Marie Claire

Marguerite Audoux

Description

pubOne.info present you this new edition. The origins of this extraordinary book are sufficiently curious and sufficiently interesting to be stated in detail. They go back to some ten years ago, when the author, after the rustic adventures which she describes in the following pages, had definitely settled in Paris as a working sempstress. The existence of a working sempstress in Paris, as elsewhere, is very hard; it usually means eleven hours' close application a day, six full days a week, at half a crown a day. But already Marguerite Audoux's defective eyesight was causing anxiety, and upsetting the regularity of her work, so that in the evenings she was often less fatigued than a sempstress generally is. She wanted distraction, and she found it in the realization of an old desire to write. She wrote, not because she could find nothing else to do, but because at last the chance of writing had come. That she had always loved reading is plain from certain incidents in this present book; her opportunities for reading, however, had been limited. She now began, in a tentative and perhaps desultory fashion, to set down her youthful reminiscences

Informations

• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 06 novembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819937241
• Langue: English

Extrait

INTRODUCTION
The origins of this extraordinary book aresufficiently curious and sufficiently interesting to be stated indetail. They go back to some ten years ago, when the author, afterthe rustic adventures which she describes in the following pages,had definitely settled in Paris as a working sempstress. Theexistence of a working sempstress in Paris, as elsewhere, is veryhard; it usually means eleven hours' close application a day, sixfull days a week, at half a crown a day. But already MargueriteAudoux's defective eyesight was causing anxiety, and upsetting theregularity of her work, so that in the evenings she was often lessfatigued than a sempstress generally is. She wanted distraction,and she found it in the realization of an old desire to write. Shewrote, not because she could find nothing else to do, but becauseat last the chance of writing had come. That she had always lovedreading is plain from certain incidents in this present book; heropportunities for reading, however, had been limited. She nowbegan, in a tentative and perhaps desultory fashion, to set downher youthful reminiscences. About this time she became acquainted,through one of its members, and by one of those hazards of destinywhich too rarely diversify the dull industrial life of a city, witha circle of young literary men, of whom possibly the most importantwas the regretted Charles Louis Philippe, author of “Bubu deMontparnasse, ” and other novels which have a genuine reputationamong the chosen people who know the difference between literatureand its counterfeit. This circle of friends used to meet atPhilippe's flat. It included a number of talented writers, amongwhom I should mention MM. Iehl (the author of “Cauët”), FrancisJourdain, Paul Fargue, Larbaud, Chanvin, Marcel Ray, and RégisGignoux (the literary and dramatic critic). Marguerite Audoux wasnot introduced as a literary prodigy. Nobody, indeed, was awarethat she wrote. She came on her merits as an individuality, and shetook her place beside several other women who, like herself, had noliterary pretensions. I am told by one of the intimates of thefellowship that the impression she made was profound. And the factis indubitable that her friends are at least as enthusiastic abouther individuality as about this book which she has written. She wasa little over thirty, and very pretty, with an agreeable voice. Thesobriety of her charm, the clear depth of her emotional faculty,and the breadth of her gentle interest in human nature handsomelyconquered the entire fellowship. The working sempstress wassincerely esteemed by some of the brightest masculine intellects inParis.
This admiring appreciation naturally encouraged herto speak a little of herself. And one evening she confessed thatshe, too, had been trying to write. On another evening she broughtsome sheets of manuscript— the draft of the early chapters of“Marie Claire”— and read them aloud. She read, I am told, verywell. The reception was enthusiastic. One can imagine the ecstaticfervour of these young men, startled by the apparition of such ashining talent. She must continue the writing of her book, but inthe mean time she must produce some short stories and sketches forthe daily papers! Her gift must be presented to the publicinstantly! She followed the advice thus urgently offered, andseveral members of the circle (in particular, Régis Gignoux andMarcel Ray) gave themselves up to the business of placing thestories and sketches; Marcel Ray devoted whole days to the effort,obtaining special leave from his own duties in order to do so. Inthe result several stories and sketches appeared in the Matin,Paris Journal (respectively the least and the most literary ofParis morning papers), and other organs. These stories andsketches, by the way, were republished in a small volume, some timebefore “Marie Claire, ” and attracted no general attentionwhatever.
Meanwhile the more important work proceeded, slowly;and was at length finished. Its composition stretched over a periodof six years. Marguerite Audoux never hurried nor fatigued herself,and though she re-wrote many passages several times, she did notcarry this revision to the meticulous excess which is the ruin ofso 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 thedangerous extreme. In his preface to the original French edition,M. Octave Mirbeau appositely points out that Philippe and her otherfriends abstained from giving purely literary advice to theauthoress as her book grew and was read aloud. With the insight ofartists they perceived that hers was a talent which must bestrictly let alone. But Parisian rumour has alleged, not merelythat she was advised, but that she was actually helped in thewriting by her admirers. The rumour is worse than false— it issilly. Every paragraph of the work bears the unmistakable andinimitable work of one individuality. And among the friends ofMarguerite Audoux, even the most gifted, there is none who couldpossibly have composed any of the passages which have been singledout as being beyond the accomplishment of a working sempstress. Thewhole work and every part of the work is the unassisted anduntutored production of its author. This statement cannot be tooclearly and positively made. Doubtless the spelling was drasticallycorrected by the proof-readers; but to have one's spellingdrastically corrected is an experience which occurs to nearly allwomen writers, and to a few male writers.
The book completed, the question of its properflotation arose. I use the word “flotation” with intent. AlthoughMarguerite Audoux had originally no thought of publishing, herfriends were firmly bent not simply on publishing, but onpublishing with the maximum of éclat. A great name was necessary tothe success of the enterprise, a name which, while keeping thesympathy of the artists, would impose itself on the crowd. FrancisJourdain knew Octave Mirbeau. And Octave Mirbeau, by virtue of hisfeverish artistic and moral enthusiasms, of his notoriousgenerosity, and of his enormous vogue, was obviously theheaven-appointed man. Francis Jourdain went to Octave Mirbeau andoffered him the privilege of floating “Marie Claire” on theliterary market of Paris. Octave Mirbeau accepted, and he went towork on the business as he goes to work on all his business; thatis to say, with flames and lightnings. For some time Octave Mirbeaulived for nothing, but “Marie Claire. ” The result has been vastlycreditable to him. “Marie Claire” was finally launched insplendour. Its path had been prepared with really remarkable skillin the Press and in the world, and it was an exceedingly brilliantsuccess from the start. It ran a triumphant course as a serial inone of the “great reviews, ” and within a few weeks of itspublication as a book thirty thousand copies had been sold. Thesale continues more actively than ever. Marguerite Audoux livesprecisely as she lived before. She is writing a further instalmentof her pseudonymous autobiography, and there is no apparent reasonwhy this new instalment should not be even better than thefirst.
Such is the story of the book.
My task is not to criticise the work. I will onlysay this. In my opinion it is highly distinguished of its kind (thesecond part in particular is full of marvellous beauty); but itmust be accepted for what it is. It makes no sort of pretence todisplay those constructive and inventive artifices which areindispensable to a great masterpiece of impersonal fiction. It isnot fiction. It is the exquisite expression of a temperament. It isa divine accident.
ARNOLD BENNETT.
MARIE CLAIRE
PART I
One day a number of people came to the house. Themen came in as though they were going into church, and the womenmade the sign of the cross as they went out.
I slipped into my parents' bedroom and was surprisedto see that my mother had a big lighted candle by her bedside. Myfather 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 allday. As the women went out again she said to them, “No, she wouldnot kiss her children good-bye. ” The women blew their noses,looked at us, and la mère Colas added, “That sort of illness makesone unkind, I suppose. ” A few days afterwards we were given newdresses with big black and white checks.
La mère Colas used to give us our meals and send usout to play in the fields. My sister, who was a big girl, scrambledinto the hedges, climbed the trees, messed about in the ponds, andused to come home at night with her pockets full of creatures ofall kinds, which frightened me and made la mère Colas furiouslyangry.
What I hated most were the earthworms. The redelastic things made me shiver with horror, and if I happened tostep on one it made me quite ill. When I had a pain in my side lamère Colas used to forbid my sister to go out. But my sister gottired of remaining indoors and wanted to go out and take me withher. So she used to go and collect earthworms, and hold them upclose to my face. Then I said that I wasn't in pain any more, andla mère Colas used to send us both out of doors. One day my sisterthrew a handful of earthworms on to my dress. I jumped back soquickly that I fell into a tub of hot water. La mère Colas was veryangry while she undressed me. I was not very much hurt. Shepromised my sister a good slapping, and called to the sweeps, whowere passing, to come in and take her away. All three of them camein, with their black bags and their ropes. My sister howled andcried for mercy. I was very much ashamed at being allundressed.
My father often took us to a place where there weremen who drank wine. He used to put me on a table among the glasses,and make me sing. The men would laugh and kiss me, and try and makeme drink wine. It was always dark when we went home. My fath