When Henry Vizetelly, that admirable scholar, historian, and journalist,
was sent to prison for publishing Zola's novels mine were taken over by
Walter Scott, and all were reprinted except “Spring Days.” This book was
omitted from the list of my acknowledged works, for public and private
criticism had shown it no mercy; and I had lost faith in it. All the
welcome it had gotten were a few contemptuous paragraphs scattered
through the Press, and an insolent article in _The Academy_, which I did
not see, but of which I was notified by a friend in the Strand at the
corner of Wellington Street.
“Was the article a long one?”
“No, I don't think they thought your book worth slashing. All I can tell
you is that if any book of mine had been spoken of in that way I should
never write another.”
I left my friend, hoping that the number of _The Academy_ would not fall
into the hands of the editor of the great London review, to whom I had
dedicated the book after a night spent listening to him quoting from the
classics, Greek, English, and Latin. “A very poor testimony, one which
he won't thank me for,” I muttered, and stopped before St. Clement Danes
to think what kind of letter he would write to me. But he did not even
acknowledge through his secretary the copy I sent to him, and I accepted
the rebuff without resentment, arguing that the fault was mine. “The
proofs should have been submitted to him, but the printers were calling
for them! There's no going back; the mischief is done,” and I waited,
putting my trust in time, which blots out all unfortunate things, “even
dedications,” I said.
Three months later, on opening my door one day, I found him standing
with a common friend on the landing. I remember wondering what his
reason was for bringing the friend, whether he had come as a sort of
chaperon or witness. He left us after a few minutes, and I sat watching
the great man of my imagination, asking myself if he were going to speak
of “Spring Days,” hoping that he would avoid the painful subject. The
plot and the characters of my new book might please him. If he would
only allow me to speak about it he might be persuaded to accept a second
dedication as some atonement for the first.
“You were kind enough to dedicate your novel---”
“'Spring Days'?”
“Yes, 'Spring Days.' I know that you wished to pay me a compliment, and
if I didn't write before it was because----”
“Was it so very bad?”
A butty little man raised Oriental eyes and square hands in protest.
“You have written other books,” he said, and proposed that we should go
out together and walk in the Strand.
“Yes, 'The Confessions of a Young Man' was much liked here and in
France. Will you let me give it to you?” We stopped at a book shop. “It
will please you and help you to forget 'Spring Days.'” He smiled. “Never
mention that book again,” I added. “I wonder how I could have written
it.”
We were in a hansom; he turned his head and looked at me without
attempting to answer my question; and from that day till six months ago
my impulse was to destroy every copy that came my way. A copy of “Spring
Days” excited in me an uncontrollable desire of theft, and whenever I
caught sight of one in a friend's house I put it in my pocket without
giving a thought to the inconvenience that the larceny might cause; the
Thames received it, and I returned home congratulating myself that there
was one copy less in the world of “Spring Days.”
When the Boer War drove me out of London I said: “Dublin doesn't contain
a copy of that book;” and for nearly eight years I was left in peace,
only Edward Martyn teasing me, saying that one of these days he must
read the book.
“R---- always says, 'I like “Spring Days”.'”
“Insolent little ass,” I answered, “I'll cut him dead when we meet
again.”
But Edward was not joking as I thought he was, and some time afterwards
he told me that after a good deal of advertising he had succeeded
in obtaining a copy of “Spring Days.” The moment he left the room I
searched the table and bookcase for it, but he kept it at Tillyra, else
it would have gone into the Liffey, which receives all things.
“My dear George, I like the book better than any of your novels,” he
said one day on his return from Galway. “It is the most original, it is
like no other novel, and that is why people didn't understand it.”
Of course it was impossible to quarrel with dear Edward, but I wondered
if I ever should find pleasure in speaking to him again; and when A. E.
told me a few weeks later that he had come upon a novel of mine which he
had never read before--“Spring Days,” I said.
“Edward gave it to you?”
“No,” he answered, “I haven't seen him for many months.”
“The worst book I ever wrote.” A. E. did not answer. “What do you think
of it?” To my surprise I found him of the same opinion as Edward.
“My dear A. E., you know how I rely on your judgment. For twenty-five
years I have refused to allow this book to be reprinted. Shall I
relent?”
A. E. did not seem to think the book unworthy of me, and pressed me to
read it.
“I'll lend you my copy.”
I received it next day, but returned it to him unread, my courage having
failed me at the last moment.
A few months later I met Richard Best, one of the librarians at the
National Library. He had just returned from his holidays; he had been
spending them in Wales for the sake of the language.
“By the way,” he said, “I came across an old novel of yours--'Spring
Days.'”
“You didn't like it?”
“On the contrary, I liked it as well, if not better, than any novel you
have written. It is so entirely original. My wife... I think you value
her opinion--”
“She liked it?”
“Come home with me, and she'll tell you how it struck her.”
“I will, on one condition, that you don't mention that you spoke to me
about the book.”
Best promised, and we had not been many minutes in the house before
Mrs. Best interrupted my remarks about the weather to tell me what she
thought of “Spring Days.”
“The matter is important. Sooner or later I shall have to think about a
collected edition. Is it to be included?”
Mrs. Best, like A. E., offered to lend me her copy, but I could not
bring myself to accept it, and escaped from the book till I came to live
in London. Then Fate thrust it into my hands, the means employed being a
woman to whom I had written for “Impressions and Opinions.” She had lost
her copy; there was, however, an old book of mine which she had never
heard me speak of--“Spring Days”--and which, etc., she was sending me
the book.
“Omens are omens,” I muttered, “and there's no use kicking against the
pricks eternally;” and cutting the string of the parcel I sat down
to read a novel which I had kept so resolutely out of my mind for
twenty-five years, that all I remembered of its story and characters was
an old gentleman who lived in a suburb, and whose daughters were a great
source of trouble to him. I met the style of the narrative as I might
that of an original writer whose works I was unacquainted with. There
was a zest in it, and I read on and on; I must have read for nearly two
hours, which is a long read for me, laying the book aside from time to
time, so that I might reflect at my ease on the tenacity with which it
had clung to existence. Every effort had been made to drown it;
again and again it had been flung into the river, literally and
metaphorically, but it had managed to swim ashore like a cat. It would
seem that some books have nine hundred and ninety and nine lives, and
God knows how long my meditation might have lasted if the front door
bell had not rung.
“Are you at home, sir, to Mr.--?”
“Yes.”
There is time for one word more, dear reader, and whilst my visitor lays
his hat and coat on the table in the passage I will beseech you not
to look forward to a sentimental story; “Spring Days” is as free from
sentiment or morals as Daphnis and Chloe.