"Die Familie Buchholz," never works by lamplight, if he can possibly
avoid it. He writes on large sheets, of quarto size, and never makes an
outline; the compositor gets the manuscript as it was written, with a
few, but not many, alterations. Whatever is not satisfactory to the
author is thrown into the waste-paper basket, which, in consequence, is
pretty large. While at work he takes a pinch of snuff from time to time,
which, he asserts, has a beneficial action on the eyes that are taxed by
incessant study and composition. When he treats of scientific topics, a
few glasses of Rhine wine tend to induce the proper mood; he finds the
"Johannisgarten," a wine grown at Musbach in the palatinate of the
Rhine, especially valuable for this purpose. He composes humorous work
most easily after a very simple breakfast, consisting of tea and bread.
He is in the habit of often changing the kinds of paper, pens,
pen-holders, ink, and even ink-stands, which he uses; and loves to see
fresh flowers on his writing-desk. He writes with greater facility in
fine, sunny weather than on dark, gloomy days. That is the reason why he
prefers, on cloudy days, to write in the evening. He declares that he
would rather stop writing for days and weeks than to compose without
inclination, and he tells us that whenever he attempts to work "_sans
inclination_" as the French say, the result is unsatisfactory, and the
effort strains both mind and body. He seldom spends more than eight
hours a day at the writing-table.
To the many with whom it is customary to do literary work in the daytime
must be added Johannes Nordmann, one of Vienna's most able novelists and
newspaper men. He writes more during the winter than in the summer time,
most of which he spends in travelling. He never recopies prose. For
poems, however, he first makes an outline, and then files the verse till
it receives his approbation. While driving the "quill," he smokes
cigars. He writes with remarkable speed and ease after the subject in
hand has ripened in his thoughts. He often forces himself to do
newspaper work, when he would fain do anything else; and is totally
unable to compose fiction or poetry when not disposed to.
Moncure D. Conway burns daylight, never the midnight oil, and rarely the
evening oil. Generally he works with his pen eight hours a day, tries
to take two walks, and in the evening to get some amusement,--billiards
or the theatre, of which he is very fond. He smokes as he begins work,
but does not keep it up, and uses no other stimulant at work. He loves
work, and never has had to force himself to labor. He generally makes
some outline of what he means to write, but often leaves it, finding his
thoughts developed by stating them. Conway has to be alone when writing,
but does not care for noise outside of his study. He is a slow writer,
and is always waiting on a nursery of slowly-maturing subjects.
Kate Field, the well-known editor and lecturer, prefers the daytime for
literary work, for the reason, she says, that the brain is far clearer
in the morning than at any other time. This refers, of course, to a
normal brain, independent of stimulants. She thinks that, under
pressure, night work in journalism is often more brilliant than any
other; but that it is exceptional. She makes no outline in advance; and
never uses stimulants, hot water excepted. She has no particular habit
when at work, except the habit of sticking to it; and has no specified
hours for work. She spends no time at a desk, as she writes in her lap,
a habit which was also a peculiarity of Mrs. Browning. Miss Field
maintains that it is far easier for her, and prevents round shoulders,
and is also better for the lungs. She has forced herself to write at
times, and does not believe in waiting for ideas "to turn up."
E. Vely, one of the best of the female novelists of Germany, however,
believes in inspirations, and does not take a pen in hand unless
disposed to write. Four hours in the forenoon are spent in composition,
while the afternoon and evening are given up to pastime, exercise, and
study. While at work she hates to be interrupted, and insists upon
absolute stillness about her. She always sends her original manuscript
to the printer.
And now we come to one who recently joined the great majority, one who,
although he has gone the way of all mortals, still lives, whose name is
not only found on the long list of the illustrious dead, but is also
graven in golden letters on the record of the age: Dr. Alfred Meissner.
It was his wont to do the imaginative part of his work in the stillness
of the night, either in an easy chair--smoking a cigar--or in bed, in
which he used to pass several hours sleepless almost every day. He used
to sit down to write in the morning and quit at noon. Early in his
literary career this distinguished Austrian novelist discovered that
composition in the night-time, that is, the mechanical part of it, would
not agree with him, that it was too great a strain on his nervous
system, and so wisely concluded to write only by daylight. He was
unable to comprehend how anybody could write a novel--a very intricate
work--without making alterations and erasures subsequently in the
original manuscripts. It appeared to him as if an artist would not make
a sketch of his projected picture first, but would begin immediately to
paint in oil and make no changes afterward. He cited the example of
Raphael and Titian, who, although they were talented artists, made
numerous sketches before they began a painting. Dr. Meissner first made
a detailed outline of his work, which he elaborated with great care.
While copying this second manuscript he was enabled to make a great many
alterations, and to strike out everything that was unsuitable.
Practically every production of his pen was written three times.
Sometimes Meissner would work with great ease, sometimes with
difficulty. The composition of chapters that were full of stirring
incidents, violent passions, or perilous situations used to excite him
intensely, and progressed by degrees; whereas other chapters were
written with great facility and swiftness. He wrote only when he was
compelled to by his creative faculty, that urged him to set down what he
had to say. He was a very diligent author, and left many books to keep
his memory green and constantly endear him to the hearts of the people.
Dr. A. Glaser, the German novelist, dictates all his stories to a
private secretary, a luxury which few Teutonic authors can afford.
Ordinarily he writes in the daytime, but when deeply interested in some
new work he keeps right on till late at night. Music, especially classic
music, exerts a great influence on the products of his pen. When his
work progresses slowly, a complication is not easily solved, or a
character becomes somewhat indistinct, music, that is, oratorios and
symphonies, invariably sets all matters right and dispels all
difficulties. He never writes with greater facility or rapidity than
when he has heard the music of Handel, Bach, or Beethoven just before
sitting down to write.
What little literary work John Burroughs does is entirely contingent
upon his health. If he is not feeling absolutely well, with a good
appetite for his food, a good appetite for sleep, for the open air, for
life generally, there is no literary work for him. If his sleep has been
broken or insufficient, the day that follows is lost to his pen. He
leads a sane and simple life: goes to bed at nine o'clock and gets up at
five in summer and at six in winter; spends half of each day in the open
air; avoids tea and coffee, tobacco, and all stimulating drinks;
adheres mainly to a fruit and vegetable diet, and always aims to have
something to do which he can do with zest. He is fond of the mild
excitement of a congenial talk, of a conversation with friends, of a
walk in the fields or woods, of a row on the river, of the reading of a
good book. During working-hours he likes to regale himself with good
buttermilk, in which, he avers, there is great virtue. He writes for the
most part only in fall and winter; writing best when his chimney draws
best. He composes only when writing is play. His working hours, when he
does write, are from nine or ten A. M. to two or three P. M. Then he
wants his dinner, and after that a brisk walk of four or five miles,
rain or shine. In the evening he reads or talks with his friends.
When Charles Deslys, the French novelist, begins to write he has a very
indistinct idea of what he is about to compose; but after a while,
becoming interested in the work, he writes with increasing pleasure, and
the clouds which shut out the subject from view quickly clear away. He
never makes an outline beforehand. He does not use stimulating drinks,
but smokes much; and seldom works more than four or five hours at a
time. At Nice, where he spends his winters now, he writes all the
morning, from eight o'clock until noon, at the window, which is opened
wide to let in the sunlight. In summer he always works in the open air,
preferably at the seashore or in the woods. In this way he composed his
first romances, novels, and songs, writing them down first in a
note-book, which he always carried with him. Sometimes he dictated to a
secretary. He has lost that faculty, and now must write down everything
himself, either at his table or his writing-desk.
John Fiske, the evolutionist, describes himself as follows:--
"I am forty-three years old; six feet in height, girth of chest,
forty-six inches; waist, forty-four inches; head, twenty-four inches;
neck, eighteen inches; arm, sixteen inches; weight, 240 pounds;
complexion, florid; hair, auburn; beard, red."
Professor Fiske is a fine specimen of manhood: he is alert and active,
possesses a voracious appetite, a perfect digestion, and ability to
sleep soundly. He works by day or night indifferently. His method, like
General Grant's, is to "keep hammering." Sometimes he makes an outline
first; but scarcely ever changes a word once written. He very seldom
tastes coffee or wine, or smokes a cigar; but he drinks beer freely, and
smokes tobacco in a meerschaum pipe nearly all the time when at work. He
has been in the habit of working from twelve to fifteen hours daily
since he was twelve years old. John Fiske is one of the healthiest of
men, and never has a headache or physical discomfort of any sort. He
prefers to work in a cold room, 55 deg. to 60 deg. F., and always sits in a
draft when he can find one. He wears the thinnest clothes he can find,
both in winter and summer. Despite this absence of precautions, he
catches cold only once in three or four years, and then not severely. He
never experienced the feeling of disinclination for work, and,
therefore, has never had to force himself. If he feels at all dull when
at work, he restores himself by a half-hour at the piano.
Ernest Wichert, who, besides being an honored member of the bar of
Germany, is a celebrated novelist, courts the muses from eight o'clock
in the morning until two in the afternoon. After five P. M. he attends
to his correspondence and daily professional duties. Only two forenoons
in the week are taken up by his duties as judge of the superior court at
Koenigsberg, Prussia. He never copies a romance or novel once written,
but leaves a margin for alterations and additions. When a sentence--not
a judicial one--presents any difficulty, he writes it out hastily on a
small piece of paper before he puts it down in the manuscript. He is in
the habit of revising and copying dramatic work at least three times
before he submits it to a stage-manager. He is very much addicted to the
use of tobacco, and smokes a pipe and a cigar alternately. He smokes at
all times of the day, even during working-hours. Generally he sits down
to write; but cannot bear to have a pen in hand when thinking about the
subject of his work. He is accustomed to walk up and down the room until
his thoughts have assumed a definite form. He works sometimes from five
to six hours successively. He cannot write when anybody is in the room,
and, therefore, always locks the doors before he sits down to his work.
Literary labor is such a necessity to Wichert that he invariably feels
uncomfortable when he has finished one work without beginning another
immediately.
Many of the friends of Jules Claretie, the famous novelist, often are at
a loss to account for his great fertility, and cannot see how he manages
to do all that he succeeds in doing. When this question was once asked
of the author, he replied, smilingly: "I am used to working, love to
work, and work regularly--without excess, and with constant pleasure.
Work is, with certain natures, one of the forms of health." Claretie's
pen is put in motion only in the daytime; at night it rests, like the
genial man himself. When the author feels indisposed, he does not write
except for journals to which matter must be supplied on a certain date;
attacks of neuralgia and nervous headache often interfere with his work.
When at work he is in the habit of humming various tunes without being
conscious of it. When work is easy to him, he sings; but when it is
difficult, a dead silence reigns in his study. Sometimes work proves
exceedingly hard to be done in the beginning, but the longer he writes
the easier it becomes. Claretie notes down all ideas that come to his
mind, utilizing them afterward for his novels. He also makes a detailed
outline of his romances; but his journalistic articles are composed at
the point of the pen. He is a very fast writer, and the ink on one page
is often not quite dry before another is begun.
Hermann Rollet, a distinguished Austrian author, writes on scientific
topics in the evening as well as in the day-time. With him poetry is
evolved, almost without exception, in the dead of night, when he lies
awake after having slept a few hours. He invariably makes an outline,
and when his manuscript is finished he improves it as much as possible.
There must be no noise in the room where he works; outside din, however,
does not affect him. When Rollet has a clear conception of the subject
in hand, work is mere play to him; otherwise, it is difficult indeed.
The author has one great peculiarity, which is seldom met with, and has,
I think, never been noted before. When composing poetry, it appears to
him as if he only removes by the act of writing the covering from
something that has been concealed, and he looks upon the resulting poem
as if he had not produced it, as if it had been in existence before, and
as if he had but revealed it. Thus generally his best songs are
produced. Sometimes he dreams of a poem, verse for verse, line for line.
If he happens to wake up at the time, and strikes a light, he is able to
write down literally the poem of which he dreamt. Frequently he forgets
all about his dream after it is written down, and is then greatly
astonished in the morning to find a finished poem on his writing-table.
He says that he could more easily split wood or break stones than to
write without inclination. He has to force himself merely to copy what
he has written.
VI.
Favorite Habits of Work.
John G. Whittier, our noble Quaker poet, used to say that he never had
any method. "When I felt like it," he said once, "I wrote, and I neither
had the health nor the patience to work afterward over what I had
written. It usually went as it was originally completed."
Whittier preferred the daytime--and the morning, in fact--for writing,
and used no stimulants whatever for literary labor. He made no outline
or skeleton of his work--and claimed that his verses were made as the
Irishman made his chimney--by holding up one brick and putting another
under. He was subject to nervous headache all his life, and for this
reason often had to force himself to work when he would rather have
rested, especially while he was associate editor of the _National Era_
and other papers.
Philipp Galen, the German novelist, composes during the daytime, and
sometimes labors till ten o'clock in the evening. He makes an outline of
his story before he prepares the "copy" for the press. He requires no
stimulants at work, but when he is through he relishes a glass of wine.
He has a habit of perambulating the room when engaged in meditation
about a new book, and he writes with remarkable rapidity. He never puts
pen to paper without inclination, because, as he says, he always feels
disposed to do literary work. Formerly he worked daily from twelve to
fourteen hours; now he spends only from six to eight hours at the
writing-desk every day.
W. D. Howells always keeps his manuscript six or seven months ahead of
the time for publication. Being of a nervous disposition, he could not
rely on himself to furnish matter at short notice. When it is possible,
he completes a book before giving a page of it to a magazine. He finds
the morning to be the best time for brain-labor. He asserts that the
first half of the day is the best part of a man's life, and always
selects it for his working hours. He usually begins at nine and stops at
one, and manages in that time to write about a dozen manuscript pages.
After that he enjoys his leisure; that is, he reads, corrects proof,
walks about, and pays visits. When he went to Venice as the United
States consul he soon threw off the late-hour habits to which he was
accustomed as a journalist. There was so little to keep him employed,
and the neighborhood was so quiet and delightful, that he began doing
his work in the morning, and he has continued the habit ever since. He
does not generally make a "skeleton" of his work; in fact, he almost
never does. He says that he leans toward indolence, and always forces
himself more or less to work, keeping from it as long as he can invent
any excuse. He often works when he is dull or heavy from a bad night,
and finds that the indisposition wears off. Howells rarely misses a day
from any cause, and, for a lazy man, as he calls himself, is extremely
industrious.
Georgiana M. Craik never, except on the rarest occasions, wrote at
night. She did not always make an outline of her books beforehand, but
generally did so. She wrote from nine A. M. until two P. M. in winter,
and in summer she seldom wrote at all. When she once began to write a
book, she worked at it steadily four or five hours every day, without
any regard to inclination.
Dr. Alfred Friedmann, a witty Austrian journalist, writes his brilliant
articles at one sitting. He makes few corrections, and, sometimes,
before the ink is dry on the "copy," off it goes to the printer.
Whenever he feels in need of refreshment, he gets up from his
writing-desk and has recourse to a wine-bottle near by. He never
performs literary labor unless he is inclined to work. Sometimes he does
not write for weeks, and then again he writes half a book at a time.
J. Scherr, the noted professor of the University of Zuerich, Switzerland,
who is a novelist as well as an historian, spends his forenoon at his
writing-desk. He works standing, and writes, when in good health, with
wonderful facility. Formerly, he often used to work as long as ten
hours, but now he devotes only three or four hours a day to literary
work.
Thomas Wentworth Higginson composes always in the daytime, never at
night. He sometimes makes an outline. He uses no stimulants while at
work, or at any time. He writes for from three to five hours a day. He
sometimes forces himself to "drive the quill," but rarely, generally
enjoying literary work very much.
Ludwig Auzengruber, the Austrian storyteller, never writes at night. He
always makes an outline of his work at the beginning, and is addicted to
tobacco, which he consumes when at work. He is in the habit of walking
up and down the room when elaborating a new story, and never writes down
a sentence before he has pronounced it aloud. Auzengruber is a very
industrious man, and sometimes writes for as many as eleven hours a day.
Gerhard von Amyntor, who is one of the best known of German authors, is
also a very diligent writer. He composes for from three to four hours
every morning, but rarely in the evening, and never at night. The
afternoon and evening are spent in reading or conversation, or in
revising that which he has written in the forenoon. He never makes a
skeleton of his work, but his manuscripts are copied before they reach
the printer. Tobacco is indispensable to him when he is producing
poetry. He works standing, and in solitude. The production, in the mind,
of novels and fiction generally is easy to him, but the mechanical labor
of writing down the product of his imagination he deems sad drudgery,
because he is affected by writers' cramp, and he never sets pen to paper
unless he feels disposed to.
Walt Whitman closely adhered to his home and rooms. His income was just
sufficient to make both ends meet, but he used to say it was adequate to
the wants of a poet. He declared that wealth and luxury would destroy
his working force. The poet once wrote: "Twelve years ago I came to
Camden to die; but every day I went into the country, and, naked, bathed
in sunshine, lived with the birds and the squirrels, and played in the
water with the fishes. I recovered my health from Nature. Strange how
she carries us through periods of infirmity, into the realms of freedom
and health."
In contradistinction to the majority of authors, Hermann Herberg, German
novelist and journalist, drives the pen at night. He invariably makes
an outline of his work to start with, and when he is engaged in writing,
he sips coffee and smokes. To him literary work is a holiday task; yet
he never writes unless he is in the proper frame of mind, spending on
the average three hours a day at the writing table.
The method of Louisa May Alcott was a very simple one. She never had a
study; and an old atlas on her knee was all the desk she cared for. Any
pen, any paper, any ink, and any quiet place contented her. Years ago,
when necessity drove her hard, she used to sit for fourteen hours at her
work, doing about thirty pages a day, and scarcely tasting food until
her daily task was done. She never copied. When the idea was in her
head, it flowed into words faster than she could write them down, and
she seldom altered a line. She had the wonderful power of carrying a
dozen plots for months in her mind, thinking them over whenever she was
in the mood, to be developed at the proper time. Sometimes she carried a
plan thus for years. Often, in the dead of night, she lay awake and
planned whole chapters, word for word, and when daylight came she had
only to write them down. She never composed in the evening. She
maintained that work in the early hours gives morning freshness to both
brain and pen, and that rest at night is a necessity for all who do
brain work. She never used stimulants of any kind. She ate sparingly
when writing, and only the simplest food, holding that one cannot preach
temperance if one does not practice it. Miss Alcott affirmed that the
quality of an author's work depends much on his habits, and that sane,
wholesome, happy, and wise books must come from clean lives,
well-balanced minds, spiritual insight, and a desire to do good.
Very few of the stories of the author of "Little Women" were written in
Concord, her home. This peaceful, pleasant place, the fields of which
are classic ground, utterly lacked inspiration for Miss Alcott. She
called it "this dull town," and when she had a story to write she went
to Boston, where she shut herself up in a room, and emerged only when
she could show a completed work.
August Niemann, the German novelist, devotes the forenoon to literary
work, but never burns midnight-oil on his writing-desk. He prepares his
manuscript at the outset for the press, never making a plan beforehand.
He writes with great facility, but only when he feels like it; when
disinclined, he does not touch a pen--sometimes he will not write for
weeks. When he is especially interested in a topic, he is apt to write
for from four to six hours at a stretch; ordinarily he spends two, or,
at the most, three, hours a day at the writing-table.
Victor Bluethgen, one of the most noted German authors, prefers the
daytime, especially the early morning, for literary labor; and whenever
he is compelled to work at night, in order to meet engagements, he does
so after ten o'clock. He never makes a skeleton of his work, but when
the manuscript is completed, he files away at it, and even makes
alterations in the proof-sheets. While at work he smokes incessantly,
and is so accustomed to the stimulating effects of tobacco that he
cannot get along without it. He walks up and down the room while
meditating on the plots of his stories. When he elaborates them
everything must be quiet about him, for every loud noise, especially
music, agitates him, and renders work impossible. Bluethgen is a ready
writer, and conception and composition are both easy to him. He always
forces himself to write. When he is beginning, he struggles hard to
overcome his repugnance, until he is interested in the work, when he
composes with increasing pleasure and rapidity. On the average, he
writes for from three to six hours daily, but never more than three
hours at a time. When he sits down to the desk he has but a faint idea
of the novel which he is about to write, being incapable of working out
the details of a story in his mind, as some authors are able to do; but
with the ink the thoughts begin to flow, and all difficulties are
surmounted.