Chapter III

by William Somerset Maugham

　　But all this is by the way.I was very young when I wrote my first book. By a lucky chanceit excited attention, and various persons sought my acquaintance.It is not without melancholy that I wander among myrecollections of the world of letters in London when first,bashful but eager, I was introduced to it. It is long since Ifrequented it, and if the novels that describe its presentsingularities are accurate much in it is now changed. Thevenue is different. Chelsea and Bloomsbury have taken theplace of Hampstead, Notting Hill Gate, and High Street, Kensington.Then it was a distinction to be under forty, but now tobe more than twenty-five is absurd. I think in thosedays we were a little shy of our emotions, and the fear ofridicule tempered the more obvious forms of pretentiousness.I do not believe that there was in that genteel Bohemia anintensive culture of chastity, but I do not remember so crudea promiscuity as seems to be practised in the present day.We did not think it hypocritical to draw over our vagaries thecurtain of a decent silence. The spade was not invariablycalled a bloody shovel. Woman had not yet altogether comeinto her own.I lived near Victoria Station, and I recall long excursions bybus to the hospitable houses of the literary. In my timidityI wandered up and down the street while I screwed up mycourage to ring the bell; and then, sick with apprehension,was ushered into an airless room full of people. I wasintroduced to this celebrated person after that one, and thekind words they said about my book made me excessivelyuncomfortable. I felt they expected me to say clever things,and I never could think of any till after the party was over.I tried to conceal my embarrassment by handing round cups oftea and rather ill-cut bread-and-butter. I wanted no one totake notice of me, so that I could observe these famouscreatures at my ease and listen to the clever things they said.I have a recollection of large, unbending women with greatnoses and rapacious eyes, who wore their clothes as thoughthey were armour; and of little, mouse-like spinsters, withsoft voices and a shrewd glance. I never ceased to befascinated by their persistence in eating buttered toast withtheir gloves on, and I observed with admiration the unconcernwith which they wiped their fingers on their chair when theythought no one was looking. It must have been bad for thefurniture, but I suppose the hostess took her revenge on thefurniture of her friends when, in turn, she visited them.Some of them were dressed fashionably, and they said theycouldn't for the life of them see why you should be dowdy justbecause you had written a novel; if you had a neat figure youmight as well make the most of it, and a smart shoe on a smallfoot had never prevented an editor from taking your "stuff."But others thought this frivolous, and they wore "art fabrics"and barbaric jewelry. The men were seldom eccentric in appearance.They tried to look as little like authors as possible.They wished to be taken for men of the world, and couldhave passed anywhere for the managing clerks of a city firm.They always seemed a little tired. I had never knownwriters before, and I found them very strange, but I do notthink they ever seemed to me quite real.I remember that I thought their conversation brilliant, and Iused to listen with astonishment to the stinging humour withwhich they would tear a brother-author to pieces the momentthat his back was turned. The artist has this advantage overthe rest of the world, that his friends offer not only theirappearance and their character to his satire, but also their work.I despaired of ever expressing myself with such aptnessor with such fluency. In those days conversation was stillcultivated as an art; a neat repartee was more highly valued thanthe crackling of thorns under a pot; and the epigram, not yeta mechanical appliance by which the dull may achieve a semblanceof 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 socomfortably as when it turned to the details of thetrade 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 likelyto make out of it. Then we would speak of this publisher andof that, comparing the generosity of one with the meanness of another;we would argue whether it was better to go to one who gavehandsome royalties or to another who "pushed" a book for allit was worth. Some advertised badly and some well. Some weremodern and some were old-fashioned. Then we would talk ofagents and the offers they had obtained for us; of editors andthe sort of contributions they welcomed, how much they paid athousand, and whether they paid promptly or otherwise. To meit was all very romantic. It gave me an intimate sense ofbeing a member of some mystic brotherhood.