“Not as bad? They were worse than mine which the Grey Bonnet tore to shreds. Don’t you remember?”
“By the by, Falk, have you been to the theatre in the Deer Park?” asked the tall man.
“No!”
“What a pity! That Lundholm gang of thieves is playing there. Impudent fellow, the director! He sent no seats to the Copper-Snake, and when we arrived at the theatre last night, he turned us out. But he’ll pay for it! You give it to the dog! Here’s paper and pencil. Heading: ‘Theatre and Music. Deer Park Theatre.’ Now, you go on!”
“But I haven’t seen the company.”
“What does that matter? Have you never written about anything you hadn’t seen?”
“No! I’ve unmasked humbugs, but I have never attacked unoffending people, and I know nothing about this company.”
“They are a miserable lot. Just scum,” affirmed the stout man. “Sharpen your pen and bruise his heel; you are splendid at it.”
“Why don’t you bruise him yourselves?”
“Because the printers know our handwriting and some of them walk on in the crowds. Moreover Lundholm is a violent fellow; he will be sure to invade the editorial office; then it will be a good thing to be able to tell him that the criticism is a communication from the public. And while you write up the stage, I will do the concerts. There was a sacred concert last week. Wasn’t the man’s name Daubry? With a y?”
“No, with an i,” corrected the fat man. “Don’t forget that he’s a tenor and sang the ‘Stabat Mater.’ ”
“How do you spell it?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute.”
The stout editor of the Copper-Snake took a packet of greasy newspapers from the gas-meter.
“Here’s the whole programme, and, I believe, a criticism as well.”
Falk could not help laughing.
“How could a criticism appear simultaneously with the advertisement?”
“Why shouldn’t it? But we shan’t want it; I will criticize that French mob myself. You’d better do the literature, Fatty!”
“Do the publishers send books to the Copper-Snake?” asked Falk.
“Are you mad?”
“Do you buy them yourselves for the sake of reviewing them?”
“Buy them? Greenhorn! Have another glass and cheer up, and I’ll treat you to a chop.”
“Do you read the books which you review?”
“Who do you think has time for reading books? Isn’t it enough to write about them? It’s quite sufficient to read the papers. Moreover, it’s our principle to slate everything.”
“An absurd principle!”
“Not at all! It brings all the author’s enemies and enviers on one’s side—and so one’s in the majority. Those who are neutral would rather see an author slated than praised. To the nobody there is something edifying and comforting in the knowledge that the road to fame is beset with thorns. Don’t you think so?”
“You may be right. But the idea of playing with human destinies in this way is terrible.”
“Oh! It’s good for young and old; I know that, for I was persistently slated in my young days.”
“But you mislead public opinion.”
“The public does not want to have an opinion, it wants to satisfy its passions. If I praise your enemy you writhe like a worm and tell me that I have no judgment; if I praise your friend, you tell me that I have. Take that last piece of the Dramatic Theatre, Fatty, which has just been published in book form.”
“Are you sure that it has been published?”
“I am certain of it. It’s quite safe to say that there isn’t enough action in it; that’s a phrase the public knows well; laugh a little at the ‘beautiful language’; that’s good, old, disparaging praise; then attack the management for having accepted such a play and point out that the moral teaching is doubtful—a very safe thing to say about most things. But as you haven’t seen the performance, say that want of room compels us to postpone our criticism of the acting. Do that, and you can’t make a mistake.”
“Who is the unfortunate author?” asked Falk.
“Nobody knows.”
“Think of his parents, his friends, who will read your possibly quite unjust remarks.”
“What’s that got to do with the Copper-Snake? They were hoping to see a friend slated; they know what to expect from the Copper-Snake.”
“Have you no conscience?”
“Has the public which supports us, a conscience? Do you think we could survive if it did not support us? Would you like to hear a paragraph which I wrote on the present state of literature? I can assure you it will give you plenty to think about. I have a copy with me. But let us have some stout first. Waiter! Here! Now I’m going to give you a treat; you can profit by it if you like.”
“ ‘We have not heard so much whining in the Swedish verse-factory for many years; this constant puling is enough to drive a man into a lunatic asylum. Robust rascals caterwaul like cats in March; they imagine that anæmia and adenoids will arouse public interest now that consumption is played out. And withal they have backs broad as brewers’ horses and faces red as tapsters. This one whimpers about the infidelity of women, although all he has to go on is the bought loyalty of a wanton; that one tells us that he has no gold, but that his “harp is all he possesses in the world”—the liar! He has five thousand crowns dividend per annum and the right to an endowed chair in the Swedish Academy. A third is a faithless, cynical scoffer, who cannot open his lips without breathing forth his impure spirit and babbling blasphemies. Their verses are not a whit better than those which thirty years ago clergymen’s daughters sang to the guitar. They should write for confectioners at a penny a line, and not waste the time of publishers, printers, and reviewers with their rhymes. What do they write about? About nothing at all, that is to say about themselves. It is bad form to talk about oneself, but it is quite the right thing to write about oneself. What
