“I am sick of all this,” said the Great Author, sweeping his hand
over the silver-laden dinner-table. He seemed to include in his
gesture the whole house and the broad estate surrounding it. “It
bores me, and I don't believe it can be right.”
His wife, at the other end of the table, shining in her low-necked
dress with diamonds on her breast and in her hair, leaned forward
anxiously, knowing her husband's temperament.
“But, Nicholas,” she said, “what do you mean? You have earned all
this by your work as a writer. You are the greatest man in the
country. You are entitled to a fine house and a large estate.”
He gravely nodded his big head with its flamboyant locks, and lit
a fresh cigarette.
“Quite right, my dear,” said he, “you are always right on practical
affairs. But, you see, this is an artistic affair. My books are
realistic and radical. They teach the doctrine of the universal
level, that no man can be above other men. They have made poverty,
perhaps not exactly popular, but at least romantic. My villains
are always rich and my heroes poor. The people like this; but it is
rather a strain to believe it and keep on believing it. If my work
is to hold the public it must have illustrations--moving pictures,
you know! Something in character! Nobody else can do that as well
as I can. It will be better than many advertisements. I am going
to become a virtuous peasant, a son of the soil, a primitive.”
His wife laughed, with a slight nervous tremor in her voice. She
knew her husband's temperament, to be sure, but she never knew just
how far it would carry him.
“I think you must be a little crazy, Nicholas,” she said.
“Thank you, Alexandra,” he answered, “thank you for the temperate
flattery. Evidently you have heard the old proverb about genius
and madness. But why not make the compliment complete and say
'absolutely crazy'?”
“Well,” she replied, “because I do not understand just what you
propose to do. Are you going to impoverish yourself and the whole
family? Are you thinking of turning over your farms to these stupid
peasants who will let them go to rack and ruin? Will you give your
property to the village council who will drink it up in a month?
You know how much money Peter needs; he is a member of twelve
first-class clubs. And Olga's husband is not earning much. Are you
going to starve your children and grandchildren for the sake of an
idea of consistency in art?”
The Great Author was now standing in front of the fireplace, warming
himself and filling a pipe. The flames behind him made an aureole
in his extravagant white hair and beard. He smiled and puffed
slowly at his pipe. At last he answered.
“My dear, you go too fast and too far. You know I am enthusiastic,
but have you ever known me to be silly? It would be wrong to make
you and the children suffer. I have no right to do that.”
[Illustration: I am going to become a virtuous peasant, a son of
the soil, a primitive]
She nodded her head emphatically, and a look of comprehension spread
over her face. “Suppose,” he continued, “suppose that I should
make over the real estate and farms to you--you are an excellent
manager. And suppose that I should put the personal estate, including
copyrights, into a trust, the income to be paid to you and the
children. You would take care of me while I became a primitive,
wouldn't you?”
“I would,” she answered, “you know I would. But think how
uncomfortable it will be for you. While we are living in luxury,
you--”
“Don't worry about that,” he interrupted with a laugh. “I shall
have all the luxury I want: flannel shirts, loose around the neck,
instead of these infernal stiff collars; velveteen trousers and
jacket instead of this waiter's uniform; and I shall go barefoot
when the weather is suitable--do you understand? Barefoot in the
summer grass--it will be immense.”
“But your food,” she asked, “how will you manage that on a primitive
basis?”
“You will manage it,” he replied, “you know I have always preferred
beefsteak and onions to any French dish. Champagne does not agree
with me. I'd rather have a glass of the straight stuff, without
any gas in it.”
“But your sleeping arrangements,” she murmured, “are you going to
leave the house? Our bedroom is not exactly primitive.”
“No fear of it,” he answered. “There is a little room beyond your
bathroom. Put an iron cot in there, with a soft mattress, linen
sheets, and light blankets. I'll do my morning wash at the pump in
the yard, for the sake of the picture. When I want a bath you'll
leave the door of the room open if you are not actually in the
tub.”
“Nicholas,” she said, with a Mona Lisa smile, “for an author you
have a very clever way of putting things. But suppose we have
guests at the house, you can't come to dinner in dirty clothes and
with bare feet.”
“Certainly not,” he answered. “I shall put on clean flannels, clean
velveteens, and sandals.”
“Sandals,” she murmured, “sandals for dinner are simply wonderful.
Do you think I could--”
“Not at all, my dear,” said the Great Author firmly. “Your present
style of dress becomes you amazingly. I am the only one who has to
do the primitive.”
So the arrangements were completed. The interviewers who came
to the house described the Great Author in his loose flannels and
velveteens, with bare feet, returning from labor in the fields.
The moving pictures were full of him. But the sandals did not
appear. There were no flash-lights permitted at the part-primitive
dinner-table.