iii · Section 19

iii

One would about as soon expect to see a fantasy by Lord Dunsany a best seller as witness the sale, in tens of thousands, of Morley’s _Where the Blue Begins_--if one were making one’s estimate solely on the work itself. _Where the Blue Begins_ is the story of the dog Gissing’s search for God--a search conducted in various places and circumstances parallel to human life of the present day by an animal discreetly analogued to the human animal. Such a piece of writing has ordinarily no hope except from unusual and very favourable (or acutely controversial) critical attention; and the hope from that quarter is relatively small. By “hope,” of course, is meant a hope of a considerable sale. _Where the Blue Begins_ belongs to that class of literature which is written because it has lain in the author’s heart to write it, regardless of its fate after it lies on paper. In the case of Mr. Morley, the work has received merited praise; but it would be naïve to suppose that this notice and commendation sold the book; and the book trade might even justifiably be indignant at such a supposition. Did not they, the booksellers, buy _Where the Blue Begins_ because it was Morley’s new book? And did not they and their clerks “push” the book for the same reason? The Ayes have it, to both questions, and unanimously.

On the other hand, the sceptical soul who argues that Chris Morley wrote _Parnassus on Wheels_, in the first place, because it was a story about a bookseller calculated to “get him in right” with the trade--that man does not know Morley and shows that he does not know him. It is possible to detect in the character of Morley’s work, in the circumstance of its publication and in the accessories provided for that publication evidences of a singularly intelligent literary campaign; it is possible to detect them and believe them to be such; but it is not possible to over-estimate the part played by Morley’s own naïveté, affectionate nature and formerly unchecked and indiscriminate enthusiasm.

Such an attitude is always open to misconstruction. But it takes real intelligence to go beneath the surface; and among Morley’s friends were many who could do that. These perceived his genuineness without being in the least able to predict the outcome of his generosity. Ours is a world thus and thus and so and so. The ultimate effect upon Morley himself of a disposition which he would unquestionably see suffer and change was the problem. It would be very easy for him to come a tremendous cropper of any one of several sorts; and then should we have a soured, an embittered young man? Prophecy was worthless.

Meanwhile, with the auspicious beginning of _Parnassus on Wheels_, the young man went gaily on. His first book of verse (barring the Oxford experiment) was published in the same year under the valuable title, _Songs for a Little House_; and at once the small beginnings of a Morley vogue were faintly perceptible. The suspicion that such a title harboured a spirit committed to the sentimental attitude toward life was confirmed within a year by the publication of a book of essays, _Shandygaff_, named after a reputed or actual beverage and got up with a deliberately quaint title page. One was left in no doubt that Morley liked Stevenson, was affectionately fond of Robert Cortes Holliday, and worshipped the genius of Don Marquis. The seeds of literary jealousy were sown, to be harvested several years later in accusations of log-rolling[2] that were levelled at others a-plenty besides Morley. Here, however, it should be explained that Morley had come from Oxford to go to work, at the age of twenty-three, at Garden City; that while learning the publishing business he had married Miss Helen Booth Fairchild, a New York girl whom he had met in England. If, therefore, he modestly undertook to become the American poet of domesticity with his songs for households “of two or more,” the guilt should by no means be made personal to him, but may justly be laid at the door of the race.

[2] The term is borrowed from the Congress of the United States, where it has long been employed, quite unofficially, to describe an exchange of favors among Congressmen, some voting for another’s bill in exchange for his favorable vote upon their pet measures. As here used, it refers to the alleged praise of one writer by another in tacit exchange for similar praise back; the public being expected to take both encomiums at face value and without any discounting for personal friendship, etc. Whether the public has ever quite done so is possibly to be doubted; but, at any rate, in the winter of 1921-22, New York and some other literary circles were so openly under suspicion of log-rolling that the suspects were not able to ignore the charges openly made. The boldest method of counter-attack adopted was that of Heywood Broun, who ridiculed the accusation, not quite successfully from every standpoint. There was, however, an immediate and noticeable diminution of enthusiasm among some of the younger writers for each other’s work, publicly expressed. Morley himself, discussing the matter of log-rolling, explained that the accusers had the cart before the horse; that commonly one liked another man’s work and praised it, and in consequence thereof came into a personal acquaintance. This is without doubt frequently the true situation.

The year following _Shandygaff_ witnessed the appearance of another book of verse, _The Rocking Horse_; the sequel to _Parnassus on Wheels_, entitled _The Haunted Bookshop_; and a book done in collaboration with Bart Haley. Called _In the Sweet Dry and Dry_, this is quite exceptional among Morley books, and not too common among any books, for its badness. An extravaganza on the subject of prohibition, the plot may be said to have resided mainly in incessant and outrageous puns, at that time a pronounced Morley weakness. But again it is necessary to point out a detail which, taken in one light, and, as I think, the proper light, reflects great personal credit on Mr. Morley; he has never disowned the bad book. He could not do so openly, of course--copies probably exist--but he has not done so tacitly, as he might have without question or comment. I have in mind a little booklet on Christopher Morley published in 1922 and concluding with a bibliography. There it stands: “_In the Sweet Dry and Dry_, Boni and Liveright, 1919. (In collaboration with Bart Haley, out of print.)” The book, no doubt. George Moore and Henry James, not to mention other men of literary genius, have had occasion to be ashamed of their work and to drop it quietly from the roll. I like Mr. Morley for not doing so.