which they would tear a brother-author to pieces the moment
that his back was turned. The artist has this advantage over
the rest of the world, that his friends offer not only their
appearance and their character to his satire, but also their work.
I despaired of ever expressing myself with such aptness
or with such fluency. In those days conversation was still
cultivated as an art; a neat repartee was more highly valued than
the crackling of thorns under a pot; and the epigram, not yet
a mechanical appliance by which the dull may achieve a semblance
of wit, gave sprightliness to the small talk of the urbane.
It is sad that I can remember nothing of all this scintillation.
But I think the conversation never settled down so
comfortably as when it turned to the details of the
trade which was the other side of the art we practised.
When we had done discussing the merits of the latest book,
it was natural to wonder how many copies had been sold,
what advance the author had received, and how much he was likely
to make out of it. Then we would speak of this publisher and
of that, comparing the generosity of one with the meanness of another;
we would argue whether it was better to go to one who gave
handsome royalties or to another who "pushed" a book for all
it was worth. Some advertised badly and some well. Some were
modern and some were old-fashioned. Then we would talk of
agents and the offers they had obtained for us; of editors and
the sort of contributions they welcomed, how much they paid a
thousand, and whether they paid promptly or otherwise. To me
it was all very romantic. It gave me an intimate sense of
being a member of some mystic brotherhood.