I have a recollection of large, unbending women with great noses andrapacious eyes, who wore their clothes as though they were armour; andof little, mouse-like spinsters, with soft voices and a shrewd glance. Inever ceased to be fascinated by their persistence in eating buttered toastwith their gloves on, and I observed with admiration the unconcern withwhich they wiped their fingers on their chair when they thought no onewas looking. It must have been bad for the furniture, but I suppose thehostess took her revenge on the furniture of her friends when, in turn,she visited them. Some of them were dressed fashionably, and they saidthey couldn't for the life of them see why you should be dowdy just be-cause you had written a novel ; if you had a neat figure you might as wellmake the most of it, and a smart shoe on a small foot had never preven-ted an editor from taking your"stuff. "But others thought this frivolous,and they wore"art fabrics"and barbaric jewellery. The men were seldomeccentric in appearance. They tried to look as little like authors as possi-ble. They wished to be taken for men of the world, and could have pas-sed anywhere for the managing clerks of a city firm. They always seemeda little tired. I had never known writers before, and I found them verystrange, but I do not think they ever seemed to me quite real.
I remember that I thought their conversation brilliant, and I used tolisten with astonishment to the stinging humour with which they wouldtear a brother-author to pieces the moment that his back was turned. Theartist has this advantage over the rest of the world, that his friends offernot only their appearance and their character to his satire, but also theirwork. I despaired of ever expressing myself with such aptness or withsuch fluency. In those days conversation was still cultivated as an art; aneat repartee was more highly valued than the crackling of thorns under apot; and the epigram, not yet a mechanical appliance by which the dullmay achieve a semblance of wit, gave sprightliness to the small talk ofthe urbane. It is sad that I can remember nothing of all this scintillation.But I think the conversation never settled down so comfortably as when itturned to the details of the trade which was the other side of the art wepractised. When we had done discussing the merits of the latest book, itwas natural to wonder how many copies had been sold, what advance theauthor had received, and how much he was likely to make out of it.Then we would speak of this publisher and of that, comparing the gener-osity of one with the meanness of another; we would argue whether it wasbetter to go to one who gave handsome royalties or to another who"pushed"a book for all it was worth. Some advertised badly and somewell. Some were modern and some were old-fashioned. Then we wouldtalk of agents and the offers they had obtained for us; of editors and thesort of contributions they welcomed, how much they paid a thousand,and whether they paid promptly or otherwise. To me it was all very ro-mantic. It gave me an intimate sense of being a member of some mysticbrotherhood.
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