Spring Days

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Spring Days

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Title: Spring Days
Author: George Moore

Release Date: July, 2004 [EBook #6029] [Yes, we are more than one
year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on December 10,
2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, SPRING
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SPRING DAYS
BY GEORGE MOORE

PREFACE

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