Chapter 27 reprint sequence

When "Pleasure and Pleasure" was first published, there was a lot of discussion in the newspapers, because some people thought that one of the characters in it, Edward.Driffield, it was Thomas.hardy.Although I have repeatedly denied, but still to no avail.I pointed out the life of the protagonist in my novel and Thomas.How different Hardy's life was, it didn't help either.Indeed, both came from farming families, both wrote novels about life in the English countryside, both married twice, and both became famous in old age.But the similarities end there.I've only seen Thomas.Hardy once, at a dinner party in London.According to the British custom at that time, all the women left the dining room, leaving the men to talk about state affairs while drinking red wine, coffee and brandy.I found myself sitting next to Hardy; we talked for a while.I haven't seen him since, and I don't know either of his wives.I think his first wife was the daughter of a lowly Anglican clergyman, not a hotel hostess like Rosie in this book.I never visited his house.In fact, I know nothing about him except what I know from his writings.I have forgotten what we talked about that time, except that I left with the impression that he was a small, grizzled man who looked tired and out of place.Although he didn't feel at all awkward at such a grand banquet, he didn't particularly care, as if he were just a spectator in a theater.The hostess was, so to speak, a socialite, and I guess Hardy accepted her invitation only because he did not know how to decline it politely.There was certainly nothing in him of that slightly quaint, vulgar attitude to life which had characterized Driffield's later years.

I think the reason why journalists think this character of mine is Thomas.Hardy, only because Hardy had just died when I wrote this book.Otherwise, they might have thought of Tennyson or Meredith just as easily.I have had occasion to see how some eminent old writers receive the homage of their admirers.As I watched them from the sidelines, I often wondered whether at such moments they recalled in their minds their obscure and turbulent youth, and wondered if they saw those who looked at them with dreamy eyes with admiration. women, or would they laugh to themselves as they listened gravely to eager young men telling them what an influence their work had had on them, and wondered with interest if their admirers knew all about their work? The real situation, what will you say.I wondered if they sometimes grew impatient with the kind of reverence they were being treated with.I also wondered to myself whether they felt flattered when they were enshrined as gods.

Sometimes, they obviously do feel flattered.Max and I were in Rapallo one night.We dined with Bill Bohm, and he suggested that we meet Gerhardt, who was loitering there.Hauptmann.Gerhardt.Hauptmann, a German playwright perhaps forgotten today, was famous at the time.We found him sitting high in an armchair in the living room of the hotel, an old man with white hair and a rather flushed, very smooth face.About twenty people, mostly men, sat in a large circle of little gilt chairs hired for social concerts, and they were listening to him with rapt attention.We waited for him to finish so we could break into the circle and greet him.When he finished speaking, there was a low murmur of appreciative praise.We went up, and the big man waved to us and ordered chairs to be brought for us to sit down.The two young men hurried to get chairs; the circle widened to include us all.We exchanged a few pleasantries, but it was obvious that Max and IThe presence of Bill Bohm made the surrounding group feel uncomfortable.The living room was silent.The eager young men gazed expectantly at the famous author.The silence was not broken.The silence became uncomfortable.At the end a bright boy asked him a question.He thought for a moment, then settled himself in the armchair, and answered the question at a length that seemed to me unnecessary.After he finished speaking, there was another murmur of admiration.I give Max.Bill Bohm gave him a wink, and we got up to say goodbye.

Of course, Gerhardt.Hauptmann gave his audience what they heard; he was clearly not at all constrained by the adoration he received.I don't think we English-speaking writers would be very comfortable with such a gesture.Yeats tends to pose as a bard with a certain lack of humor, thereby exposing himself to the ridicule of his insolent countrymen.It was an affectation which, thanks to the beauty of his poetry, was justifiable.Henry.James accepted the flattery of the socialites (mostly middle-aged and vying for his attention) with his usual courteousness, but in private he was always ready to make fun of them. Abusive joke.

In fact, I take the role of an unknown writer who settled in the small town of Whitstable with his wife and children as Edward.Driffield's prototype.My uncle and guardian was the vicar of that town at the time.I can't recall the writer's name.Presumably he did not achieve much either, and must be dead by now.He was the first writer I met.Although my uncle disapproved of my association with him, I always slipped away to see him whenever I had the chance.His talk got me excited.Then one day he disappeared from town, leaving all his debts behind, to my shock and to my uncle's satisfaction.I need say nothing more about him, for the reader will find his impression on me in this book.

Shortly after the publication of this book, a letter was delivered by hand to my apartment on Half Moon Street.It turned out to be Hugh.From Walpole.He is a committee member of the British Book Association. He took my novel to bed and read it before going to bed at night, intending to recommend it to readers as a new book of the month.While looking down, I actually thought that Alroy in my writing.The character of Gere seems to be a ruthless portrayal of what he himself does.At that time there was a body of writers who took every opportunity to appear in the public eye, maintained cordial relations with the critics so that their books would be well received, and would not hesitate to swindle to obtain their literary talent whenever it was useful to them. Undeserved success.What they lack in talent, they try to make up for by referrals.stop.Walpole is the most important member of this group of writers.Yes, when I conceived I was called Alroy.When I thought of the character of Gere, I thought of Hugh.Walpole.No writer can create a character out of thin air.He had to have a prototype as a starting point, and then his imagination came into play.He took the figure into shape step by step, adding here and there a feature that his prototype lacked.When he is finished, he presents to the reader a complete figure that bears little resemblance to the man who first inspired him.Only in this way can a novelist give his characters that authenticity and intensity that are both believable and persuasive.I don't want to hurt Hugh.Walpole's affection.He was an affable man, and had many friends who genuinely liked him, though they often laughed at him.He was easy to like, but hard to respect.Before I conceived Alroy.In the case of Keel, I did my best to conceal all traces; I described him as a sporty man who often went hunting with his hounds, and played tennis and golf far better than most men, And he is a master of romance who skillfully avoids the fetters of marriage.None of the above points can be placed on Hugh.on Walpole.I raised these points with him in reply to his letter.I also told him that I had taken one trait from a writer we both knew, another from another, and, above all, that I had written a good deal of my temper into Alroy.Keel's body.I've always been aware of my shortcomings; I've never looked at them with complacency.We writers are all self-expressionists.Otherwise, why did we promise people to take pictures of us?Otherwise, why do we accept interviews from others?Why do we flip through the newspapers looking for advertisements for our books?Why are we really not like Jane.Austen said these books were written by a woman, or like Walter.How could Sir Scott say that these books were written by the author of "Waverley" and put his name on them?However, I actually still put Hugh.Some of the traits that Walpole is notorious for, some of his disgraceful weaknesses are placed in Alroy.Keir, so few people in London literary circles would fail to see that he was my prototype.If his ghost wanders uneasily through bookshops, trying to keep his books in order, and suddenly thinks how I laughed at his aspirations to be one day the great king of English literature, I laugh at him even when he sees me. When I seem to be on the verge of enjoying that short-lived, pathetic and ridiculous fame, he will surely laugh to himself secretly.

But I wrote "Pleasure and Pleasure" not specifically to describe Edward.Driffield and Alroy.Keel these two characters.As a young man, I was very close to the young woman I refer to in this book as Rosie.She had great, exasperating faults, but she was beautiful and honest.My relationship with her ended, as such relationships always do, but my memories of her haunted me year after year.I know that one day I will write her into a novel.Year after year passed, years passed, and I never found the opportunity I was looking for.I fear I'll never have that chance again.I didn't know why, until I suddenly wanted to describe an aging famous novelist (he was cared for by his wife, but after his death was used by his wife and others to add glory to themselves, which must make people feel uncomfortable. He was somewhat annoyed) when it occurred to me that I could write Rosie as his first wife, and that would give me the opportunity I had been longing for.I must also add that the archetype of the most moving heroine I think I have ever created could never have been recognized in my novel in her own face, because by the time I wrote it she was dead.

Journalists interviewing often ask the authors almost the same questions.Over time, you'll have ready-made answers to most of their questions.Whenever they ask me which novel I consider to be my best, I always ask whether they mean the one generally considered my best, or my own favourite.Although I have not read "Life in Chains" since I corrected the proofs during the First World War, I am willing to agree with the public opinion that it is my best work.It was the kind of book a writer only writes once in his life.After all, he only has one life.But my favorite book is "Pleasure and Pleasure".This is an interesting book to write.It's a struggle to juggle what happened years ago with what happened thirty years later without losing the coherence necessary to grab the reader's attention.I found overcoming this difficulty to be a very enjoyable job.I want the reader to pass from the past to the present, and from the present back to the past, without feeling a jolt at all, so that the narrative of the story should flow smoothly like a quiet river in France.But of course this is only a matter of more or less ingenious skill.In this respect, all the reader cares about is the result.The reader is as indifferent to the potential difficulties, quandaries, and dilemmas the writer has to deal with as the culinary man is to the process by which a good Virginia ham is smoked and placed before him.But this is just a passing mention.I like "Pleasure and Pleasure" because the woman with a bright and lovely smile on her face lives again between the lines of this book for me, and she is Rosie.Driffield's prototype.

January 1950