Censorship

Sunday, January 24th., Rue de Grenelle, Paris.

Attempts at censorship in England have been annoying me for some time and I have been waging a small campaign of my own, against censorship, in the New Age. Now the English Review have asked me to do an article on the subject for them. I said I would. To that end I wrote to John Lane because I understood that he had had trouble in connection with publication of "The Song of Songs" and "The New Machiavelli". I have now had his reply.

As I suspected, Lane tells me that Scotland Yard informed him of a complaint alleging obscenity in "the Song of Songs" as translated by Sudermann. I should like to know who inspired the police, not believing that Scotland Yard, in the intervals of its preoccupation with the Sidney Street brigands, had found time to make a study of current fiction in the interests of London morals. No doubt it is some self-appointed moral guardian, probably a fundamentalist Christian; they are the worst in my experience.

Lane has written to several authors to get a view about the alleged obscenity of the work. For myself I read it carefully and could see nothing to censure on grounds of obscenity, though much on grounds of aesthetics. Eden Phillpotts hit the nail on the head by saying that "the only things obscene therein were the Americanisms". Thomas Hardy apparently thought the book should be withdrawn because the translation is so poor. I agree entirely.

As regards "The New Machiavelli", I think it magnificent and in no way obscene. Conrad has called it "a master work". I have seen a review by Hubert Bland in the Daily Chronicle which describes it as "clever, but unpleasant and smug". The fact that they commissioned Bland to write the review shows that they had a preconceived antipathy to the book. Where is the Society of Authors in all this? Keeping quiet, that's where. If the Society of Authors and the Publishers' Association got together they could, in my view, kill library censorship very easily, but neither group seem willing. It seems to me that they are more by way of dining clubs than active literary organisations.

"Hilda" is progressing well. Over 16,000 words in three weeks. Good words too!

I am an author

Wednesday, February 16th., Fulham Park Road, London.

As I opened the front door this morning to leave for the office, the postman put a parcel in my hand. It was from John Lane, and it contained the first copy of my first book, "A Man from the North". Imagine that. I could hardly believe I was not dreaming. As a fact my heart was beating like the clappers and my breathing became shallow. I untied it hastily and after glancing at the cover gave it to Tertia to read. All day at the office I have been saying to myself: "I am an author". 

Tonight, with some ceremony, I picked the book up and indulged myself in the feel and smell of the thing. Then I looked through the tale, picking out my favourite bits. The style seemed better than I had hoped for. I am still pinching myself, but there it is, a tangible product of my heart and mind.I hope, trust and believe it is only the first of many.

Right and rare

Tuesday, January 12th., Victoria Grove, Chelsea.

Reading George Moore's "Mike Fletcher" I felt inclined to give up my new project of taking a house, and instead to take rooms in Grays Inn or the Temple, and cultivate carefully the art of being a bachelor in comfort ... to dine regularly at the same secluded, excellent restaurant, to know the byways of town life, to accomplish slowly the right and rare furnishings of one's rooms, to have occasional 'adventures' with persons of the fair sex, to be utterly independent ... The sound of these words is atractive, and such employments might give content 'til one was say 45; but afterwards? Forty five seems an age away at present and I feel now that I will then be old, but of course I won't be.

I took up my neglected novel "Sis Tellwright", and sketched out a chapter, with difficulty recreating the atmosphere. The preliminary title is clumsy. I shall have to think of another. The portions already drafted seem good, more than satisfactory as the result of the 'first process' in the manufacture of my fiction. The 'first process' (imagine the building of a house on a hill) is to get the materials, pell-mell, intermixed, anyhow, to a certain height. Having carried them there, I have found that what remains to be done is somewhat less difficult, at any rate requires less brute power of brain. My character Ephraim Tellwright is, I think, a genuinely original and powerful creation, so much so that he may, if I am not careful, dominate the novel as he dominates his daughters, which is not my intention. I am working up to a great revival scene in the Bursley Wesleyan Methodist Chapel which is to beat Harold Frederic in his own chosen field.

I have been acting as a sort of agent for George Sturt in his efforts to get his book "A Year's Exile" published by John Lane. I think progress is being made. George is rather too prickly and self-aware to push himself forward in the way he needs to if he is ever going to make his literary name. Not much use being a writer if nothing you write gets published, and books don't publish themselves.