DURING ALL this time I saw really very little of Driffield. His
editorship occupied much of his day and in the evening he wrote. He was,
of course, there every Saturday afternoon, amiable and ironically
amusing; he appeared glad to see me and chatted with me for a little
while pleasantly of indifferent things; but naturally most of his
attention was given to guests older and more important than I. But I had
a feeling that he was growing more aloof; he was no longer the jolly,
rather vulgar companion that I had known at Blackstable. Perhaps it was
only my increasing sensibility that discerned as it were an invisible
barrier that existed between him and the people he chaffed and joked
with. It was as though he lived a life of the imagination that made the
life of every day a little shadowy. He was asked to speak now and then
at public dinners. He joined a literary club. He began to know a good
many people outside the narrow circle into which his writing had drawn
him, and he was increasingly asked to luncheon and tea by the ladies who
like to gather about them distinguished authors. Rosie was asked too,
but seldom went; she said she didn’t care for parties, and after all
they didn’t want her, they only wanted Ted. I think she was shy and felt
out of it. It may be that hostesses had more than once let her see how
tiresome they thought it that she must be included; and after inviting
her because it was polite, ignored her because to be polite irked them.
It was just about then that Edward Driffield published _The Cup of
Life_. It is not my business to criticize his works, and of late as much
has been written about them as must satisfy the appetite of any ordinary
reader; but I will permit myself to say that _The Cup of Life_, though
certainly not the most celebrated of his books, nor the most popular, is
to my mind the most interesting. It has a cold ruthlessness that in all
the sentimentality of English fiction strikes an original note. It is
refreshing and astringent. It tastes of tart apples. It sets your teeth
on edge, but it has a subtle, bitter-sweet savour that is very agreeable
to the palate. Of all Driffield’s books it is the only one I should like
to have written. The scene of the child’s death, terrible and
heart-rending, but written without slop or sickliness, and the curious
incident that follows it, cannot easily be forgotten by anyone who has
read them.
It was this part of the book that caused the sudden storm that burst on
the wretched Driffield’s head. For a few days after publication it
looked as though it would run its course like the rest of his novels,
namely that it would have substantial reviews, laudatory on the whole
but with reservations, and that the sales would be respectable, but
modest. Rosie told me that he expected to make three hundred pounds out
of it and was talking of renting a house on the river for the summer.
The first two or three notices were noncommittal; then in one of the
morning papers appeared a violent attack. There was a column of it. The
book was described as gratuitously offensive, obscene, and the
publishers were rated for putting it before the public. Harrowing
pictures were drawn of the devastating effect it must have on the youth
of England. It was described as an insult to womanhood. The reviewer
protested against the possibility of such a work falling into the hands
of young boys and innocent maidens. Other papers followed suit. The more
foolish demanded that the book should be suppressed and some asked
themselves gravely if this was not a case where the public prosecutor
might with fitness intervene. Condemnation was universal; if here and
there a courageous writer, accustomed to the more realistic tone of
continental fiction, asserted that Edward Driffield had never written
anything better, he was ignored. His honest opinion was ascribed to a
base desire to play to the gallery. The libraries barred the book and
the lessors of the railway bookstalls refused to stock it.
All this was naturally very unpleasant for Edward Driffield, but he bore
it with philosophic calm. He shrugged his shoulders.
“They say it isn’t true,” he smiled. “They can go to hell. It is true.”
He was supported in this trial by the fidelity of his friends. To admire
_The Cup of Life_ became a mark of æsthetic acumen: to be shocked by it
was to confess yourself a philistine. Mrs. Barton Trafford had no
hesitation in saying that it was a masterpiece, and though this wasn’t
quite the moment for Barton’s article in the _Quarterly_, her faith in
Edward Driffield’s future remained unshaken. It is strange (and
instructive) to read now the book that created such a sensation; there
is not a word that could bring a blush to the cheek of the most
guileless, not an episode that could cause the novel reader of the
present day to turn a hair.