Marie Claire | Page 2

in a small volume,
some time before "Marie Claire," and attracted no general attention
whatever.
Meanwhile the more important work proceeded, slowly; and was at
length finished. Its composition stretched over a period of six years.
Marguerite Audoux never hurried nor fatigued herself, and though she
re-wrote many passages several times, she did not carry this revision to
the meticulous excess which is the ruin of so many ardent literary
beginners in France. The trite phrase, "written with blood and tears,"
does not in the least apply here. A native wisdom has invariably saved
Marguerite Audoux from the dangerous extreme. In his preface to the
original French edition, M. Octave Mirbeau appositely points out that
Philippe and her other friends abstained from giving purely literary
advice to the authoress as her book grew and was read aloud. With the
insight of artists they perceived that hers was a talent which must be
strictly let alone. But Parisian rumour has alleged, not merely that she
was advised, but that she was actually helped in the writing by her

admirers. The rumour is worse than false--it is silly. Every paragraph of
the work bears the unmistakable and inimitable work of one
individuality. And among the friends of Marguerite Audoux, even the
most gifted, there is none who could possibly have composed any of
the passages which have been singled out as being beyond the
accomplishment of a working sempstress. The whole work and every
part of the work is the unassisted and untutored production of its author.
This statement cannot be too clearly and positively made. Doubtless the
spelling was drastically corrected by the proof-readers; but to have
one's spelling drastically corrected is an experience which occurs to
nearly all women writers, and to a few male writers.
The book completed, the question of its proper flotation arose. I use the
word "flotation" with intent. Although Marguerite Audoux had
originally no thought of publishing, her friends were firmly bent not
simply on publishing, but on publishing with the maximum of éclat. A
great name was necessary to the success of the enterprise, a name
which, while keeping the sympathy of the artists, would impose itself
on the crowd. Francis Jourdain knew Octave Mirbeau. And Octave
Mirbeau, by virtue of his feverish artistic and moral enthusiasms, of his
notorious generosity, and of his enormous vogue, was obviously the
heaven-appointed man. Francis Jourdain went to Octave Mirbeau and
offered him the privilege of floating "Marie Claire" on the literary
market of Paris. Octave Mirbeau accepted, and he went to work on the
business as he goes to work on all his business; that is to say, with
flames and lightnings. For some time Octave Mirbeau lived for nothing,
but "Marie Claire." The result has been vastly creditable to him. "Marie
Claire" was finally launched in splendour. Its path had been prepared
with really remarkable skill in the Press and in the world, and it was an
exceedingly brilliant success from the start. It ran a triumphant course
as a serial in one of the "great reviews," and within a few weeks of its
publication as a book thirty thousand copies had been sold. The sale
continues more actively than ever. Marguerite Audoux lives precisely
as she lived before. She is writing a further instalment of her
pseudonymous autobiography, and there is no apparent reason why this
new instalment should not be even better than the first.

Such is the story of the book.
My task is not to criticise the work. I will only say this. In my opinion
it is highly distinguished of its kind (the second part in particular is full
of marvellous beauty); but it must be accepted for what it is. It makes
no sort of pretence to display those constructive and inventive artifices
which are indispensable to a great masterpiece of impersonal fiction. It
is not fiction. It is the exquisite expression of a temperament. It is a
divine accident.
ARNOLD BENNETT.

MARIE CLAIRE

PART I
One day a number of people came to the house. The men came in as
though they were going into church, and the women made the sign of
the cross as they went out.
I slipped into my parents' bedroom and was surprised to see that my
mother had a big lighted candle by her bedside. My father was leaning
over the foot of the bed looking at my mother. She was asleep with her
hands crossed on her breast.
Our neighbour, la mère Colas, kept us with her all day. As the women
went out again she said to them, "No, she would not kiss her children
good-bye." The women blew their noses, looked at us, and la mère
Colas added, "That sort of illness makes one unkind, I suppose." A few