“Dear me,” said he. “Why that’s my line—I’m a writer.”
I laughed and said I hoped he made it pay better than I did. He said it
paid very well and asked me where I lived and in what neighbourhood my
connection lay. I said I had no connection but only wrote books.
“Oh! I see. You mean you are an author. I’m not an author; I didn’t
mean that. I paint people’s names up over their shops, and that’s what
we call being a writer. There isn’t a touch on my work as good as any
touch on yours.”
I was gratified by so much modesty and, on my way back to dinner, called
to see his work. I am afraid that he was not far wrong—it was awful.
_Omne ignotum pro magnifico_ holds with painters perhaps more than
elsewhere; we never see a man sketching, or even carrying a paint-box,
without rushing to the conclusion that he can paint very well. There is
no cheaper way of getting a reputation than that of going about with
easel, paint-box, etc., provided one can ensure one’s work not being
seen. And the more traps one carries the cleverer people think one.