* * * * *

It was my reference to Dostoievsky that first started her talking.  In all literary conversations Dostoievsky is my King Charles’s head.  She had previously stated that she had read very little indeed.  But at any rate she had read Dostoievsky, and was well minded to share my enthusiasms.  Indeed, Dostoievsky drew her out of her arm-chair and right across the room.  We were soon discussing methods of work, and I learnt that she worked very slowly indeed, destroying much, and feeling her way inch by inch rather than seeing it clear ahead.  She said that her second book, dealing with her life in Paris, might not be ready for years.  It was evident that she profoundly understood the nature of work—­all sorts of work.  Work had, indeed, left its honourable and fine mark upon her.  She made some very subtle observations about the psychology of it, but unfortunately I cannot adequately report them here....  From work to prices, naturally!  It was pleasing to find that she had a very sane and proper curiosity as to prices and conditions in England.  After I had somewhat satisfied this curiosity she showed an equally sane and proper annoyance at the fact that the English and American rights of “Marie Claire” had been sold outright for a ridiculous sum.  She told me the exact sum.  It was either L16 or L20—­I forget which.

* * * * *

When Madame Audoux had gone I reviewed my notions of her visit, and I came to the conclusion that she was very like her book.  She had said little, and nothing that was striking, but she had mysteriously emanated an atmosphere of artistic distinction.  She was a true sensitive.  She had had immense and deep experience of life, but her adventures, often difficult, had not disturbed the nice balance of her judgment, nor impaired the delicacy of her impressions.  She was an amateur of life.  She was awake to all aspects of it.  And a calm common sense presided over her magnanimous verdicts.  She was far too wary, sagacious, and well acquainted with real values to allow herself to be spoilt, even the least bit, by a perilous success, however brilliant.  Such were my notions.  But it is not in a single interview that one can arrive at a due estimate of a mind so reserved, dreamy, and complex as hers.  The next day she left Paris, and I have not seen her since.

JOHN MASEFIELD

[20 April ’11]

I opened Mr. John Masefield’s novel of modern London, “The Street of To-day” (Dent and Co.), with much interest.  But I found it very difficult to read.  This is a damning criticism; but what would you have?  I found it very difficult to read.  It is very earnest, very sincere, very carefully and generously done.  But these qualities will not save it.  Even its intelligence, and its alert critical attitude towards life, will not save it.  I could say a great deal of good about