[_20 July '11_]
Books are undoubtedly cursed, and rendered unreadable in a new sense. I
don't know how many years it is since I was informed that Villiers de
l'Isle-Adam's "L'Ève Future" was a really fine novel. I bought it, and I
was so upset, in my narrow youthfulness, to find that the author had made
a hero of Thomas Alva Edison, and called him by his name, that I could not
accomplish more than two chapters. Later I was again informed that "L'Ève
Future" was a really fine novel, and I had another brief tussle with it,
and was vanquished by its dullness. I received a third warning, and
started yet again, and disliked the book rather less, and then I
completely lost it in a removal. After months or years it mysteriously
turned up, like a fox-terrier who has run off on an errand of his own. But
I did not resume it. And then after another long interval the idea that I
absolutely must read "L'Ève Future" gathered force in my mind, and I
decided that the next time I went away for a week-end I would take it with
me. This was in France. I took it away with me. I read a hundred pages on
the outward journey and I got on terms with "L'Ève Future." _"Ce livre
m'attendait,"_ as a certain French novelist said when he read "Tom Jones."
On the return journey I was deep buried in "L'Ève Future," when a fearful
jolting suddenly began to rock the saloon carriage in which I was. The
jolting grew worse, very much worse. Women screamed. I saw my stick fly
out of the rack above my head across the carriage. The door leading to the
corridor jumped off its hinges. Then shattered glass fell in showers, and
I saw an old lady beneath an arm-chair and a table. The shape of the
carriage altered. And then, after an enormous crash, equilibrium was
established amid the cries of human anguish. I had clung to the arms of my
seat and was unhurt, but there were four wounded in the carriage. My
eye-glasses were still sticking on my nose. Saying to myself that I must
keep calm, I put them carefully away, and began to help to get people out
of the wreck. It was not until I looked about for my belongings that I saw
that the corner of a tender had poked itself into our carriage. Outside, a
mail-van and two enormous coaches were lying very impressively on their
sides, and two wounded girls were lying on the grass by the track, and
people were shouting for doctors. I ultimately got away with my bag and
stick and hat, and walked to the nearest station, where a porter naturally
asked me for my ticket. I hired an auto and reached Paris only a quarter
of an hour late for dinner. And I congratulated myself on my calmness and
perfect presence of mind in a railway accident. Only "L'Ève Future" was
not in my bag. I had forgotten it, and my presence of mind had thus been
imperfect. I did not buy another copy of "L'Ève Future," and I don't think
I ever shall, now.
"FICTION" AND "LITERATURE"
[_31 Aug '11_]
Publishers' advertisements of imaginative work are so constantly curious
that one gets accustomed to their bizarre qualities and refrains from
comment. But Messrs. Hutchinson, who are evidently rather proud of having
secured Lucas Malet's new long novel, have thought of a new adjective, and
the event must be chronicled. They are announcing to the world that Lucas
Malet's new novel is "literary"--"the literary novel of the autumn." I
cannot be quite sure what this means, but it is probably intended to
signify that, in the opinion of Messrs. Hutchinson, Lucas Malet's novel is
very special--that is to say, it is not a mere novel. Less adroit
publishers than Messrs. Hutchinson might have described it as an "art
novel." (_Cf._ "art furniture," all up Tottenham Court Road.) Some of the
most esteemed provincial dailies have a column headed "Literature" on five
days of the week, but on the sixth day that column is headed "New
Fiction." You see the distinction. Messrs. Hutchinson are doubtless
hinting to the provinces that the new book is something between
"literature" and "fiction," and combines the superior attributes of both.
Once the _Athenæum_, apparently staggered by the discovery that Joseph
Conrad existed, reviewed a novel of his under the rubric of "Literature,"
instead of with other novels under the rubric of "Fiction." Messrs.
Hutchinson have possibly an eye also on the _Athenæum_. Personally, I
would not permit my publishers to advertise a novel of mine as literary.
But on the whole I wouldn't seriously object to the adjective
"unliterary."