[_2 March '11_]
Among the astonishing phenomena of a spring season which promises to be
quite as successful, in its way, as the very glorious autumn season
(publishers must have spent a happy Christmas!) is the success of a really
distinguished book. I mean "Marie Claire." Frankly, I did not anticipate
this triumph. For, of course, it is very difficult for an author of
experience to believe that a good book will be well received. However,
"Marie Claire" has been helped by a series of extraordinary reviews. No
novel of recent years has had such favourable reviews, or so many of them,
or such long ones. I have seen all of them--all except one have been very
laudatory--and I am in a position to state that if placed end to end they
would stretch from Miss Corelli's house in Stratford-on-Avon across the
main to Mr. Hall Caine's castle in the Isle of Man. This may be called
praise. One of the best, if not the best, was signed "J.L.G." in the
_Observer_. It is indeed a solemn and terrifying thought that Mr. Garvin,
who, by means of thoroughly bad prose persisted in during many years, has
at last laid the Tory Party in ruins, should be so excellent a judge of
literature. Mr. Garvin made his debut in the London Press, I think, as a
literary critic; and it is a pity (from the Tory point of view) that he
did not remain a literary critic. I am convinced that Mr. Balfour and Lord
Lansdowne would personally subscribe large sums to found a literary paper
for him to edit, on condition that he promised never to write another line
of advice to their party. The _Telegraph_ would bleed copiously; the
_Observer_ would expire; the _Fortnightly Review_ would stagger in its
heavy stride, but there would be hope for Tories!... In the meantime, five
thousand copies of the English translation of "Marie Claire" were sold
within a week of publication. It is improbable that the total English sale
will be less than ten thousand. Now translated novels rarely achieve
popularity. The last one to be popular here was Fogazzaro's "The Saint";
but the popularity of "The Saint" was not due to artistic causes.
* * * * *
I think I may say that I am thoroughly accustomed to the society of women
novelists. Peculiar circumstances in my obscure life have thrown me among
women writers of all sorts; and I can boast that I have helped to form
more than one woman novelist; so that the prospect of meeting a new one
does not agitate me in the slightest degree. I make friends with the new
one at once, and in about two minutes we are discussing prices with the
most touching familiarity. Nevertheless, I own that I was somewhat
disturbed in my Midland phlegm when the author of "Marie Claire" came to
see me. The book, read in the light of the circumstances of its
composition, had unusually impressed me and stirred my imagination. It was
not the woman novelist who was coming to see me, but Marie Claire herself,
shepherdess, farm-servant, and sempstress; it was a mysterious creature
who had known how to excite enthusiasm in a whole regiment of literary
young men.... And literary young men as a rule are extremely harsh, even
offensive, in their attitude towards women writers. I stood at the top of
the toy stairs of the _pavillon_ which I was then occupying in Paris, and
Madame Marguerite Audoux came up the stairs towards me, preceded by one of
her young sponsors, and followed by another. A rather short, plump little
lady, very simply dressed, and with the simplest possible manner--just
such a comfortable human being as in my part of the world is called a
"body"! She had, however, eyes of a softness and depth such as are not
seen in my part of the world. With that, a very quiet, timid, and sweet
voice. She was a sempstress; she looked like a sempstress; and she was
well content to look like a sempstress. Nobody would have guessed in ten
thousand guesses that here was the author of the European book of the
year. But when she talked the resemblance to the sempstress soon vanished.
Sempstresses--of whom I have also known many--do not talk as she talked.
Not that she said much! Not that she began to talk at once! Far from it.
When I had referred to the goodness of her visit, and she had referred to
the goodness of my invitation, and she was ensconced in an arm-chair near
the fire, she quite simply left the pioneer work of conversation to her
bodyguard. Her bodyguard was very proud, and very nervous, as befitted its
age.
* * * * *
It was my reference to Dostoievsky that first started her talking. In all
literary conversations Dostoievsky is my King Charles's head. She had
previously stated that she had read very little indeed. But at any rate
she had read Dostoievsky, and was well minded to share my enthusiasms.
Indeed, Dostoievsky drew her out of her arm-chair and right across the
room. We were soon discussing methods of work, and I learnt that she
worked very slowly indeed, destroying much, and feeling her way inch by
inch rather than seeing it clear ahead. She said that her second book,
dealing with her life in Paris, might not be ready for years. It was
evident that she profoundly understood the nature of work--all sorts of
work. Work had, indeed, left its honourable and fine mark upon her. She
made some very subtle observations about the psychology of it, but
unfortunately I cannot adequately report them here.... From work to
prices, naturally! It was pleasing to find that she had a very sane and
proper curiosity as to prices and conditions in England. After I had
somewhat satisfied this curiosity she showed an equally sane and proper
annoyance at the fact that the English and American rights of "Marie
Claire" had been sold outright for a ridiculous sum. She told me the exact
sum. It was either £16 or £20--I forget which.
* * * * *
When Madame Audoux had gone I reviewed my notions of her visit, and I came
to the conclusion that she was very like her book. She had said little,
and nothing that was striking, but she had mysteriously emanated an
atmosphere of artistic distinction. She was a true sensitive. She had had
immense and deep experience of life, but her adventures, often difficult,
had not disturbed the nice balance of her judgment, nor impaired the
delicacy of her impressions. She was an amateur of life. She was awake to
all aspects of it. And a calm common sense presided over her magnanimous
verdicts. She was far too wary, sagacious, and well acquainted with real
values to allow herself to be spoilt, even the least bit, by a perilous
success, however brilliant. Such were my notions. But it is not in a
single interview that one can arrive at a due estimate of a mind so
reserved, dreamy, and complex as hers. The next day she left Paris, and I
have not seen her since.