She had chosen her man well. He was a thinker himself, and he

sympathized with thinkers. Though doubtful as to the venture, he

took all the risk himself with that generosity one so often sees in

the best-abused of professions. In three or four weeks' time "A

Woman's World" came out, and Herminia waited in breathless anxiety

for the verdict of the reviewers.

For nearly a month she waited in vain. Then, one Friday, as she

was returning by underground railway from the Strand to Edgeware

Road, with Dolores in her arms, her eye fell as she passed upon the

display-bill of the "Spectator." Sixpence was a great deal of

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money to Herminia; but bang it went recklessly when she saw among

the contents an article headed, "A Very Advanced Woman's Novel."

She felt sure it must be hers, and she was not mistaken.

Breathlessly she ran over that first estimate of her work.

It was with no little elation that she laid down the number.

Not that the critique was by any means at all favorable. How could

Herminia expect it in such a quarter? But the "Spectator" is at

least conspicuously fair, though it remains in other ways an

interesting and ivy-clad mediaeval relic. "Let us begin by

admitting," said the Spectatorial scribe, "that Miss Montague's

book" (she had published it under a pseudonym) "is a work of

genius. Much as we dislike its whole tone, and still more its

conclusions, the gleam of pure genius shines forth undeniable on

every page of it. Whoever takes it up must read on against his

will till he has finished the last line of this terrible tragedy; a

hateful fascination seems to hold and compel him. Its very purity

makes it dangerous. The book is mistaken; the book is poisonous;

the book is morbid; the book is calculated to do irremediable

mischief; but in spite of all that, the book is a book of

undeniable and sadly misplaced genius."

If he had said no more, Herminia would have been amply satisfied.

To be called morbid by the "Spectator" is a sufficient proof that

you have hit at least the right tack in morals. And to be accused

of genius as well was indeed a triumph. No wonder Herminia went

home to her lonely attic that night justifiably elated. She

fancied after this her book must make a hit. It might be blamed

and reviled, but at any rate it was now safe from the ignominy of

oblivion.

Alas, how little she knew of the mysteries of the book-market! As

little as all the rest of us. Day after day, from that afternoon

forth, she watched in vain for succeeding notices. Not a single

other paper in England reviewed her. At the libraries, her romance

was never so much as asked for. And the reason for these phenomena

is not far to seek by those who know the ways of the British public.

For her novel was earnestly and sincerely written; it breathed a

moral air, therefore it was voted dull; therefore nobody cared for

it. The "Spectator" had noticed it because of its manifest

earnestness and sincerity; for though the "Spectator" is always on

the side of the lie and the wrong, it is earnest and sincere, and

has a genuine sympathy for earnestness and sincerity, even on the

side of truth and righteousness. Nobody else even looked at it.

People said to themselves, "This book seems to be a book with a

teaching not thoroughly banal, like the novels-with-a-purpose after

which we flock; so we'll give it a wide berth."




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