What Occurred At Haukstrǫnd House On An Autumn Afternoon—1865

Mister Jonas Harkstreader set the pages of the manuscript down on his desk. He exhaled a deep, exasperated breath. “Mister Groschinger—or Herr Groschinger, if you prefer. This...this cat is going to take the little girl to the Moon, of all places—on a pirate ship, of all things? Are you even aware that the Moon is a quarter of a million miles from the Earth? Moreover, there is no wind to blow the sails, on account of there being no air in those rarefied regions!”

He knew that Kyric Groschinger hailed from one of the states of Germany, but which one, the publisher could not have told you. As far as he was concerned, they were all nothing but a scad of barbarians. Why, the man showed up at his office with no top hat, or any kind of headgear, whatsoever! He certainly appeared to have no idea how a respectable gentleman should clothe and present himself. Why, his own fine hat was made of beaver fur, and groomed to look like the most expensive silk purchasable.

The man's suit was also a rather drab gray, and in this era when the fashions of men and women had of the last few years become far more colorful, the publisher found himself to be deeply unimpressed. His own waistcoat was a bright, emerald green. For no logical reason he could think of, he sometimes wondered if it had something to do with the way his hands had been horribly itching of late, but if a little bit of irritation was the price of earning his place in the ranks of the fashionable, well, it was a price that Jonas Harkstreader was most willing to pay.

But looking at the man himself, he found he was unable to dismiss him so easily as he did his apparel. Something about the man made him feel uncomfortable. He found he could not look long into the eyes of the man before him. There was something deeply unsettling about those coal-black eyes.

He was the publisher. He was the one in charge here. Why was he feeling this...awkwardness...in the presence of this man who was nothing more than a candidate aspiring to have his work published? The man was at his mercy and whim; he should long ago have learned the proper way to address and present himself to his betters—his betters in the world of publishing, at any rate!

But the man was refusing to comport himself with the usual bowing and scraping, that Jonas Harkstreader had come to expect, and even demand from all who came before him seeking his favor.

Kyric Groshinger stood silently, his feet set widely apart and his arms folded across his chest. There was a slight smile on his lips and he fixed the publisher with a gaze that made the man think of a Golden Eagle he had once seen at Regent's Park Zoo when he was a boy. The thing had looked down upon him with piercing, inhuman eyes that suggested a rapacious, barely controlled appetite—one that might be best satisfied by seizing a five year old child in its talons and devouring it at its leisure.

Harkstreader recoiled violently from the memory. That the man should show such impudence could not be borne! He resolved to have him thrown out of his office immediately. Let him be shown the door—and after the door, let him be shown the stairs—all one-hundred and twenty of them, divided equally between five flights. And if it so happens he should break his neck on one of them—so much the better! And let them throw his manuscript after the objectionable fellow, to keep him company. He can peddle it elsewhere and use the funds to cover...yes! To cover his tuition at an 'institution of higher learning' most befitting his talents—say...Saint Luke's Hospital for Lunatics!

So, why was he feeling that his simple, “I regret to inform you that Haukstrǫnd House has no interest in publishing your book—Scraps and Bucky,” was not going to be enough to get rid of this pestilential fellow? Why should he have to demean himself by explaining his rejection of this preposterous prodigality of poppycock?

He tightened his jaw and determined to firmly assert his authority. He was not the supplicant seeking favor here!

“Hetzel, one of my French competitors, has just published, this very year, a work by a countryman of his—one Jules Verne, with the absurd title—”

“De la Terre à la Lune. In English, From the Earth to the Moon. I am well versed in languages other than my native German.”

The man had interrupted him! Of all the unmitigated gall! It was practically unheard of that anyone should interrupt him—especially a man seeking the publisher's favor, but that is precisely what Kyric Groschinger had just done!

“Yes. A journey to the Moon. M'Sieur Verne at least tempers his audacity by attempting a scientific explanation as to how such an impossibility might actually come about. But you...!” He threw up his hands in frustration (he refrained from scratching at them. Such lack of decorum would be unforgiveable!). “...that you actually think anyone would even believe such criminal nonsense!”

Kyric Groschinger smiled.

“Thirty years ago, The Sun—a New York City paper, published a series of six articles on the discovery of life—and a civilization—of bat-people, on the Moon. It was eventually revealed to be a hoax, but many thousands of otherwise common-sensical people believed in such... 'criminal nonsense.'”

Harkstreader gazed down at the manuscript he had already made up his mind to reject.

“Be that as it may—why bring this to me? Yes, Haukstrǫnd House prides itself on publishing works for younger readers—but only those meant to cultivate respectable moral values and contribute to the growth and foundation of empire. I have taken the liberty to investigate you at some length, as I do all authors who seek to have us as their publisher, and I must say I find myself extremely surprised, that a man of your Prussian heritage would seek to contribute, rather, to the weakening of necessary moral fiber and discipline—”

“Your biggest rival, MacMillan and Co., is far outstripping you in the children's book market. It's not hard to see why. Take your offering, The Terrible Troubles of Tom Tinker—I've talked with children who absolutely hated it. And it just so happens they are on the verge of publishing another book...”

“Yes,” Harkstreader said sourly, “the Reverend Charles Lutwidge Dodgson's abominable Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I could barely stomach to read more than a few scattered chapters of the advance copy Alexander Macmillan sent me, doubtless in spite and in mockery. It is to put an end to such nonsense that I have dedicated this company to. A book for children should have something to teach. What is the lesson that Dodgson's book teaches? Rabbits and tea parties run by madmen! Playing cards more bloodthirsty than the whole of Robespierre's Reign of Terror. The man should stick to mathematics and religion, for which he is obviously better suited.”

“For all your belittlement of Dodgson's efforts, you might be surprised at how well the book is being received—and this before it's even been published! You are not the only one whom Alexander Macmillan has chosen to receive an advance copy. Quite a number of these gentlemen have deemed it fitting to submit a review:” He leafed through a sheaf of note quotations.

“'Beyond question supreme among modern books for children.'

“'An excellent piece of nonsense… Illustrated with extraordinary taste.'

“'A piece of downright hearty drollery and fanciful humour.' Shall I go on?”

“Mister Groschinger—just what are you trying to say to me?”

“I beg your patience for one more—

“'It is with no mere book that we have to deal here-but with the potentiality of happiness for countless thousands of children of all ages; for it would be difficult to over-estimate the value of the store of hearty and healthy fun laid up for whole generations of young people by Mr. Lewis Carroll and Mr. John Tenniel. Think of the many happy English firesides, where happy faces shall smile dear Alice a welcome—beautiful with memories of a loving life, which has sought and found that truest kind of happiness, the only kind that is really worth the having, the happiness of making others happy too!”

Kyrik Groschinger set down the reviews. “Mister Harkstreader. I am offering you the opportunity to gain such a joy for yourself—by giving thousands of English, European and even American boys and girls the happiness that Scraps and Bucky can give them.”

“Stuff and nonsense! I have a grave responsibility to the Crown and I will not compromise it by—”

“I took the liberty of inquiring into the affairs of Haukstrǫnd House. You are skirting very dangerously the unforgiving waters of insolvency.

“I give you four months before you go belly-up in the Thames. You desperately need a bestseller. I am offering you the adventures of Kilmeny Buckingham and her friends, for many, many, years yet.”

By now, Mister Harkstreader was seething with repressed rage, which had increased in intensity, the longer he listened to what he considered to be intolerable impudence and impertinence. Only two things held him back from resorting to an unprecedented use of physical violence.

The first was that Kyric Groschinger seemed to possess both the size and power of John Camel Heenan, and the indefatigable fire he had seen in Tom Sayer's burning eyes. Five years ago he had witnessed the fight between those two bare-knuckle champions, and had lost a fortune betting on the wrong party—a fortune that was the rightful possession of Haukstrǫnd House!

The second thing that stopped the publisher was the knowledge that Kyrik Groschinger spoke the truth. The lost funds had hurt the company, and Harkstreader had had to take great pains to explain away the discrepancy in the books. That was bad enough—but he had made other blunders as well. But what hurt the most was the growing suspicion that, even had he never gambled, and in other ways unwisely spent his (and the publishing house's money) it would not have postponed Harkstrond House's perilous financial situation—the books just weren't selling.

Nevertheless, he was loathe to concede in even the slightest, or admit to himself just how desperate his situation truly was. His pride reared up like a striking cobra. He refused to admit the possibility that he just might need help, and that Kyric Groschinger was holding a rope out to a drowning man. No! The man fiercely rebelled against the very idea! His pride would not let him accept such aid.

“I...will...not...give...in...to what I consider to be moral depravity. Now kindly leave my office, or I shall engage a constable.”

“And on that subject of moral depravity...tell me—have you ever heard of General Sir Eyre Coote?” Harkstreader gave a barely noticeable start but his outward calm was otherwise unruffled.

“Fifty years ago he was disgraced in a flogging scandal. He served in some kind of official capacity at Christ's Hospital School for Boys, but it seems he also was in the habit of offering the boys money in return for whipping their bare arses—and offered them even more for whipping his own. Unfortunately...one such session was witnessed by the school nurse and he was discharged for indecent conduct. He was brought before the Lord Mayor of London and after making what we would laughably call, a 'donation,' of £1000 to the boys' school, he was acquitted. The Duke of York, however heard about the matter and Coote was removed from his regiment, dismissed from the army, and degraded from the Order of the Bath. 'Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman,' was, I believe, the term.”

Harkstreader watched the author with increasingly narrowed focus.

“Perhaps the name of his granddaughter, Rosa Coote, might be more familiar to you...” The expression on Kyrik Groschinger's face and his wry smile indicated this to be merely a rhetorical statement. The publisher's face took on an ashen gray hue.

“I became acquainted with the Reverend Dodgson through our mutual interest in children's literature. Besides his interests in mathematics and religion you've already mentioned, he is also a photographer of no negligible ability. And while I was already acquainted with your opinions of his proposed literary works, Mister Dodgson was not. When I informed him of your views, he was quite taken aback by the, as he phrased it, 'Catastrophic depths of the man's ignorance.' I thought it worthwhile to suggest a way for him to, umm,—'redress the balance,' shall we say? The gentleman seized my hand and accepted my offer with great alacrity.

“You would be amazed at just how easy it is to conceal photographic equipment in the most unobtrusive of places—especially when one adequately greases the requisite palms. I approached Miss Coote with my proposal. She was more than happy to inform me that on numerous occasions you'd been quite the bounderish cad. She was willing to help us, gratis, but I insisted she receive some remuneration for being so obliging.”

He spread a number of photographs on Harkstreader's desk.

“As you can see, these first pictures show a gentlemen, closely matching your description, paying a discrete visit to the quarters of a notorious flagellant. You can see how he's all hunched over and looking cautiously over his shoulder? Not like a man on legitimate business, but like one going to a secret rendezvous. The upturned collar is quite a nice touch. Still—there is nothing in these initial photographs which any but the most censorious Pharisee would rake you over hot coals for—but these later representations!

“They show you all unclothed, tied up and gagged, with Mistress Coote quite skillfully wielding the whip—there is absolutely no doubt that you are the gentlemen in the pictures.

“As you can see, the granddaughter has inherited the predilection of the grandfather, and under her governance has made a fine, old family tradition of these proclivities.” He smiled broadly.

“This does go a long way to explain the inordinate fascination with extreme—shall I say, discipline?—you appear to have.” The smile had become a grin.

Mister Harkstreader's voice was barely audible. He looked up at Groschinger, his secret vice revealed, he was clearly a broken man. He looked up into the eyes of the man whose literary efforts he had mercilessly savaged, and knew he could expect no mercy in return.

“I'm held to be a respectable book publisher. I am held in high esteem. If this were to get out I would be ruined. You have me over a barrel, sir” He was silent for a long moment.

“...How much is this going to cost me?”

“I'm not a common blackmailer,” Groschinger snorted. “If I was I could lay claim to your entire fortune—which is, incidentally, the fortune of Haukstrǫnd House. This would include your presses, your bindery, and the contents of several warehouses stocked to the rafters with such unsold, leather-bound masterpieces as Muffin and Mitzi and What Became of their Mischief—a Moral Little Tale. Or, perhaps Truthful Tom—or, Diligence Rewarded. I know your kind well enough—you'd give every last pound and shilling you possess in order to protect that sterling reputation you've worked so hard to cultivate. Because you know that once the Guardian and the Observer got a hold of these photographs, that reputation wouldn't be worth a brass farthing! Your fine digs here at Covent Garden?” Here, Groschinger spread his arms to encompass the expanse of Harkstreader's office. He took in the over sized globe of the world, the five handsome book cases built into the western wall, the candelabras ensconced in the wainscotting.

“Your landlords wouldn't look very kindly on the likes of someone like you dirtying up the minds of good British schoolboys and girls—would they?

“With luxurious expenditures like this it's no wonder you're so close to bankruptcy. In no more than four months you'd be evicted under any circumstance. Right now, you can still afford to rent a fine carriage to take you all the way to the Cleveland Street Workhouse. It's only a mile as the crow flies.

“They'd have you breaking stones, or—taking into consideration your slight build, probably relegate you to picking oakum.”

“I could never. Do you have any idea? Undoing old, tarred rope? It's horrible! You'd condemn me to being punished like a criminal—”

“Set your mind at ease. I've no intention of outing you—not when you and I are going to become such great friends. Oh, don't look so shocked. We can be of great help to one another.

“You are a children's book publisher and you are in great need of a bestselling children's book. You are hindered, however by an almost abysmal lack of understanding of what children actually need.

“I am a children's book author, and I can give you the bestseller you need. I am hindered by the lack of means to publish such a book.”

The much shaken Mister Harkstreader rose and held out his hand. “It seems I have little...” the realization sank even deeper into his soul, “no—no choice.” Mister Groschinger took the offered hand and shook it firmly.

“We'll get the contracts all written up. Standard contract, I want no more than you'd give any other author. But for now that can wait. We're going to be great friends, you and I. So to celebrate our mutual agreement, why don't you read the rest of the book? You couldn't stomach any more than the first chapter, or so. But read on—you might find your tastes changing. We may make a human being of you yet!”

Mister Harkstreader nodded. He picked up the manuscript and once again began to read...