CONDUCT TO LITERARY WOMEN.
On being introduced to a female writer, it is rude to say that "you have
long had a great _curiosity_ to see her." Curiosity is not the right
word. It is polite to imply that, "knowing her well by reputation, you
are glad to have an opportunity of making her personal acquaintance."
Say nothing concerning her writings, unless you chance to be alone with
her. Take care not to speak of her first work as being her best; for if
it is really so, she must have been retrograding from that time; a
falling off that she will not like to hear of. Perhaps the truth may be,
that you yourself have read only her _first_ work; and if you tell her
this, she will not be much flattered in supposing that you, in reality,
cared so little for her first book, as to feel no desire to try a
second. But she will be really gratified to learn that you are
acquainted with most of her writings; and, in the course of
conversation, it will be very pleasant for her to hear you quote
something from them.
If she is a writer of fiction, and you presume to take the liberty of
criticising her works, (as you may at her own request, or if you are
her intimate friend,) refrain from urging that certain incidents are
_improbable_, and certain characters _unnatural_. Of this it is
impossible for you to judge, unless you could have lived the very same
life that she has; known exactly the same people; and inhabited with
her the same places. Remember always that "Truth is stranger than
fiction." The French say--"Le vrai n'est pas toujours le plus
vraisemblable,"--which, literally translated, means that "Truth is not
always the most truth-like." Also, be it understood that a woman of
quick perception and good memory can see and recollect a thousand
things which would never be noticed or remembered by an obtuse or
shallow, common-place capacity. And the intellect of a good writer of
fiction is always brightened by the practice of taking in and laying
up ideas with a view toward turning them to professional use. Trust in
her, and believe that she _has_ painted from life. A sensible
fictionist always does. At the same time, be not too curious in
questioning her as to the identity of her personages and the reality
of her incidents. You have no right to expect that she will expose to
you, or to any one else, her process of arranging the story, bringing
out the characters, or concocting the dialogue. The machinery of her
work, and the hidden springs which set it in motion, she naturally
wishes to keep to herself; and she cannot be expected to lay them bare
for the gratification of impertinent curiosity, letting them become
subjects of idle gossip. Be satisfied to take her works as you find
them. If you like them, read and commend them; but do not ask her to
conduct you behind the scenes, and show you the mysteries of her
art--for writing is really an art, and one that cannot be acquired, to
any advantage, without a certain amount of talent, taste, and
cultivation, to say nothing of genius. What right have you to expect
that your literary friend will trust you with "the secrets of her
prison-house," and put it into your power to betray her confidence by
acquainting the world that a certain popular novelist has informed you
with her own lips ("but it must on no account be mentioned, as the
disclosure would give mortal offence, and create for her hosts of
enemies,") that by her character of Fanny Gadfly she really means Lucy
Giddings; that Mr. Hardcastle signifies Mr. Stone; that Old Wigmore
was modelled on no less a person than Isaac Baldwin; that Mrs.
Bastings was taken from Mrs. Sunning; and Mrs. Babes from Mrs.
Childers--&c. &c. Also, do not expect her to tell you on what facts
her incidents were founded, and whether there was any truth in them,
or if they were mere invention.
Be not inquisitive as to the length of time consumed in writing this
book or that--or how soon the work now on hand will be finished. It can
scarcely be any concern of yours, and the writer may have reasons for
keeping back the information. Rest assured that whenever a public
announcement of a new book is expedient, it will certainly be made in
print.
There are persons so rude as to question a literary woman (even on a
slight acquaintance) as to the remuneration she receives for her
writings--in plain terms, "How much did you get for that? and how much
are you to have for this? And how much do you make in the course of a
year? And how much a page do you get? And how many pages can you write
in a day?"
To any impertinent questions from a stranger-lady concerning the profits
of your pen, reply concisely, that these things are secrets between
yourself and your publishers. If you kindly condescend to answer without
evasion, these polite enquiries, you will probably hear such
exclamations as, "Why, really--you must be coining money. I think I'll
write books myself! There can't be a better trade," &c.
Ignorant people always suppose that popular writers are wonderfully
well-paid--and must be making rapid fortunes--because they neither
starve in garrets, nor wear rags--at least in America.
Never ask one writer what is her _real_ opinion of a cotemporary author.
She may be unwilling to entrust it to you, as she can have no guarantee
that you will not whisper it round till it gets into print. If she
voluntarily expresses her own opinion of another writer, and it _is_
unfavourable, be honourable enough not to repeat it; but guard it
sedulously from betrayal, and avoid mentioning it to any one.
When in company with literary women, make no allusions to "learned
ladies," or "blue stockings," or express surprise that they should have
any knowledge of housewifery, or needle-work, or dress; or that they are
able to talk on "common things." It is rude and foolish, and shows that
you really know nothing about them, either as a class or as
individuals.
Never tell an authoress that "you are afraid of her"--or entreat her
"not to put you into a book." Be assured there is no danger.
An authoress has seldom leisure to entertain morning visiters; so much
of her time being professionally occupied either in writing, or in
reading what will prepare her for writing. She should apprize all her
friends of the hours in which she is usually engaged; and then none who
are really her friends and well-wishers, will encroach upon her
convenience for any purpose of their own; unless under extraordinary
circumstances. To tell her that you were "just passing by," or "just in
the neighbourhood," and "just thought you would stop in," is a very
selfish, or at least a very inconsiderate excuse. Is she to suppose that
you do not consider her conversation worthy of a visit made on purpose?
Recollect that to a woman who gets her living by her pen, "time is
money," as it is to an artist. Therefore, encroaching on her time is
lessening her income. And yet how often is this done (either heedlessly
or selfishly) by persons professing to be her friends, and who are
habitually in the practice of interrupting her in her writing hours,
which should always be in the morning, if possible. They think it
sufficient to say, like Paul Pry, "I hope I don't intrude"--knowing all
the time that they _do_, and pretending to believe her when civility
obliges her to tell them they do _not_. Even if the visit is not a long
one, it is still an interruption. In one minute it may break a chain of
ideas which cannot be reunited, dispel thoughts that can never be
recalled, disturb the construction of a sentence, and obliterate a
recollection that will not return. And to all this the literary lady
must submit, because her so-called friend "chanced to be out that
morning shopping"--or "happened to be visiting in that part of the
town"--and therefore has called on _her_ by way of "killing two birds
with one stone." Very likely, the visiter will say to the unfortunate
visited, "I know it is inconvenient to you to see your friends in the
morning, but I never feel like going out in the afternoon. As soon as
dinner is over I must have my nap; and by the time that is finished, it
is too late for any thing else."
In consequence of these ill-timed visits, the printer may have to send
in vain for "copy" that is not yet ready; and an article written
expressly for a magazine may arrive too late for the next month, and be
therefore deferred a month later, which may subject her not only to
inconvenience, but to actual pecuniary loss--loss of money. Or, at
least, the interruption may compel her to the painful effort of trying
to finish it even by sitting up late at night, and straining her weary
eyes by lamp-light. Yet this she must endure because it suits an idle
and thoughtless _friend_ to make her a long and inopportune visit. The
children of the pen and the pencil might say to these intruders, like
the frogs in the pond when the boys were pelting them with stones--"This
may be sport to you, but it is death to us."
If, when admitted into her study, you should find her writing-table in
what appears to you like great confusion, recollect that there is
really no wit in a remark too common on such occasions,--"Why, you look
quite _littery_,"--a poor play on the words _literary_ and _litter_. In
all probability, she knows precisely where to lay her hand upon every
paper on the table: having in reality placed them exactly to suit her
convenience. Though their arrangement may be quite unintelligible to the
uninitiated, there is no doubt method (her own method, at least) in
their apparent disorder. It is not likely she may have time to put her
writing table in nice-looking order every day. To have it done by
servants is out of the question, as _they_ would make "confusion worse
confounded;" being of course unable to comprehend how _such a table_
should be arranged.
If you chance to find an authoress occupied with her needle, express no
astonishment, and refrain from exclaiming, "What! can _you_ sew?" or, "I
never supposed a literary lady could even hem a handkerchief!"
This is a false, and if expressed in words, an insulting idea. A large
number of literary females are excellent needle-women, and good
housewives; and there is no reason why they should not be. The same
vigour of character and activity of intellect which renders a woman a
_good_ writer, will also enable her to acquire with a quickness, almost
intuitive, a competent knowledge of household affairs, and of the art of
needle-work. And she will find, upon making the attempt, that, with a
little time and a little perseverance, she may become as notable a
personage (both in theory and practice) as if she had never read a
book, or written a page.
The Dora of David Copperfield is an admirable illustration of the fact
that a silly, illiterate woman may be the worst of housewives. Dickens
has unquestionably painted this character exactly from life. But that he
always does. He must have known a Dora. And who has not?
If you find your literary friend in deshabille, and she apologizes for
it--(she had best _not_ apologize)--tell her not that "authoresses are
privileged persons, and are never expected to pay any attention to
dress." Now, literary slatterns are not more frequent than slatterns who
are not literary. It is true that women of enlarged minds, and really
good taste, do not think it necessary to follow closely all the changes
and follies of fashion, and to wear things that are inconvenient,
uncomfortable, and unbecoming, merely because milliners, dress-makers,
&c. have pronounced them "the last new style."
It is ill-manners to refer in any way to the profession of the person to
whom you are talking, unless that person is an intimate friend, and you
are alone with her; and unless she herself begins the subject. Still
worse, to allude to their profession as if you supposed it rendered them
different from the rest of the world, and marked them with peculiarities
from which other people are exempt.
It is true that authorlings and poetizers are apt to affect
eccentricity. Real authors, and even real poets, (by real we mean good
ones,) have generally a large portion of common sense to balance their
genius, and are therefore seldom guilty of the queernesses unjustly
imputed to the whole fraternity.
When in company with a literary lady with whom you are not on very
confidential terms, it is bad taste to talk to her exclusively of books,
and to endeavour to draw out her opinion of authors with whom she is
personally acquainted--and whom she will, of course, be unwilling to
criticise, (at least in miscellaneous society,) lest her remarks should
be invidiously or imprudently repeated, and even get into print. "Any
thing new in the literary world?" is a question by which some people
always commence conversation with an author. Why should it be supposed
that they always "carry the shop along with them," or that they take no
interest or pleasure in things not connected with books. On the
contrary, they are glad to be allowed the privilege of unbending like
other people. And a good writer is almost always a good talker, and
fully capable of conversing well on various subjects. Try her.
It was beautifully said of Jane Taylor, the charming author of a popular
and never-tiring little book of "Original Poems for Children," that "you
only knew that the stream of literature had passed over her mind by the
fertility it left behind it."
We have witnessed, when two distinguished lady-writers chanced to be at
the same party, an unmannerly disposition to "pit them against each
other"--placing them side by side, or _vis-a-vis_, and saying something
about, "When Greek meets Greek," &c., and absolutely collecting a
circle round them, to be amused or edified by the expected dialogue.
This is rude and foolish.
It is not treating a talented woman with due consideration, to be active
in introducing to her the silliest and flattest people in the room,
because the said flats have been worked up into a desire of seeing, face
to face, "a live authoress"--though in all probability they have not
read one of her works.
That notorious lion-hunter, the Countess of Cork, was so candid as to
say to certain celebrated writers, "I'll sit by _you_ because you are
famous." To a very charming American lady whom she was persuading to
come to her party, she frankly added, "My dear, you really must not
refuse me. Don't you know you are my decoy-duck."
There are mothers (called pattern-mothers) who uphold the theory that
every thing in the world must bend to the advantage (real or supposed)
of children, that is, of their own children--and who have continually on
their lips the saying, "a mother's first duty is to her children." So it
is, and it is her duty not to render them vain, impertinent, conceited,
and obtrusive, by allowing them to suppose that they must on all
occasions be brought forward; and that their mother's visiters have
nothing to do but to improve and amuse _them_. Therefore a literary lady
often receives a more than hint from such a mother to talk only on
edifying subjects when the dear little creatures are present; and then
the conversation is required to take a Penny-Magazine tone,
exclusively--the darlings being, most probably, restless and impatient
all the time, the girls sitting uneasily on their chairs and looking
tired, and the boys suddenly bolting out of the room to get back to
their sports. It is true the children will be less impatient if the
visiter will trouble herself to "tell them stories" all the time; but it
is rude to ask her to do so.
When directing a letter to "a woman of letters," it is not considered
polite to insert the word "Authoress" after her name. And yet we have
seen this done by persons who ought to know better. If you are
unacquainted with the number and street of her residence, direct to the
care of her publisher; whose place you may always find, by referring to
the title-page of one of her last works, and by seeing his
advertisements in the newspapers. The booksellers always know where
their authors are to be found. So do the printers--for their boys convey
the proof-sheets.
Observe that the term "learned lady" is not correctly applied to a
female, unless she has successfully cultivated what is understood to be
the learning of colleges--for instance, the dead languages, &c.
Unfortunately, the term is now seldom used but in derision, and to
denote a woman whose studies have been entirely of the masculine order.
You may speak of a well-informed, well-read, talented, intellectual,
accomplished lady; but call her not _learned_, unless she is well-versed
in the Greek and Latin classics, and able to discuss them from their
original language. Even then, spare her the appellation of _learned_, if
gentlemen are present. In the dark ages, when not every lady could read
and write, the few that _were_ entitled to the "benefit of clergy,"
frequently "drank deep in tasting the Pierian spring," and proceeded to
study the learned languages with great success; for instance, Lady Jane
Grey and Queen Elizabeth.
In desiring the autograph of a literary lady, do not expect her to write
in your album "a piece of poetry." Be satisfied with her signature only.
There is a spice of meanness in requesting from her, as a gift, any
portion of her stock in trade. As well might you ask Mr. Stewart, or Mr.
Levy, to present you with an embroidered collar, or a pair of gloves.
For the same reason, never request an artist to "draw something" in your
album. It is only amateur poets, and amateur artists, that can afford to
write and draw in albums. Those who make a living by their profession,
have no time to spare for gratuitous performances; and it is as wrong to
ask them, as it is to invite public singers to "favour the company with
a song" at private parties, where they are invited as guests. It is,
however, not unusual for professional musicians to kindly and politely
gratify the company by inviting themselves to sing; saying, "Perhaps you
would like to hear my last song." And sometimes, if quite "in the vein,"
a real poet, when modestly asked for merely his signature, will
voluntarily add a few lines of verse. But do not expect it.
There are pretty little books of fine paper, handsomely bound, that are
used for the purpose of containing signature autographs; one on each
page. A lady owning such a book, can send it to any distinguished
person of whose hand-writing she wishes to possess a specimen.
When the name at the bottom of a letter is shown to you as an autograph,
it is rude to take the letter into your own hand, and read the whole, or
even to glance your eye over it. It is not intended that you shall see
any thing but the signature.
We will now address a few words to beginners in the art of writing, with
reference to their intercourse with women of well-established literary
reputation. If these ladies of decided standing in the republic of
letters have sufficient leisure, they will generally be very kind in
assisting with their counsel a young aspirant, who shows any evidence of
talent for the profession. Unluckily, too many novices in the art,
mistake a mere desire to get into print, for that rarest of
gifts--genius. And without genius, there is no possibility of gaining by
the pen, either fame, or fortune.
Long manuscripts are frequently sent for the revisal "at leisure" of a
person who has little or no leisure. Yet in the intervals of toiling for
herself, she is expected to toil for some one else; probably for a
stranger whom she does not know, in whom she can take no interest, and
who has evidently "no writing in her soul." If, however, the modest
request is kindly complied with, in all probability the corrections will
only give offence, and may perhaps be crossed out before the manuscript
is offered to the publisher, who very likely may reject it for want of
these very corrections. We have known such incidents.
The least talented of the numerous females pretending to authorship, are
generally the most conceited and the most obtrusive. They are frequently
very great annoyances to women "well-up the ladder," who are expected,
in many instances, not only to revise the manuscript, but immediately to
find a purchaser for it--a purchaser of high rank among publishers--one
who will bring it out handsomely, ensure it an immense circulation, pay
promptly, and pay as much as is given to the standard authors. And
besides being desired to "get it published," the reviser of the
manuscript will, perhaps, be requested to correct the proofs; that is,
if the literary novice should chance to know what proof-sheets are.
The work thus arrogantly thrust upon the time and attention of a
deservedly-popular writer may be a book of "sweet poetry," on weak,
worn-out, common-place subjects, done into feeble, halting, ill-rhyming
verses, such as few read, and none remember. Or the aspirant after fame,
may have chosen the easier path of prose, and produced a fiction without
fancy, a novel without novelty, "a thrilling tale" that thrills nobody,
a picture of fashionable life after no fashion that ever existed, or "a
pathetic story of domestic life," neither pathetic nor domestic.
Yet if a practised and successful author ventures to pronounce an
_unfavourable_ verdict on such productions, because the writer desired
her _candid_ opinion, she will probably light up a flame of resentment,
that may never be extinguished, and make an enemy for life; the
objections being imputed to "sheer envy," and to a malignant design of
"extinguishing a rising star."
A sufficient introduction to a publisher is to send him the manuscript,
accompanied by a note requesting his opinion as soon as convenient. If
he approves it, and believes it will be profitable, there is no doubt of
his being willing to print the work. And if he thinks he shall make
nothing by it, it is equally certain that he will decline the offer. It
is too much to expect that he will be so regardless of his own interest
as to publish a book, the sale of which will not remunerate him for the
cost of paper and printing.
Ladies who live in the same house with an authoress, have opportunities
enough of seeing her in the parlour, and at table; therefore they may
dispense with visiting her in her own room. Spare her all interruptions
of applying for the loan of books, paper, pens, ink, &c. Do not expect
that, because she writes, she must necessarily keep a free circulating
library, or a gratuitous stationer's shop. Supply yourself with all such
conveniences from the regular sources. Buy them, and pay for them,
instead of troubling one who has not time to be troubled. Above all,
refrain from the meanness of asking her to lend you any book written by
herself. If she volunteers the loan, then receive it thankfully; and
take care to return it speedily, and in good condition. It is _her_
interest, and the interest of her publishers, that a large number of
copies shall be _sold_; not lent, or given away. Many persons
erroneously suppose that an author has always on hand an unlimited
number of her own books; or that the publisher will kindly give her as
many as she can want for herself and friends. This is by no means the
case. It is usual, when the first edition comes out, for the publisher
to send the author half a dozen copies of the book, or a dozen, if it is
a small one. After that, if she wants any more, she is expected to buy
them of the bookseller. Therefore, she has none to _give away_, except
to members of her own family, or to friends whose circumstances will not
permit them to expend money in books, and who have an ardent love for
reading without the means of gratifying it. We have known ladies,
possessing diamonds and India shawls, and living in splendid houses, ask
the author for the loan of a cookery-book, with the avowed purpose of
"copying out the best receipts."
Apropos to cookery-books:--If you have faithfully followed a receipt,
and the result is not quite satisfactory, there is nothing amiss in your
acquainting the writer with that fact, provided it _is_ a fact. On the
contrary, you may do her a kindness, by enabling her to detect an error
in the directions, and to rectify that error in a future edition.
Women often assert that the receipt was not a good one, and that upon
trial it proved a failure, when, on investigation, you will find that,
from false economy, some of the ingredients were left out; or the
relative proportions diminished in quantity--too much of the cheapest
articles being put in, and not enough of the more costly. Or else, that
sufficient time and pains were not bestowed on the mixing and preparing;
or that the thing was not sufficiently cooked.
By-the-bye, remember that a receipt for cookery, is not to be called a
_recipe_. The word _recipe_ belongs to pharmacy, and is only used with
reference to medical prescriptions. The cook uses _receipts_, the
apothecary _recipes_.
Whatever article you may wish to borrow from an inmate of the same
house, apply first to persons whose time is of comparatively small
importance to them, before you disturb and interrupt a literary lady. Do
not trouble her for the loan of umbrellas, over-shoes, hoods, calashes,
&c., or send to her for small change.
We once lived in a house where coal-fires were scarce, and wood-fires
plenty. Our own fire-arrangement was wood in a Franklin stove, and no
other person in the house was the fortunate owner of a pair of bellows.
Liking always to be comfortable, we had bought a pair for ourselves.
Ten times a day we were disturbed by a knock at the door, from a
coloured girl who came "a-borrowing" this implement to revive the fire
of some other room. She called it by a pleasing variety of
names--running through all the vowels. Sometimes she wanted the
bellow_sas_; sometimes the bellow_ses_; or the bellow_sis_, the
bellow_sos_, or the bellow_sus_. These frequent interruptions, with
others that were similar, became a real grievance. We thought it would
cost us less to present the bellows to the house, and buy another pair
for ourselves. We did so--but very soon the first pair was somehow
missing, and our own was again in requisition.
Since that winter we have burnt anthracite, and therefore have no
bellow_sas_ to lend.