This was a treat, not least because it revolves around one of the great dilemmas of Goodreads, albeit in a pre-social media context: shall I admit to reading FRIVOLOUSLY? This is E. F. Benson at his best, poking fun at the pretensions of the English middle class (surprisingly relatable), but with empathy. As silly and conceited as Margaret is, you get the sense that the author is genuinely fond of her and goes out of his way to give her a happy ending.
“Highbrow though she was, well deserved as was her reputation as a devoted student of all that was best in literature…there was one writer of the present day for whom, though the critics of the press took no notice whatever of his books, Margaret secretly felt an admiration, far more passionate than for any other master, dead or living. The creator of immortal stuff was Rudolph da Vinci, of whose novels up to date Margaret Mantrip owned the complete series. They fed her soul: they whisked her away, as on a magic carpet from the commonplace though pleasant circumstances of life, and even from her own high literary aims, and revealed to her how distinguished, how fiery and how lurid human existence might be. There were strong, silent men…who loved deeply and purely and passionately. There was an exquisite girl, like a lily, who through the machinations of a worldly mother, had been mated to a perfect brute, and, after the fatal knot had been tied, met one of these Galahads who consecrated his life to her devoted service, and was rewarded towards the end of the book by the death, in circumstances of the utmost ignominy, of the perfect brute and by union with his beloved. There were little puny men with great hearts, there were plain women with golden ones, who brought happiness wherever they went; there were frail duchesses, and dangerous diplomatists, politicians with tongues of golden eloquence and filthy minds. Almost best of all was a splendid bishop of aristocratic birth who gave up his princely income to the poor and needy retaining for himself only £200 a year…
“Here, then, in the novels of Rudolph da Vinci (such a colourful name, thought Margaret Mantrip, though possibly a nom de plume) she found the joy of that secret life which no one suspected. These romances thrilled and entranced her, and not the less so because they had not the remotest resemblance to the routine of existence as she knew it. It was enough that their author had conceived such magnificent presences and souls of such a fiery quality upon this dull earth dwelling.
“Yet in spite of this, Margaret, concealed, as if it had been a secret vice, her unfounded admiration for his works. Her friends knew her to be an ardent student of what was known as the best literature of the day, and she felt sure that she would compromise that enviable reputation if she declared herself in her true colours. Sometimes she was sorely tempted to do so, but she lacked the moral courage.”