Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (513 page)

With such an array of talent it is not surprising that
The Idler
was a great success. There existed in those days a splendid spirit of co-operation between editors and contributors. Some writers would contribute purely out of regard for the editor, but the editor generally paid what he could afford, and writers of note were well paid.

Jerome himself contributed a series of articles entitled “Novel Notes”. This was a popular feature of the journal and was afterwards published in book form. It was dedicated “to my Big Hearted, Big Souled, Big Bodied friend, Conan Doyle”. The following thoughts are taken from “Novel Notes”:

“For the poor themselves — I do not mean the noisy professional poor, but the silent fighting poor — one is bound to feel a genuine respect. One honours them as one honours a wounded soldier.”

“Suppressing sin is much the same sort of task that suppressing a volcano would be — plugging one vent merely opens another. Evil will last our time.”

“If somebody had believed in me it might have helped me, but nobody did, and at last I lost belief in myself, and when a man loses that, he’s like a balloon with the gas let out.”

“Books have their places in the world, but they are not its purpose. They are side by side with beef and mutton, the scent of the sea, the touch of a hand, the memory of a hope, and all other items in the sum total of our threescore years and ten.”

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has very kindly sent the following letter which he received from Jerome during the time he was joint editor of
The Idler.

My dear Doyle, I want something very strong to follow my “Novel Notes”, which will end about February. Now what do you say to giving yourself a rest for awhile now, and then taking up for me a complete series of six or eight stories to commence in March and run straight away? This would give you plenty of time. You could have three or four ready by February. Then we could advertise this series, and make it the feature of the magazine. The two tales we have, we could use up between this and Christmas.

Let me know at once as to this, and if possible let us have a chat over it. I have been trying to get away, but have not been able to spare an hour.

Kindest regards, Yours ever, J. K. J.

By this time Jerome’s initials had become widely known and esteemed in literary circles; and he was affectionately referred to both in writing and speaking as J. K. J.

Another series of articles, entitled “My First Book”, appeared in this magazine. These were written by some of the most distinguished contributors. The experiences these writers went through, their anxious days and sleepless nights while they were discovering exactly what publishers would accept and what would appeal to the reading public, would certainly be profitable reading for young authors of to-day.

The remarkable interest of these articles lies in the fact that all the writers were young beginners in the field of literature, and that nearly all of them in after-life won world-wide fame. This shows how sound Jerome was in his judgements of the quality of literary work.

Robert Louis Stevenson tells how his first attempt at a book was made at the age of fifteen; the next one at twenty-nine, and a succession of defeats lasted, unbroken, until he was thirty-one. By that time he had written little essays and short stories and had got patted on the back and paid for them — though not enough to live on.

Jerome K. Jerome states that the MS. of his first book “On the Stage and Off” journeyed a ceaseless round from newspaper to newspaper, from magazine to magazine, returning always more limp and soiled. Some editors would keep it for a month, making him indignant at the waste of time. He hated the dismal little “slavey” who twice a week on an average brought it up to him; if she smiled, he fancied she was jeering at him; if she looked sad, he fancied she was pitying him. He shunned the postman if he saw him in the street, feeling sure he guessed his shame. He finally offered to give the MS. to an editor for nothing, but as he was leaving the editor slipped a five-pound note into his hand.

Hall Caine tells how at five-and-twenty he came to London and left his manuscript with a great publishing house. After waiting three torturing weeks he called again, when the office boy brought a pile of loose sheets of white paper. “The editor’s compliments sir, and — thank you,” said the boy, and my manuscript went sprawling over the table. I gathered it up, tucked it as deep as possible into the darkness under the wings of my Inverness cape, and went downstairs ashamed, humiliated, broken-spirited.

Miss Marie Corelli states that the story of her first book, “A Romance of Two Worlds” is less romantic than some. She did not go to London without the proverbial shilling, she never went about hungry and footsore, begging from publisher after publisher with perpetually-rejected MS. under her arm. She confesses that she did none of these things, which in the language of the prayer-book she ought to have done. She won her public without difficulty, and attributes her good fortune to the fact that she always tried to write straight from her own heart to the heart of her readers regardless of the opinions of others.

Conan Doyle tells how he began his first book at the age of six. Rudyard Kipling writes of his first “baby”, “Departmental Ditties”. “They were very bad,” he said, “but the joy of doing them was payment a thousand times their worth.” Rider Haggard, G. R. Sims, A. T. Quiller Couch (Q), and others, all write with affection of their literary first-born.

Jerome frequently asked his young men, as he called them, to contribute articles upon subjects that were of special interest at that time; for instance, the typewriter had just made its appearance in the world. G. B. Burgin described his experiences with it as follows:—”You had to pull a string to make the carriage run properly. The thing wouldn’t do anything after one preliminary spurt. It declined to spell, to be grammatical, or to furnish me with ideas. Every now and then it rang a little bell jeeringly as if to call attention to the fact that it was there. In a week it condescended to know me. Full of pride I ‘typed’ a love-letter on it. There was no answer, but my presents were returned.”

G. R. Sims wrote: “I am a typewriter myself sometimes, when I am in a good temper. I typewrite with one finger only.... As a rule someone else uses the machine for me, but it has to be someone who is on terms of closest intimacy with my handwriting. A charming young lady arrived one day from the typewriting agency to copy an act of a play for me. She aged visibly over the first page, which is always my best; and then she gently murmured that she should like me to read it to her. I tried, but could only make out a word here and there. I never can read my own handwriting. In the long-run I had to send the play to a printer, who can read anything.”

The articles were not only of special interest at that time; some of them will be of interest for all time. For example — a contribution by Mr. George Bernard Shaw upon “Literary Criticism”. Mr. Shaw was at that time a music critic, and was not the world-famous man he has since become; but the article is none the less valuable on that account.

Dog stories were popular at the time; here is one told by J. K. J.:

There is a story going — I cannot vouch for its truth, it was told me by a judge — of a man who lay dying. The pastor of the parish, a good and pious man, came to sit with him, told him an anecdote about a dog. When the pastor had finished, the sick man sat up, and said: “I know a better story than that. I had a dog once, a big, brown, lop-sided...”

The effort had been too much for his strength. He fell back upon the pillows, and the doctor, stepping forward, saw that it was a question only of minutes.

The good old pastor rose, and took the poor fellow’s hand in his, and pressed it. “We shall meet again,” he gently said.

The sick man turned towards him with a consoled and grateful look.

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” he feebly murmured. “Remind me about that dog.”

Then he passed peacefully away, with a sweet smile upon his pale lips.

During his
Idler
days Jerome frequently met Mr. Ramsay MacDonald at a small studio in Drury Lane occupied by a Scotsman who drew cartoons for
The Idler.
Many years afterwards, Jerome wrote in “My Life and Times”: “Ramsay MacDonald was a pleasant, handsome young man — so many of us were, five-and-thirty years ago. He was fond of lecturing. Get him on the subject of Carlyle and he would talk for half an hour. He would stand with his hat in one hand and the doorhandle in the other, and by this means always secured the last word.”

Jerome’s work in connection with
The Idler
kept him well occupied, yet his restless spirit and indomitable energy impelled him to start a weekly illustrated paper, a combination of magazine and journal called
To-day.
This venture was entirely his own. The first number appeared on November nth, 1893. The paper became extremely popular, and sold well all over the country. Some of the most brilliant writers of the day contributed to its columns.

R. L. Stevenson’s “Ebb-tide” caused the paper to be looked forward to week by week. Bret Harte’s “The Bellringer of Angels” was also a popular serial. Barry Pain contributed “Eliza’s Husband”, which Jerome regarded as Barry Pain’s best work. Coulson Kernahan, Conan Doyle, Richard Le Gallienne, W. W. Jacobs, and other distinguished men wrote for it. Illustrations were drawn by Phil May, Fred Pegram, Raven Hill, Dudley Hardy, Aubrey Beardsley, and others.

Jerome’s own contributions were perhaps the more attractive. He wrote a series of articles called “Characterscapes”, and his clever editorial notes upon current political and social happenings were brilliant pieces of journalism. Elderly and middle-aged people will to-day recall with what eagerness this paper was read in the ‘Nineties and the part it played in forming a healthy public opinion.

Jerome’s ambition to edit a successful paper was now realized. He had certainly paid the price in hard work. He was one of the fighting few who had faith in themselves. He had failed, and kept on failing, and kept on learning from every failure. Great rewards are won only by terrific effort. A letter written to his intimate friend, Coulson Kernahan, whom he always called “Jack”, reveals what it meant, in work, to edit a paper.

7, Alpha Place, Regent’s Park.

My dear Jack, How can I thank you, old fellow, for your kindly, useful words? To tell the truth, I have not been able to read your book. This paper
(To-day)
is costing on an average of 14 hours’ work a day. On Sundays I have been at it 20 hours. It is getting a bit easier now. I have been reading wonderful notices of it everywhere.

With kindest regards and wishes to you all from us both, Yours affectionately, J. K. J.

It may be interesting to quote the experiences of two other famous men to show what editing papers meant about that time:

“Charles Dickens, who, with some enthusiasm, accepted the editorship of the
Daily News,
occupied the editorial chair nineteen days, or rather nineteen nights, and then resigned, tired to death, and quite worn out.”

Dr. Joseph Parker, the famous preacher, when editor of
The Sun,
wrote:

“This is only my second day of editorship, and I already feel that something should be done for editors all over the world. Talk about the sweating system! Talk of shorter hours for shop assistants! I should not be far wrong in thinking that the most hard-worked creatures in existence lived in a perpetual bank holiday compared with the editors of newspapers.”

A great painter was asked what was the secret of his success. He replied: “I have no secret, only hard work.” Had the question been put to J. K. J. he would probably have replied: “A mixture of hard work and good humour.” His sense of humour enabled him to put something of play into his work. He got through much work with little friction, and to him work was really no hardship.

There is in
To-day
an abundance of clever quips and Jeromian humour. The following extracts are typical:

“IF HE HAD LIVED TO-DAY”

Scene: Manager’s sanctum. Manager seated at desk. Shakespeare, a nervous young man, standing at the door in an apologetic attitude, with his hat in his hand.

Manager (opening and reading letters, and speaking without turning round): “Well, my boy, what is it? I’ve only a minute to spare.”

Shakespeare (
nervously twisting his hat the while
): “Er — er — about that play of mine. I left it with you about a week ago. You said you’d glance it over — er—”

Manager: “Yes, very pretty thing, nothing much in it, though; undramatic, hardly a thing to suit us.”

Shakespeare (
after a pause, speaking with a slight tremor in his voice, and smoothing his hat abstractedly, but with great care
): “I — I rather thought it would have suited you. I thought it — it strong, you know, in the play scene, and at the grave; and Hamlet I thought would have been a good part for you. Just suited your style. A good opportunity for pathos—”

Manager: “Oh, no! Nothing in the part at all; and the speeches are too long altogether, and rambling. We want smartness, you know, my boy, in a play, everything brisk and quick. All those long-winded soliloquies, they’d kill any play.”

Shakespeare: “I meant them as typical of the character. You see, he’s a very thoughtful, moody man, and all that, and — and — they seemed to me to be — to be what a dreamy, deep-thinking suffering man would say to himself, when his brain and heart were wracked—”

Manager (
interrupting
): “Yes, well, I read it carefully through, and I didn’t like it. The ghost business isn’t bad. If you take my advice — I’m an older man than you — you’d cut out all those long speeches, and work in a detective. Something might be done with it then, perhaps, in the provinces.”

Shakespeare
(eagerly):
“Would you take it then?”