The Way of Escape

IN Mr. Arthur Christopher Benson’s new book of essays, entitled ‘Escape,’ there are a few pages, frankly personal, which pleasantly reveal his own methods of dealing with aspirants for literary honors. It appears that it is his kindly habit never to turn the cold shoulder even upon a total stranger, but to read and give a critical opinion when some beginner’s manuscript is forwarded to him for approval or the reverse, no matter what its length. He states that there are several such manuscripts awaiting his judgment upon the table at the moment of writing. All the world will remember how Doctor Holmes, in one of his essays, once dealt with the very reprehensible practice, which seems to be common to most beginners in Europe and America, of submitting to a successful author the immature work of an untried one. Why does the novice, the world over, persist in doing this, instead of sending his work to the only proper person: namely, the editor or publisher, whose duty it is to look over such things with a professional eye? Heaven knows! It is probably through some mistaken idea that a written opinion of the man known to have succeeded will later count a great deal with the professional reader, when it comes to his knowledge.

Yet nothing can be more ill-judged, for the p. r., in nine cases out of ten, will cast aside the so-called ‘ criticism ’ with a glance of contempt, or even of pity, and settle himself down to decide the vital question for himself.

Perhaps, however, it may be simply for his own encouragement that the beginner places the busy, trained writer in his unpleasant position; for, of course, he expects that the enforced answer will be, in the main, favorable. In either case, the motive is purely selfish, most inconsiderate, and should be promptly discouraged. No manuscripts should be permitted to accumulate on the writing-table, but the door should be closed against them, one and all; any other course is unfair, not only to the busy man himself, but to all his fellows, who are sure to be subjected, sooner or later, to a similar annoyance, if he good-naturedly gives in.

Not so long ago—just before the war — I received a letter from a near relative in Paris, inviting me to read and report upon a MS. novel by an old friend who had passed a few days with me at a house-party in America years before. If I approved of the work, I was to hand it to my publishers for acceptance — and in reliance upon my good-nature, the MS. had already been mailed to my address. By the next post came a letter to the same effect from the author, hoping I would forgive the intrusion. The way of escape was therefore made doubly hard, but I did not hesitate. To each correspondent I made the same reply, which was the simple truth: that I was at the moment extremely busy, far too busy, to read the work as proposed; furthermore, that an opinion from me would be worth little if anything; but that I would hand the MS. over to my publisher at once, and beg him to report professionally upon its value.

In due course, toward the end of my working day, I paid the charges, which were not inconsiderable (nothing having been settled in advance), upon a wooden box about the size and shape of a child’s coffin. Opening this with some difficulty, for it was made very secure, and moreover lined with tin, I extracted the precious document, which was several hundred pages long. I held strictly to my text and did not undertake to read one line of it, but with a not unnatural curiosity, I looked at the title-page and read its name — the name of the heroine. Where had I heard that name before? I could not remember, but was dimly, nay, strangely conscious that I had done so. I dismissed the idle fancy, however, and took the book to my publisher myself, explaining all the circumstances, begging him to read and pronounce judgment, reporting directly to its author. This he pledged himself to do, so that I was able to dismiss the unwelcome subject from my mind.

It is almost unnecessary to state that I never heard again from either of my foreign correspondents. But now for the postscript, which, like most postscripts, contains the gist of the whole matter. Months afterward, when my relative’s life had resumed its wonted course, I recalled the incident, and inquired the fate of the work that had passed unreviewed through my hands. It appeared that the author had been much disappointed by my failure to read it. But had the publisher kept his word and reported on it, I asked? Oh, yes, he rejected it, for the same reasons for which it had been returned twenty years earlier. A meteor-flash illumined my brain, like a spot-light in a theatre. I knew now why the name of that book was thrice familiar to me. In my country-house acquaintance of those early years, the author had handed the manuscript to me, requesting an opinion, and I had given it, before it went to the publisher, sent, unknown to me, by the writer. The publisher’s name, as unimportant, had been completely forgotten. At that time, I was the author of one small book! It did not matter: I had succeeded! At that time, too, I was flattered by the request, and as kind-hearted as Mr. Benson. All way of escape was therefore closed against me.

The moral of this ‘ ower true tale ’ is obvious. I cannot hope that any amateur, however, will take it to heart. Amateurs are not made so. But should this page ever fall under Mr. Benson’s accomplished eye, he may weigh the point, and, in justice to others, be a little less lenient to the young writer who imposes upon him.