Private history of a Ms. that came to Grief(Written in 1900)

It happened in London; not recently, and yet not very many years ago. An acquaintance had proposed to himself a certain labor of love, and when he told me about it I was interested. His idea was to have a fine translation made of the evidence given in the Joan of Arc Trials and Rehabilitation, and placed before the English-speaking world. A translation had been made and published a great many years before, but had achieved no currency, and in fact was not entitled to any, for it was a piece of mere shoemaker-work. But we should have the proper thing, now; for this acquaintance of mine was manifestly a Joan enthusiast, and as he had plenty of money and nothing to do but spend it, I took at par his remark that he had employed the most competent person in Great Britain to open this long-neglected mine and confer its riches upon the public. When he asked me to write an Introduction for the book, my pleasure was complete, my vanity satisfied.
At this moment, by good fortune, there chanced to fall into my hands a biographical sketch of me of so just and laudatory a character--particularly as concerned one detail--that it gave my spirit great contentment; and also set my head to swelling--I will not deny it. For it contained praises of the very thing which I most loved to hear praised--the good quality of my English; moreover, they were uttered by four English and American literary experts of high authority.
I am as fond of compliments as another, and as hard to satisfy as the average; but these satisfied me. I was as pleased as you would have been if they had been paid to you.
It was under the inspiration of that great several-voiced verdict that I set about that Introduction for Mr. X's book; and I said to myself that I would put a quality of English into it which would establish the righteousness of that judgment. I said I would treat the subject with the reverence and dignity due it; and would use plain, simple English words, and a phrasing undefiled by meretricious artificialities and affectations.
I did the work on those lines; and when it was finished I said to myself very privately . . .
But never mind. I delivered the MS. to Mr. X, and went home to wait for the praises. On the way I met a friend. Being in a happy glow over this pleasant matter, I could not keep my secret. I wanted to tell somebody, and I told him. For a moment he stood curiously measuring me up and down with his eye, without saying anything; then he burst into a rude, coarse laugh, which hurt me very much. He followed this up by saying:
"He is going to edit the translations of the Trials when it is finished? He?"
"He said he would."
"Why, what does he know about editing?"
"I don't know; but that is what he said. Do you think he isn't competent?"
"Competent? He is innocent, vain, ignorant, good-hearted, red-headed, and all that--there isn't a better-meaning man; but he doesn't know anything about literature and has had no literary training or experience; he can't edit anything."
"Well, all I know is, he is going to try."
"Indeed he will! He is quite unconscious of his incapacities; he would undertake to edit Shakespeare, if invited--and improve him, too. The world cannot furnish his match for guileless self-complacency; yet I give you my word he doesn't know enough to come in when it rains."
This gentleman's ability to judge was not to be questioned. Therefore, by the time I reached home I had concluded to ask Mr. X not to edit the translation, but to turn that work over to some expert whose name on the title page would be valuable.
Three days later Mr. X brought my Introduction to me, neatly typecopied. He was in a state of considerable enthusiasm, and said:
"Really I find it quite good--quite, I assure you."
There was an airy and patronizing complacency about this damp compliment which affected my head and healthfully checked the swelling which was going on there.
I said, with cold dignity, that I was glad the work had earned his approval.
"Oh, it has, I assure you!" he answered, with large cheerfulness. "I assure you it quite has. I have gone over it very thoroughly, yesterday and last night and to-day, and I find it quite creditable--quite. I have made a few corrections--that is, suggestions, and--"
"Do you mean to say that you have been ed--"
"Oh, nothing of consequence, nothing of consequence, I assure you," he said, patting me on the shoulder and genially smiling; "only a few little things that needed just a mere polishing touch--nothing of consequence, I assure you. Let me have it back as soon as you can, so that I can pass it on to the printers and let them get to work on it while I am editing the translation."
I sat idle and alone, a time, thinking grieved thoughts, with the edited Introduction unopened in my hand. I could not look at it yet awhile. I had no heart for it, for my pride was deeply wounded. It was the only time I had been edited in thirty-two years, except by Mr. Howells, and he did not intrude his help, but furnished it at my request. "And now here is a half-stranger, obscure, destitute of literary training, destitute of literary experience, destitute of--"
But I checked myself there; for that way lay madness. I must seek calm; for my self-respect's sake I must not descend to unrefined personalities. I must keep in mind that this person was innocent of injurious intent and was honorably trying to do me a service. To feel harshly toward him, speak harshly of him--this was not the right Christian spirit. These just thoughts tranquillized me and restored to me my better self, and I opened the Introduction at the middle.
I will not deny it, my feelings rose to 104 in the shade:
"The idea! That this long-eared animal--this literary kangaroo--this illiterate hostler, with his skull full of axle grease--this . . ."
But I stopped there, for this was not the right Christian spirit.
I subjected myself to an hour of calming meditation, then carried the raped Introduction to that friend whom I have mentioned above and showed it to him. He fluttered the leaves over, then broke into another of those ill-bred laughs which are such a mar to him.
"I knew he would!" he said--as if gratified. "Didn't I tell you he would edit Shakespeare?"
"Yes, I know; but I did not suppose he would edit me."
"Oh, you didn't! Well, now you see that he is even equal to that. I tell you there are simply no bounds to that man's irreverence."
"I realize it, now," I said.
"Well, what are you going to do? Let him put it in his book--either edited or unedited?"
"Of course not!"
"That is well. You are becoming rational again. But what are your plans? You are not going to stop where you are, are you? You will write him a letter and give him Hark from the Tomb?"
"No, I shall write him a letter, but not in that spirit, I trust."
"Why shan't you?"
"Because he has meant me a kindness, and I hope I am not the man to reward him for it in that way."
The friend looked me over awhile, pensively, then said--
"Mark, I am ashamed of you. This is mere schoolgirl sentimentality. You ought to baste him--you know it yourself."
I said I had no such feeling in my heart and should put nothing of the kind in my letter.
"I shall point out his errors to him in gentleness and in the unwounding language of persuasion. Many a literary beginner has been disheartened and defeated by the uncharitable word wantonly uttered; this one shall get none such from me. It is more Christian-like to do a good turn than an ill one, and you ought to encourage me in my attitude, not scoff at it. This man shall not be my enemy; I will make him my lasting and grateful friend."
I felt that I was in the right, and I went home and began the letter and found pleasure and contentment in the labor, for I had the encouragement and support of an approving conscience.
The letter will be found in its proper place in this chapter of my Autobiography; it follows:

THE LETTER
DEAR MR. X:
I find on my desk the first two pages of Miss Z's translation, with your emendations marked in them. Thank you for sending them.
I have examined the first page of my amended Introduction and will begin now and jot down some notes upon your corrections. If I find any changes which shall not seem to me to be improvements, I will point out my reasons for thinking so. In this way I may chance to be helpful to you and thus profit you, perhaps, as much as you have desired to profit me.

Notes:
Section I. First Paragraph, "Jeanne d'Arc." This is rather cheaply pedantic, and is not in very good taste. Joan is not known by that name among plain people of our race and tongue. I notice that the name of the Deity occurs several times in the brief installment of the Trials which you have favored me with; to be consistent, it will be necessary that you strike out "God" and put in "Dieu." Do not neglect this.
First line. What is the trouble with "at the"? And why "Trial?" Has some uninstructed person deceived you into the notion that there was but one, instead of half a dozen?
Amongst. Wasn't "among" good enough?
Next half-dozen Corrections. Have you failed to perceive that by taking the word "both" out of its proper place you have made foolishness of the sentence? And don't you see that your smug "of which" has turned that sentence into reporter's English? "Quite." Why do you intrude that shopworn favorite of yours where there is nothing useful for it to do? Can't you rest easy in your literary grave without it?
Next sentence. You have made no improvement in it. Did you change it merely to be changing something?
Second Paragraph. Now you have begun on my punctuation. Don't you realize that you ought not to intrude your help in a delicate art like that, with your limitations? And do you think you have added just the right smear of polish to the closing clause of the sentence?
Second Paragraph. How do you know it was his "own" sword? It could have been a borrowed one, I am cautious in matters of history, and you should not put statements in my mouth for which you cannot produce vouchers. Your other corrections are rubbish.
Third Paragraph. Ditto.
Fourth Paragraph. Your word "directly" is misleading; it could be construed to mean "at once." Plain clarity is better than ornate obscurity. I note your sensitive marginal remark: "Rather unkind to French feelings--referring to Moscow." Indeed, I have not been concerning myself about French feelings, but only about stating the facts. I have said several uncourteous things about the French--calling them a "nation of ingrates," in one place--but you have been so busy editing commas and semicolons that you overlooked them and failed to get scared at them. The next paragraph ends with a slur at the French, but I have reasons for thinking you mistook it for a compliment. It is discouraging to try to penetrate a mind like yours. You ought to get it out and dance on it. That would take some of the rigidity out of it. And you ought to use it sometimes; that would help. If you had done this every now and then along through life, it would not have petrified.
Fifth Paragraph. Thus far, I regard this as your masterpiece! You are really perfect in the great art of reducing simple and dignified speech to clumsy and vapid commonplace.
Sixth Paragraph. You have a singularly fine and aristocratic disrespect for homely and unpretending English. Every time I use "go back" you get out your polisher and slick it up to "return." "Return" is suited only to the drawing-room--it is ducal, and says itself with a simper and a smirk.
Seventh Paragraph. "Permission" is ducal. Ducal and affected. "Her" great days were no............