If by good or much writing a modest old man have the misfortune to
incur the curiosity of the public regarding his personal appearance,
how shall he gratify it—and gratified it will somehow be—with the least
distress to himself? Every public writer is familiar with the demand,
from editor or publisher, “Please send photograph.” Of course he may
easily decline, but also, alas! editor or publisher may easily decline
the work for embellishment or advertisement of which the photograph
was sought. So what can the poor man do? And what photograph shall he
send—that of yesteryear, or that of a decade or two ago? Concerning
this singularly solemn matter I venture to quote from a letter of one
who conducts an editorium:
“One sees the printed counterfeit of a dashing young chap whom all know
as the distinguished author of ‘The Bean Pot,’ which, it is true,
appeared twenty years ago. But the portrait is the familiar one always
used by publishers to herald later books by the same author. One day
the author himself calls. You have always thought of him as having a
smooth, high brow topped with a fine cluster of coal-black curls, and
the devil in his eyes. When this wrinkled, bald, and squeaky old man
tells you that he is the author of ‘The Bean Pot’ you suffer a shock.
All your self-restraint is invoked to inhibit contumelious word and
inhospitable act.”
True, O king, but there is more to the matter. Every writer that
is fore and fit cherishes a natural expectation of being known to
posterity. If that hope is fulfilled he will be known to posterity by
his last portrait. Who knows Bryant, Longfellow, Whittier, Holmes or
Whitman as other than a venerable ruin? Who has in mind a middle-aged
Hugo, or a young Goethe? It is with an effort that we grasp the fact
that all these excellent gentlemen of letters were not born old. They
were merely indiscreet; they sat for their portraits when they could no
longer stand. By the happy mischance of early death, Byron, Shelley,
Keats and Poe escaped the caricaturing of the years, and can snap
their finger-bones at Age, the merciless cartoonist.
The portrait of twenty years ago no more faultily represents the old
man as he is than that of yesterday represents him as he was. Either is
false to some period of his life, and he may reasonably enough prefer
that posterity shall know how he looked in his prime, rather than that
his contemporaries shall know how he looked in his decay. It may be
that it was in his prime that he did the characteristic work that begot
the desire to know him.
With what portrait, then, shall one well stricken in years meet the
contemporary demand? Perhaps it is best, and not unfair, to supply
it with one made in one’s prime, conscientiously and conspicuously
inscribed with its date—and that is what I have usually done myself.
But I grieve to observe that the date is, as a rule, ingeniously
effaced in the reproduction. But what does posterity find that is
peculiarly pleasing in the portrait of a patient in the last stage of
his fatal disorder?