Kitabı oku: «The Ladies' Guide to True Politeness and Perfect Manners», sayfa 14
CHAPTER XX.
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 dèshabille, 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-à-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 bellowsas; sometimes the bellowses; or the bellowsis, the bellowsos, or the bellowsus. 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 bellowsas to lend.
