The Tender Hour of Twilight

by Richard Seaver

  First on the agenda was Watt. Beckett had already given his approval before Girodias came into the picture. We “Merlin juveniles,” as he had affectionately dubbed us, had passed the “Watt test” and published in Merlin the demanding excerpt he had stipulated. A contract would be required, together with an advance, however modest. Since the Merlin exchequer read “empty,” even “modest” loomed disturbingly large. Finally it was Beckett who gently but firmly removed us from the horns of our dilemma. “There need be no advance,” he said. I wondered if somehow he had access to our bank statement. “Use the money to make sure you print on a proper paper.” He knew better than we the woeful quality of paper used by most French book publishers after the war, which yellowed and crumbled after only a few years. That evening I shared the good news to, literally, a round of applause. Time for celebration.

  “But for Molloy,” Alex said, “I’m sure Lindon will want a decent advance. No way around that.”

  “What would our first printing be?” Austryn rightly asked, then answered: “Probably a thousand copies, no?”

  Trocchi nodded. “So at a 7.5 percent royalty…”

  “What’s the list price?” I ventured, and suddenly, looking around, I saw this entire bohemian group, for whom money had always been as elusive as water through fingers, metamorphosing into Rembrandt’s burghers. Only the linen ruffs were lacking.

  “Say fifteen hundred francs,” Trocchi said. “Same as Austryn’s novel.”

  “Anybody have a slide rule?” Charlie Hatcher asked, frowning to blank looks all around.

  “That’s roughly a hundred francs per copy,” Trocchi calculated.

  “That’s a hundred thousand francs of royalties,” Austryn said.

  “If we sell every copy,” Trocchi added.

  “So, what if we offered fifty thousand francs?” Pat suggested.

  “From whose bank account?” Trocchi asked.

  The conversation came to a sudden halt. After all, we were talking about well under two hundred dollars. Somewhere, in this time and place, such a sum must be available.

  “Maybe we abandon the project,” Austryn suggested. “At least defer.”

  “How would you feel if someone else bought Molloy?” Trocchi said. “Like the Paris Review crowd? Beckett was Dick’s discovery, but don’t think they’re not watching what we do and whom we publish.”

  As the night wore on, as was its wont, further suggestions flowed with the wine, one more absurd than the other. It must have been two or three in the morning when suddenly I leaped—no, staggered—to my feet. “Eureka!” I exulted.

  “Speak, O Archimedes,” Charlie said.

  We knew, I said, that Lindon wanted to publish a translation of Watt in due course, and Beckett had unthinkingly granted us world rights. “What if we offered Lindon the French rights to Watt for, say, fifty thousand francs, a respectable sum, and offered to pay him the same advance for the English rights to Molloy?”

  Trocchi looked at me with new respect. “Brilliant,” he said. “In other words, we’ll exchange checks.” He paused. “But what if Lindon cashes the Merlin check before his has cleared our bank?”

  “A chance we’ll have to take.”

  Trocchi cast a questioning glance around the assembled throng. Murmurs of assent from all sides.

  The following day I ventured around the corner to Les Éditions de Minuit, where I was now known, and asked to see the patron. He was busy, I was told, but could see me on the morrow at ten o’clock. A trifle early, went through my mind, but this was important. At 9:59 on the dot I was there. Ushered upstairs, I made my proposition to Monsieur Lindon. He gave me an owlish look.

  “In other words, a wash,” he said.

  I shrugged. “Nonetheless, Monsieur Beckett will receive the benefits of both, will he not?”

  Lindon nodded. I took that to be agreement. “We will draw up the contracts,” he said. “They will be ready next week. Call ahead to confirm.”

  Two minutes later, back around the corner, I reported to the waiting troops.

  “Get out the checkbook,” I said. “We’ll have the contracts next week.”

  * * *

  With some trepidation, the following Tuesday, having called ahead, I appeared with a slightly rumpled Merlin check made out for fifty thousand francs, to the payee, one Éditions de Minuit, for the English-language rights, outside of the United States, Great Britain, and the British Commonwealth, to the novel Molloy. In other words, practically speaking, for publication of the work in English everywhere in the world where English is not spoken.

  In exchange, I received in my outstretched hand the pristine Minuit check, looking very official, for the French rights to Watt. When I emerged, I rushed to our bank on the corner of the rue du Four and deposited the document no more than four minutes after it had been tendered. Then the wait began. Whose check would clear first, ours or theirs? Trocchi and I checked next day, and mirabile dictu, our account showed a positive balance of 57,653 francs.

  We were now, legally and unquestionably, the proud owners of a novel called Molloy.1

  * * *

  Now, many months later, with Girodias’s financial backing finally, however reluctantly, assured, Watt was poised to go to the printer. I read it again, to see if I could detect any errors, misspellings, confusion of syntax, problems with sequence of tenses, questions of punctuation. I found none. Impossible … Doubting myself, for surely there must be some, I wrote to Beckett at rue des Favorites informing him Watt was a week away from the printer, and asked if there were any last-minute changes or emendations he cared to make. He said there were none, assuming I had paid careful heed to the corrections he had made by hand in bright green ink on the manuscript. But of course he must see proofs. I assured him he would.

  There was still one final, last-minute unanticipated obstacle to overcome. On page 247, the novel having presumably ended on page 246. Beckett, one may recall, had inserted addenda, the footnote to which stated in no uncertain terms: “The following precious and illuminating material should be carefully studied. Only fatigue and disgust prevented its incorporation.” There followed eight pages of notes, most in English but some in Latin, others in German, and including a descant for four voices (soprano, alto, tenor, and bass) “heard by Watt on way to station” and a threne “heard by Watt in ditch on way from station.” Among the addenda’s jewels were three worthy of special note: “for all the good that frequent departures out of Ireland had done him, he might just as well have stayed there” (good for Joyce, better for Beckett); “change all the names”; and, finally, the true ending, “no symbols where none intended.”

  A day or two after Beckett had given his blessing for Watt to print, Maurice sent a pneumatique marked URGENT, summoning Alex, Christopher, and me to the rue Jacob office. Immediately. Why not Austryn I have no idea; I can only assume that because of Sade, Austryn held a privileged position, and this afternoon we sensed that reproaches were in the air. When we arrived, Maurice’s expression was not cordial. “How are you today, Maurice?” Alex ventured, offering him a Gauloise, which he refused with a dismissive wave of his hand. That in itself was upsetting, for Maurice was a chain-smoker and, when offered, always responded automatically, extending his well-manicured fingers to the pack and withdrawing not one but generally two or three, “for later use,” he would say with a smile. We sat before the trestle table that served Maurice as a desk, like three recalcitrant schoolboys about to be admonished by the teacher. The manuscript of Watt lay rather too conspicuously before him, open to the addenda section. “Not too well,” he said. “Aside from the usual infirmities, there is the Beckett problem. I have now read. Watt. Closely. While it has some scatological moments, it can in no way pass for one of my ‘normal’ books. Think what it could do to my reputation. Imagine, a customer receives the flyer, responds with an order and advance payment, postpaid—for my clients are eager, nay, burning to read what they have purchased—receives the tome, and begins to read. Los
t by page 15, perhaps sooner, he riffles through, desperately searching for the good parts—by which I mean the bad parts—finds none, or virtually none, throws the book across the room, goes to his desk, and writes me a stinging letter of rebuke, asking not only for his money back but—picture this!—for removal of his name from my mailing list!”

  We listened in silence. “At least we can do some paring,” he said. “Paring?” I cut in. “There will be no paring. Mr. Beckett, I can assure, will not suffer a word to be changed without his approval.” Maurice raised his hand wearily. “The addenda,” he said, “even the author invited it to be cut.” He gestured to the pages on the table, donned his glasses, and read: “The following precious and illuminating material should be carefully studied. Only fatigue and disgust prevented its incorporation.” He looked up, a thin smile of triumph on his lips.

  “Maurice,” I said, “you miss the point. That’s Beckett’s mind at work. Constantly intruding and commenting—usually negatively—on his work. Absolutely essential.”

  Maurice looked not defeated but outflanked. Outnumbered. Frowning, he glanced around as if seeking allies. “I shall sleep on it” was all he said.

  “Maurice,” Trocchi said, “this is a Collection Merlin book, so it will not be confused with the normal green Olympia Press offering. We will give it another color cover—blue perhaps, or off-white. Further, you need not include it in any catalog. We’ll do a separate flyer for it, a subscription form…”

  I suddenly wondered, as did we all, about the artistic integrity we’d been guaranteed by the Man. I could not, indeed would not, face Beckett with the proposal. And if Maurice persisted, then our fledgling arrangement was for naught. “I intend to publish books in English that will confront the censorious Western world” were still ringing in my ears.

  Morning brought him to his senses. He agreed the addenda could stay.

  “Nonetheless, we must do a smaller-than-normal print run. Much smaller.” We had suggested half of Maurice’s normal 5,000, conveniently forgetting that when he had figured Beckett’s royalties we had calculated printing only 1,000. He lowered our figure to 750. Apparently aghast, Alex lowered his eyes. “All right, Maurice, you win: 1,500,” he said resignedly. We settled on a printing of 1,100 copies for the ordinary edition, with 25 copies hors commerce lettered A to Y, each signed by the author. It had long been a custom in France, at least for those deemed worthy, to print a limited number of copies hors commerce, “not for sale,” as an artist making lithographs would pull a number of APs, or artist’s proofs, before the regular printing began. Even Girodias, who had initially balked at the added expense, for these copies were generally printed on vellum stock, capitulated without much of a fight. Beckett, though yet unknown, fully merited the honor. The regular edition of 1,100 copies would be priced at 850 francs, or roughly $2—10 shillings if you were paying in English coin—while the limited edition would nominally sell for 2,500 francs, or about $6 at the latest exchange rate. Each member of the Merlin inner sanctum would receive three copies of the limited edition, with seven going to the author.2

  The print order having been settled, the hour having struck one, Maurice’s color slowly returned. He managed a smile that, while thin, struck us as the still-veiled sun returning after a deadly storm. He rose, extended his hand first to Trocchi, then to Christopher and me, and suggested he take us to lunch.

  22

  Questions of Conscience

  A DOZEN DAYS LATER, on a sparkling early fall morning that promised to be exceedingly warm, the leaves quivering, or giving the impression of doing so, and the grasses also, beneath drops, or beads, of gaily expiring dew, in short the day having made an excellent start, we toted, on a northbound bus—on the open back platform of the bus, to be precise—the manuscript of Watt, still bound in its slightly rain-spattered cover of black imitation leather that Beckett had handed us more than half a year before. Ceremoniously, Watt was given to the printer, L’Imprimerie Richard, 24, rue Stephenson, Paris XVIII, with the admonition to have the typesetters pay special attention, for this was English and there were anomalies, many anomalies, including verse and music. Spacing was also sometimes unusual, but very important. Monsieur Richard, the founder and owner, a man of both weight and sensibility, if one could judge—and one could, by his girth on the one hand and the ruddy complexion on the other, which bespoke both hearty repasts and a minimum consumption of red of at least 300, perhaps 350, liters per annum, substantial but not that much over the Gallic average in the time of which I speak—Monsieur Richard assured us not to worry, his typesetters were the best, excelling in English, of which they knew not a word. For once the question of money—that corrupter of all things large and small—did not arise: paid—or assured—by Maurice in advance, Dieu merci. For in seducing us, Maurice had, as all good con men do, deployed flattery, hoisting us onto the pedestal of art while reserving the mundane, tedious work of dealing with printers and distributors to himself. “As serious literary artists,” he had said, “you intend to produce and, through Merlin, propagate new forms of writing. You must devote yourselves to the novel, to poetry, to drama.” And, duly flattered, we believed him to a man. And woman.

  We had specified an off-white cover. While the book was on press, Monsieur Richard called. From his mournful tone I knew there was a problem. He apologized and said the paper merchant had failed to deliver our cover stock, what should he do? Wait three weeks until the proper paper stock arrived or use what he had on hand. What was on hand? we asked. A lovely magenta, he said, really lovely. Alex and I bussed over to see it. Appalling. What would Beckett, who had been promised off-white, think? But what would he think if he were told the book would be a month late? Besides, we were already advertising its availability in the next issue of the magazine. We settled for magenta. Should I inform the author? Discretion, Trocchi advised, was always the wiser course.

  Three weeks later, on September 30, to be precise, we were holding in our hands a copy of Watt, still redolent of ink, fresh from the press. We fondled it, as one fondles one’s firstborn. The magenta looked glowing. Positively lovely, as Monsieur Richard had said. We sent copies of the ordinary edition, as well as seven alphabet letters of the limited edition, to Mr. Beckett. Silence. Perhaps it was the time of year. Perhaps he was away from Paris. Perhaps he was busy writing. Perhaps he had told the concierge to hold all mail, lest he be importuned.

  “Perhaps,” I ventured, when two weeks, then three, had passed and this most meticulous of men remained, like his creature Godot, eloquently invisible, “he dislikes the magenta.”

  As it turned out, as soon as he had received the copies, he wrote to George Reavey: “At long last, Watt is just out in an awful magenta cover.”

  So it was the magenta. But to us not a word of reproach. When word finally came down from on high, it was gratitude and kindness, both marks of the man: Thank you for the copies of Watt. They look splendid. I fear, however, a few errors crept in, despite all efforts. I enclose a list herewith. I trust if there is a second edition, these will be corrected. As it turned out, Beckett had found a number of errors and, worse, a dropped sentence on page 19, and apparently was furious with us. But, always the gentleman, he never let on, at least to us.

  I wrote back thanking him, assuring him the errors would indeed be corrected, and reminding him that the same had happened to Joyce’s Ulysses, that French printers, in both cases knowing no English, had, in making the first-round corrections, slipped in a few of their own. Inadvertently, but apparently inevitably. All this despite the robust assurances of Monsieur Richard.

  * * *

  Maurice was only mildly pleased with our first feature production, for while he had agreed as part of our arrangement to print and distribute the novel, it was not exactly what he had in mind for his main thrust. Certainly not for the public he intended. There were, he averred, a few “dirty” scenes in Watt, but not nearly enough for “his public,” which he now laid out for us in some detail to avoid
further confusion. The major imprint of his Olympia Press would be named Traveller’s Companion and bear a pale green cover to distinguish it from the “more respectable items,” as he put it. He trusted there would not be too many of the latter. While for the Traveller’s Companion he planned to reprint, or translate, some of the “classics”—not only the aforementioned Fanny Hill but storied names such as Apollinaire, Beardsley, Sade—what he sorely needed to feed his greedy maw was new work, original tales, aimed at the Anglo-American readers who were being needlessly deprived of such tantalizing fare in their own retarded countries. The number of such potential “constituents”—his term—coming to France each year was increasing exponentially, as the world reverted to normalcy and the thousands, no, millions of tourists whose traveling had been thwarted for five long years by the war would return “in countless numbers.” Again his expression. “Not to mention,” he added, “the thousands of sailors from the Sixth Fleet, guarding the Mediterranean against all comers,” whose long sojourns at sea made them achingly ready for the books he had in mind. Ah, and the soldiers, the untold soldiers occupying Germany; where was the first place they would head when they had a few days’ leave? Paris, that he was certain. Thus green-clad Olympia would fill a crying need. He was inviting us Merlinites to join him!

  Were we, by allying ourselves with an avowed purveyor of eroticism (“pornographer,” Patrick said, calling a spade where it fell), sacrificing our artistic integrity—an expression we used quite frequently? Austryn, with his Sade and his vision of translating other French underground works ad infinitum, had no problem with the alliance. His only concern was being found out by the French authorities and expelled, for he saw France as his long-term haven, convinced that McCarthyism was here to stay. Christopher, whose left-wing leanings were profound, was not sure. Not that he minded a bit of the salacious; on the contrary. But would his poetry suffer? Pat was having trouble enough getting on with his overlong-gestating novel, so was maddeningly neutral. Merlin could not survive without help from an outside source—I had given all I could from my months at remote Chaumont—and besides, so far Maurice had been as good as his word, had he not? Jeannette found Maurice utterly charming. “Let’s face it, mon,” said Alex, “there are two virtues here: first, we can get our books published, and, second, we can eat.” It was true, most of us were living on roughly two or three dollars a day, and had been for years. There was really no choice. And besides, having eked out the first four issues of Merlin, we were entering a new phase of the magazine’s, and our own, existence, which could be fun. Challenging. Daring. Even dangerous …