The Way We Live Now Read online

  CHAPTER I.

  THREE EDITORS.

  Let the reader be introduced to Lady Carbury, upon whose characterand doings much will depend of whatever interest these pages mayhave, as she sits at her writing-table in her own room in her ownhouse in Welbeck Street. Lady Carbury spent many hours at her desk,and wrote many letters,--wrote also very much beside letters. Shespoke of herself in these days as a woman devoted to Literature,always spelling the word with a big L. Something of the nature of herdevotion may be learned by the perusal of three letters which on thismorning she had written with a quickly running hand. Lady Carbury wasrapid in everything, and in nothing more rapid than in the writing ofletters. Here is Letter No. 1;--

  Thursday, Welbeck Street.

  DEAR FRIEND,--

  I have taken care that you shall have the early sheets of my two new volumes to-morrow, or Saturday at latest, so that you may, if so minded, give a poor struggler like myself a lift in your next week's paper. Do give a poor struggler a lift. You and I have so much in common, and I have ventured to flatter myself that we are really friends! I do not flatter you when I say, that not only would aid from you help me more than from any other quarter, but also that praise from you would gratify my vanity more than any other praise. I almost think you will like my "Criminal Queens." The sketch of Semiramis is at any rate spirited, though I had to twist it about a little to bring her in guilty. Cleopatra, of course, I have taken from Shakespeare. What a wench she was! I could not quite make Julia a queen; but it was impossible to pass over so piquant a character. You will recognise in the two or three ladies of the empire how faithfully I have studied my Gibbon. Poor dear old Belisarius! I have done the best I could with Joanna, but I could not bring myself to care for her. In our days she would simply have gone to Broadmore. I hope you will not think that I have been too strong in my delineations of Henry VIII. and his sinful but unfortunate Howard. I don't care a bit about Anne Boleyne. I am afraid that I have been tempted into too great length about the Italian Catherine; but in truth she has been my favourite. What a woman! What a devil! Pity that a second Dante could not have constructed for her a special hell. How one traces the effect of her training in the life of our Scotch Mary. I trust you will go with me in my view as to the Queen of Scots. Guilty! guilty always! Adultery, murder, treason, and all the rest of it. But recommended to mercy because she was royal. A queen bred, born and married, and with such other queens around her, how could she have escaped to be guilty? Marie Antoinette I have not quite acquitted. It would be uninteresting;--perhaps untrue. I have accused her lovingly, and have kissed when I scourged. I trust the British public will not be angry because I do not whitewash Caroline, especially as I go along with them altogether in abusing her husband.

  But I must not take up your time by sending you another book, though it gratifies me to think that I am writing what none but yourself will read. Do it yourself, like a dear man, and, as you are great, be merciful. Or rather, as you are a friend, be loving.

  Yours gratefully and faithfully,

  MATILDA CARBURY.

  After all how few women there are who can raise themselves above the quagmire of what we call love, and make themselves anything but playthings for men. Of almost all these royal and luxurious sinners it was the chief sin that in some phase of their lives they consented to be playthings without being wives. I have striven so hard to be proper; but when girls read everything, why should not an old woman write anything?

  This letter was addressed to Nicholas Broune, Esq., the editor of the"Morning Breakfast Table," a daily newspaper of high character; and,as it was the longest, so was it considered to be the most importantof the three. Mr. Broune was a man powerful in his profession,--andhe was fond of ladies. Lady Carbury in her letter had called herselfan old woman, but she was satisfied to do so by a conviction that noone else regarded her in that light. Her age shall be no secret tothe reader, though to her most intimate friends, even to Mr. Broune,it had never been divulged. She was forty-three, but carried heryears so well, and had received such gifts from nature, that it wasimpossible to deny that she was still a beautiful woman. And sheused her beauty not only to increase her influence,--as is naturalto women who are well-favoured,--but also with a well-consideredcalculation that she could obtain material assistance in theprocuring of bread and cheese, which was very necessary to her, bya prudent adaptation to her purposes of the good things with whichprovidence had endowed her. She did not fall in love, she did notwilfully flirt, she did not commit herself; but she smiled andwhispered, and made confidences, and looked out of her own eyes intomen's eyes as though there might be some mysterious bond between herand them--if only mysterious circumstances would permit it. But theend of all was to induce some one to do something which would causea publisher to give her good payment for indifferent writing, or aneditor to be lenient when, upon the merits of the case, he shouldhave been severe. Among all her literary friends, Mr. Broune was theone in whom she most trusted; and Mr. Broune was fond of handsomewomen. It may be as well to give a short record of a scene which hadtaken place between Lady Carbury and her friend about a month beforethe writing of this letter which has been produced. She had wantedhim to take a series of papers for the "Morning Breakfast Table," andto have them paid for at rate No. 1, whereas she suspected that hewas rather doubtful as to their merit, and knew that, without specialfavour, she could not hope for remuneration above rate No. 2, orpossibly even No. 3. So she had looked into his eyes, and had lefther soft, plump hand for a moment in his. A man in such circumstancesis so often awkward, not knowing with any accuracy when to do onething and when another! Mr. Broune, in a moment of enthusiasm, hadput his arm round Lady Carbury's waist and had kissed her. To saythat Lady Carbury was angry, as most women would be angry if sotreated, would be to give an unjust idea of her character. It was alittle accident which really carried with it no injury, unless itshould be the injury of leading to a rupture between herself anda valuable ally. No feeling of delicacy was shocked. What did itmatter? No unpardonable insult had been offered; no harm had beendone, if only the dear susceptible old donkey could be made at onceto understand that that wasn't the way to go on!

  Without a flutter, and without a blush, she escaped from his arm, andthen made him an excellent little speech. "Mr. Broune, how foolish,how wrong, how mistaken! Is it not so? Surely you do not wish to putan end to the friendship between us!"

  "Put an end to our friendship, Lady Carbury! Oh, certainly not that."

  "Then why risk it by such an act? Think of my son and of mydaughter,--both grown up. Think of the past troubles of my life;--somuch suffered and so little deserved. No one knows them so well asyou do. Think of my name, that has been so often slandered but neverdisgraced! Say that you are sorry, and it shall be forgotten."

  When a man has kissed a woman it goes against the grain with him tosay the very next moment that he is sorry for what he has done. It isas much as to declare that the kiss had not answered his expectation.Mr. Broune could not do this, and perhaps Lady Carbury did not quiteexpect it. "You know that for worlds I would not offend you," hesaid. This sufficed. Lady Carbury again looked into his eyes, anda promise was given that the articles should be printed--and withgenerous remuneration.

  When the interview was over Lady Carbury regarded it as having beenquite successful. Of course when struggles have to be made and hardwork done, there will be little accidents. The lady who uses a streetcab must encounter mud and dust which her richer neighbour, who has aprivate carriage, will escape. She would have preferred not to havebeen kissed;--but what did it matter? With Mr. Broune the affair wasmore serious. "Confound them all," he said to himself as he left thehouse; "no amount of experience enables a man to know them." As hewent away he almost thought that Lady Carbury had intended him tokiss her again, and he was almost angry with himself in that he hadnot done so. He had seen her three or f
our times since, but had notrepeated the offence.

  We will now go on to the other letters, both of which were addressedto the editors of other newspapers. The second was written to Mr.Booker, of the "Literary Chronicle." Mr. Booker was a hard-workingprofessor of literature, by no means without talent, by no meanswithout influence, and by no means without a conscience. But,from the nature of the struggles in which he had been engaged,by compromises which had gradually been driven upon him by theencroachment of brother authors on the one side and by the demandson the other of employers who looked only to their profits, he hadfallen into a routine of work in which it was very difficult to bescrupulous, and almost impossible to maintain the delicacies of aliterary conscience. He was now a bald-headed old man of sixty, witha large family of daughters, one of whom was a widow dependent onhim with two little children. He had five hundred a year for editingthe "Literary Chronicle," which, through his energy, had becomea valuable property. He wrote for magazines, and brought out somebook of his own almost annually. He kept his head above water, andwas regarded by those who knew about him, but did not know him, asa successful man. He always kept up his spirits, and was able inliterary circles to show that he could hold his own. But he wasdriven by the stress of circumstances to take such good things ascame in his way, and could hardly afford to be independent. It mustbe confessed that literary scruple had long departed from his mind.Letter No. 2 was as follows;--

  Welbeck Street, 25th February, 187--.

  DEAR MR. BOOKER,--

  I have told Mr. Leadham--[Mr. Leadham was senior partner in the enterprising firm of publishers known as Messrs. Leadham and Loiter]--to send you an early copy of my "Criminal Queens." I have already settled with my friend Mr. Broune that I am to do your "New Tale of a Tub" in the "Breakfast Table." Indeed, I am about it now, and am taking great pains with it. If there is anything you wish to have specially said as to your view of the Protestantism of the time, let me know. I should like you to say a word as to the accuracy of my historical details, which I know you can safely do. Don't put it off, as the sale does so much depend on early notices. I am only getting a royalty, which does not commence till the first four hundred are sold.

  Yours sincerely,

  MATILDA CARBURY.

  ALFRED BOOKER, Esq., "Literary Chronicle," Office, Strand.

  There was nothing in this which shocked Mr. Booker. He laughedinwardly, with a pleasantly reticent chuckle, as he thought of LadyCarbury dealing with his views of Protestantism,--as he thought alsoof the numerous historical errors into which that clever lady mustinevitably fall in writing about matters of which he believed her toknow nothing. But he was quite alive to the fact that a favourablenotice in the "Breakfast Table" of his very thoughtful work, calledthe "New Tale of a Tub," would serve him, even though written by thehand of a female literary charlatan, and he would have no compunctionas to repaying the service by fulsome praise in the "LiteraryChronicle." He would not probably say that the book was accurate,but he would be able to declare that it was delightful reading, thatthe feminine characteristics of the queens had been touched with amasterly hand, and that the work was one which would certainly makeits way into all drawing-rooms. He was an adept at this sort of work,and knew well how to review such a book as Lady Carbury's "CriminalQueens," without bestowing much trouble on the reading. He couldalmost do it without cutting the book, so that its value for purposesof after sale might not be injured. And yet Mr. Booker was anhonest man, and had set his face persistently against many literarymalpractices. Stretched-out type, insufficient lines, and the Frenchhabit of meandering with a few words over an entire page, had beenrebuked by him with conscientious strength. He was supposed to berather an Aristides among reviewers. But circumstanced as he was hecould not oppose himself altogether to the usages of the time. "Bad;of course it is bad," he said to a young friend who was working withhim on his periodical. "Who doubts that? How many very bad things arethere that we do! But if we were to attempt to reform all our badways at once, we should never do any good thing. I am not strongenough to put the world straight, and I doubt if you are." Such wasMr. Booker.

  Then there was letter No. 3, to Mr. Ferdinand Alf. Mr. Alf managed,and, as it was supposed, chiefly owned, the "Evening Pulpit," whichduring the last two years had become "quite a property," as menconnected with the press were in the habit of saying. The "EveningPulpit" was supposed to give daily to its readers all that had beensaid and done up to two o'clock in the day by all the leading peoplein the metropolis, and to prophesy with wonderful accuracy what wouldbe the sayings and doings of the twelve following hours. This waseffected with an air of wonderful omniscience, and not unfrequentlywith an ignorance hardly surpassed by its arrogance. But thewriting was clever. The facts, if not true, were well invented; thearguments, if not logical, were seductive. The presiding spirit ofthe paper had the gift, at any rate, of knowing what the people forwhom he catered would like to read, and how to get his subjectshandled, so that the reading should be pleasant. Mr. Booker's"Literary Chronicle" did not presume to entertain any specialpolitical opinions. The "Breakfast Table" was decidedly Liberal. The"Evening Pulpit" was much given to politics, but held strictly to themotto which it had assumed;--

  "Nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri;"--

  and consequently had at all times the invaluable privilege of abusingwhat was being done, whether by one side or by the other. A newspaperthat wishes to make its fortune should never waste its columns andweary its readers by praising anything. Eulogy is invariably dull,--afact that Mr. Alf had discovered and had utilized.

  Mr. Alf had, moreover, discovered another fact. Abuse from those whooccasionally praise is considered to be personally offensive, andthey who give personal offence will sometimes make the world toohot to hold them. But censure from those who are always findingfault is regarded so much as a matter of course that it ceases to beobjectionable. The caricaturist, who draws only caricatures, is heldto be justifiable, let him take what liberties he may with a man'sface and person. It is his trade, and his business calls upon him tovilify all that he touches. But were an artist to publish a series ofportraits, in which two out of a dozen were made to be hideous, hewould certainly make two enemies, if not more. Mr. Alf never madeenemies, for he praised no one, and, as far as the expression of hisnewspaper went, was satisfied with nothing.

  Personally, Mr. Alf was a remarkable man. No one knew whence he cameor what he had been. He was supposed to have been born a German Jew;and certain ladies said that they could distinguish in his tongue theslightest possible foreign accent. Nevertheless it was conceded tohim that he knew England as only an Englishman can know it. Duringthe last year or two he had "come up" as the phrase goes, and hadcome up very thoroughly. He had been black-balled at three or fourclubs, but had effected an entrance at two or three others, andhad learned a manner of speaking of those which had rejected himcalculated to leave on the minds of hearers a conviction that thesocieties in question were antiquated, imbecile, and moribund. Hewas never weary of implying that not to know Mr. Alf, not to be ongood terms with Mr. Alf, not to understand that let Mr. Alf have beenborn where he might and how he might he was always to be recognisedas a desirable acquaintance, was to be altogether out in the dark.And that which he so constantly asserted, or implied, men andwomen around him began at last to believe,--and Mr. Alf became anacknowledged something in the different worlds of politics, letters,and fashion.

  He was a good-looking man, about forty years old, but carryinghimself as though he was much younger, spare, below the middleheight, with dark brown hair which would have shown a tinge ofgrey but for the dyer's art, with well-cut features, with a smileconstantly on his mouth the pleasantness of which was always beliedby the sharp severity of his eyes. He dressed with the utmostsimplicity, but also with the utmost care. He was unmarried, hada small house of his own close to Berkeley Square at which hegave remarkable dinner parties, kept four or five hunters inNorthamptonshir
e, and was reputed to earn L6,000 a year out of the"Evening Pulpit" and to spend about half of that income. He also wasintimate after his fashion with Lady Carbury, whose diligence inmaking and fostering useful friendships had been unwearied. Herletter to Mr. Alf was as follows;--

  DEAR MR. ALF,--

  Do tell me who wrote the review on Fitzgerald Barker's last poem. Only I know you won't. I remember nothing done so well. I should think the poor wretch will hardly hold his head up again before the autumn. But it was fully deserved. I have no patience with the pretensions of would-be poets who contrive by toadying and underground influences to get their volumes placed on every drawing-room table. I know no one to whom the world has been so good-natured in this way as to Fitzgerald Barker, but I have heard of no one who has extended the good nature to the length of reading his poetry.

  Is it not singular how some men continue to obtain the reputation of popular authorship without adding a word to the literature of their country worthy of note? It is accomplished by unflagging assiduity in the system of puffing. To puff and to get one's self puffed have become different branches of a new profession. Alas, me! I wish I might find a class open in which lessons could be taken by such a poor tyro as myself. Much as I hate the thing from my very soul, and much as I admire the consistency with which the "Pulpit" has opposed it, I myself am so much in want of support for my own little efforts, and am struggling so hard honestly to make for myself a remunerative career, that I think, were the opportunity offered to me, I should pocket my honour, lay aside the high feeling which tells me that praise should be bought neither by money nor friendship, and descend among the low things, in order that I might one day have the pride of feeling that I had succeeded by my own work in providing for the needs of my children.

  But I have not as yet commenced the descent downwards; and therefore I am still bold enough to tell you that I shall look, not with concern but with a deep interest, to anything which may appear in the "Pulpit" respecting my "Criminal Queens." I venture to think that the book,--though I wrote it myself,--has an importance of its own which will secure for it some notice. That my inaccuracy will be laid bare and presumption scourged I do not in the least doubt, but I think your reviewer will be able to certify that the sketches are life-like and the portraits well considered. You will not hear me told, at any rate, that I had better sit at home and darn my stockings, as you said the other day of that poor unfortunate Mrs. Effington Stubbs.

  I have not seen you for the last three weeks. I have a few friends every Tuesday evening;--pray come next week or the week following. And pray believe that no amount of editorial or critical severity shall make me receive you otherwise than with a smile.

  Most sincerely yours,

  MATILDA CARBURY.

  Lady Carbury, having finished her third letter, threw herself backin her chair, and for a moment or two closed her eyes, as thoughabout to rest. But she soon remembered that the activity of her lifedid not admit of such rest. She therefore seized her pen and beganscribbling further notes.