The Truth About an Author

Sometime in the last century I was for several years one of the most regular contributors to "The Academy," under the editorship of Mr. Lewis Hind and the ownership of Mr. Morgan Richards. Mr. Andrew Chatto did not publish this particular book of mine. I cannot remember if it was offered to him. But I know that it was offered to sundry other publishers before at last it found a sponsor. There was no wild competition for it, and there was no excitement in the press when it appeared. On the other hand, there was a great deal of excitement among my friends.

The book divided my friends into two camps. A few were extraordinarily enthusiastic and delighted. But the majority were shocked. Some—and among these the most intimate and beloved—were so shocked that they could not bear to speak to me about the book, and to this day have never mentioned it to me. Frankly, I was startled. I suppose the book was too true. Many fine souls can only take the truth in very small doses, when it is the truth about some one or something they love. One of my friends—nevertheless a realistic novelist of high rank—declined to credit that I had been painting myself; he insisted on treating the central character as fictional, while admitting the events described were factual.