Spring Days | Page 2

to destroy every copy that came my way. A copy
of "Spring Days" excited in me an uncontrollable desire of theft, and
whenever I caught sight of one in a friend's house I put it in my pocket
without giving a thought to the inconvenience that the larceny might
cause; the Thames received it, and I returned home congratulating
myself that there was one copy less in the world of "Spring Days."
When the Boer War drove me out of London I said: "Dublin doesn't
contain a copy of that book;" and for nearly eight years I was left in
peace, only Edward Martyn teasing me, saying that one of these days
he must read the book.
"R---- always says, 'I like "Spring Days".'"
"Insolent little ass," I answered, "I'll cut him dead when we meet
again."
But Edward was not joking as I thought he was, and some time
afterwards he told me that after a good deal of advertising he had
succeeded in obtaining a copy of "Spring Days." The moment he left
the room I searched the table and bookcase for it, but he kept it at
Tillyra, else it would have gone into the Liffey, which receives all
things.
"My dear George, I like the book better than any of your novels," he
said one day on his return from Galway. "It is the most original, it is
like no other novel, and that is why people didn't understand it."

Of course it was impossible to quarrel with dear Edward, but I
wondered if I ever should find pleasure in speaking to him again; and
when A. E. told me a few weeks later that he had come upon a novel of
mine which he had never read before--"Spring Days," I said.
"Edward gave it to you?"
"No," he answered, "I haven't seen him for many months."
"The worst book I ever wrote." A. E. did not answer. "What do you
think of it?" To my surprise I found him of the same opinion as
Edward.
"My dear A. E., you know how I rely on your judgment. For
twenty-five years I have refused to allow this book to be reprinted.
Shall I relent?"
A. E. did not seem to think the book unworthy of me, and pressed me
to read it.
"I'll lend you my copy."
I received it next day, but returned it to him unread, my courage having
failed me at the last moment.
A few months later I met Richard Best, one of the librarians at the
National Library. He had just returned from his holidays; he had been
spending them in Wales for the sake of the language.
"By the way," he said, "I came across an old novel of yours--'Spring
Days.'"
"You didn't like it?"
"On the contrary, I liked it as well, if not better, than any novel you
have written. It is so entirely original. My wife... I think you value her
opinion--"
"She liked it?"

"Come home with me, and she'll tell you how it struck her."
"I will, on one condition, that you don't mention that you spoke to me
about the book."
Best promised, and we had not been many minutes in the house before
Mrs. Best interrupted my remarks about the weather to tell me what she
thought of "Spring Days."
"The matter is important. Sooner or later I shall have to think about a
collected edition. Is it to be included?"
Mrs. Best, like A. E., offered to lend me her copy, but I could not bring
myself to accept it, and escaped from the book till I came to live in
London. Then Fate thrust it into my hands, the means employed being a
woman to whom I had written for "Impressions and Opinions." She had
lost her copy; there was, however, an old book of mine which she had
never heard me speak of--"Spring Days"--and which, etc., she was
sending me the book.
"Omens are omens," I muttered, "and there's no use kicking against the
pricks eternally;" and cutting the string of the parcel I sat down to read
a novel which I had kept so resolutely out of my mind for twenty- five
years, that all I remembered of its story and characters was an old
gentleman who lived in a suburb, and whose daughters were a great
source of trouble to him. I met the style of the narrative as I might that
of an original writer whose works I was unacquainted with. There was
a zest in it, and I read on and on; I must have read for nearly two hours,
which is a long read for me, laying the book aside from time to time, so
that I might reflect at my ease on the tenacity with which