have come to buy my sonnets."
"Precisely.First of all,let us lay down our arms on both sides."As he spoke he took out a neat pocketbook,drew from it three bills for a thousand francs each,and laid them before Lucien with a suppliant air."Is monsieur content?"asked he.
"Yes,"said the poet.A sense of beatitude,for which no words exist,flooded his soul at the sight of that unhoped wealth.He controlled himself,but he longed to sing aloud,to jump for joy;he was ready to believe in Aladdin's lamp and in enchantment;he believed in his own genius,in short.
"Then the Marguerites are mine,"continued Dauriat;"but you will undertake not to attack my publications,won't you?""The Marguerites are yours,but I cannot pledge my pen;it is at the service of my friends,as theirs are mine.""But you are one of my authors now.All my authors are my friends.So you won't spoil my business without warning me beforehand,so that Iam prepared,will you?"
"I agree to that."
"To your fame!"and Dauriat raised his glass.
"I see that you have read the Marguerites,"said Lucien.
Dauriat was not disconcerted.
"My boy,a publisher cannot pay a greater compliment than by buying your Marguerites unread.In six months'time you will be a great poet.
