indecent, but it's highly insanitary. Nice people don't want you to kiss
their children, nowadays, and yet they expect us novelists to supply
them with passion of the most demonstrative sort in our fiction. Among
the Japanese, who are now one of the great world-powers, kissing is
quite unknown in real life. I don't know the Japanese fiction very well,
but I doubt whether there's a single kiss, or double, in it. I believe
that a novel full of intense passion could be written without the help
of one embrace from beginning to end."
"Uncle!" the girl vividly exclaimed, "why don't you _do_ it? It would be
the greatest success! Just give them the wink, somehow, at the
start--just hint that there was the greatest kind of passion going on
all the time and never once showing itself, and the girls would be
raving about it. Why _don't_ you do it, uncle? You know I do so want
you, for once, to write the most popular book of the month!"
"I want to do it myself, my dear. But as to my writing a book full of
suppressed passion, that's a story in itself."
"Tell it!" she entreated.
"The Easy Chair wouldn't give me room for it. But I'll tell you
something else. When I was a boy I had a knack at versing, which came
rather in anticipation of the subjects to use it on. I exhausted Spring
and Morning and Snow and Memory, and the whole range of mythological
topics, and then I had my knack lying idle. I observed that there was
one subject that the other poets found inexhaustible, but somehow I felt
myself disqualified for treating it. How could I sing of Love when I had
never been in love? For I didn't count those youthful affairs when I was
only in the Third Reader and the first part of the Arithmetic. I went
about trying to be in love, as a matter of business; but I couldn't
manage it. Suddenly it managed itself; and then I found myself worse
disqualified than ever. I didn't want to mention it; either to myself
or to her, much less to the world at large. It seemed a little too
personal."
"Oh, uncle! How funny you are!"
"Do you think so? I didn't think it much fun then, and I don't now. Once
I didn't know what love was, and now I've forgotten!"
"No such thing, uncle! You write about it beautifully, even if you're
not very virile or epigrammatic or passionate. I won't let you say so."
"Well, then, my dear, if I haven't forgotten, I'm not interested. You
see, I know so much more about it than my lovers do. I can't take their
point of view any longer. To tell you the truth, I don't care a rap
whether they get married or not. In that story there, that you've been
reading, I got awfully tired of the girl. She was such a fool, and the
fellow was a perfect donkey."
"But he was the dearest donkey in the world! I wanted to h--shake hands
with him, and I wanted to kiss--yes, kiss!--_her_, she was such a
lovable fool."
"You're very kind to say so, my dear, but you can't keep on making
delightful idiots go down with the public. That was what I was thinking
when you came in and found me looking so dismal. I had stopped in the
middle of a most exciting scene because I had discovered that I was
poking fun at my lovers."
"And here I," the girl lamented, "didn't take the slightest notice, but
began on you with the harshest criticisms!"
"I didn't mind. I dare say it was for my good."
"I'm sure I meant it so, uncle. And what are you going to do about it?"
"Well, I must get a new point of view."
"Yes?"
"I must change my ground altogether. I can't pretend any longer to be
the contemporary of my lovers, or to have the least sympathy with their
hopes and fears. If I were to be perfectly honest with them, I should
tell them, perhaps, that disappointed love was the best thing that could
happen to either of them, but, if they insisted on happiness, that a
good broken engagement promised more of it than anything else I could
think of."
"That is true," the girl sighed. "There are a great many unhappy
marriages. Of course, people would say it was _rather_ pessimistic,
wouldn't they?"
"People will say anything. One mustn't mind them. But now I'll tell you
what I've been thinking all the time we've been talking."
"Well? I knew you were not thinking of _my_ nonsense!"
"It was very good nonsense, as nonsense goes, my dear. What I've been
thinking is that I must still have the love interest in my books, and
have it the main interest, but I must treat it from the vantage-ground
of age; it must be something I look back upon, and a little down upon."
"I see what you mean," the girl dissentingly assented.
"I must be in the whole secret--the secret, not merely of my lovers'
love, but the secret of love itself. I must know, and I must subtly
intimate, that it doesn't really matter to anybody how their affair
turns out; for in a few years, twenty or thirty years, it's a thousand
to one that they won't care anything about it themselves. I must
maintain the attitude of the sage, dealing not unkindly but truthfully
with the situation."
"It would be rather sad," the girl murmured. "But one likes sad things."
"When one is young, one does; when one is old, one likes true things.
But, of course, my love-stories would be only for those who have
outlived love. I ought to be fair with my readers, and forewarn them
that my story was not for the young, the hopeful, the happy."
The girl jumped to her feet and stood magnificent. "Uncle! It's grand!"
He rose, too. "What is?" he faltered.
"The idea! Don't you see? You can have the publisher announce it as a
story for the disillusioned, the wretched, and the despairing, and that
would make every girl want it, for that's what every girl thinks she is,
and they would talk to the men about it, and then _they_ would want it,
and it would be the book of the month! Don't say another word. Oh, you
dear!" In spite of the insanitary nature of the action, she caught her
uncle round the neck, and kissed him on his bald spot, and ran out of
the room. She opened the door to call back: "Don't lose a single minute.
Begin it _now_!"
But the Veteran Novelist sank again into his chair in the posture in
which she had surprised him.
XIX
A SEARCH FOR CELEBRITY
We lately received a publication which has interested us somewhat out of
proportion to its size. It is called _The Way into Print_, but it does
not treat, as the reader might rashly suppose, of the best method of
getting your name into the newspapers, either as a lady who is giving a
dinner to thirteen otherwise unknown persons, or is making a coming-out
tea for her debutante daughter, or had a box full of expensively
confectioned friends at the opera or the vaudeville, or is going to read
a paper at a woman's club, or is in any sort figuring in the thousand
and one modern phases of publicity; it does not even advise her guests
or hearers how to appear among those present, or those who were invited
and did not come, or those who would not have come if they had been
invited. Its scope is far more restricted, yet its plane is infinitely
higher, its reach incomparably further. The Print which it proposes to
lead the Way into is that print where the elect, who were once few and
are now many, are making the corridors of time resound to their
footsteps, as poets, essayists, humorists, or other literary forms of
immortality. Their procession, which from the point of the impartial
spectator has been looking more and more like a cake-walk in these later
years, is so increasingly the attraction of young-eyed ambition that
nothing interests a very large class of people more than advice for the
means of joining it, and it is this advice which the publication in
point supplies: supplies, we must say, with as much good sense and good
feeling as is consistent with an office which does not seem so dignified
as we could wish.
Inevitably the adviser must now and then stoop to the folly of the
aspirant, inevitably he must use that folly from time to time with
wholesome severity, but he does not feel himself equal to the work
unaided. Our sudden national expansion, through the irresistible force
of our imaginative work, into an intellectual world-power has thrust a
responsibility upon the veterans of a simpler time which they may not
shirk, and the author of _The Way into Print_ calls upon them to share
his task. He is not satisfied with the interesting chapters contributed
by younger authors who are in the act of winning their spurs, but he
appeals to those established in the public recognition to do their part
in aiding us to hold our conquest through the instruction and discipline
of those who must take their places when they put their armor off. He
does this by means of a letter, almost an open letter, addressed
personally to each veteran by means of the substitution of his
typewritten name for that of some other veteran, but not differenced in
the terms of the ensuing appeal to his kindness or his conscience. He
puts himself upon a broad humanitarian ground, and asks that the
typewritten author, who, he assumes, is "prominently before the public,"
shall answer certain questions to which the appellant owns that he has
already received hundreds of replies.
By an odd mischance one of his half-open letters found its way to the
Easy Chair, and, although that judgment-seat felt relieved from the
sense of anything like a lonely prominence before the public by the
very multitude of those similarly consulted, it did not remain as Easy
as it would have liked under the erring attribution of prominence. Yet
to have refused to help in so good a work would not have been in its
nature, and it lost as little time as possible in summoning a real
author of prominence to consider the problems so baffling to a mere
editorial effigy; for, as we ought to explain, the _de facto_ editor is
to be found in the Study next door, and never in the Easy Chair. The
author prominently before the public came at once, for that kind of
author has very little to do, and is only too happy to respond to calls
like that of the friend of rising authorship. Most of his time is spent
at symposiums, imagined by the Sunday editions of the newspapers, to
consider, decide the question whether fig-paste is truly a health-food;
or whether, in view of a recent colossal gift for educational purposes,
the product of the Standard Oil Company was the midnight oil which
Shakespeare had in mind when he spoke of the scholar wasting it; or
something of that kind. His mind is whetted to the sharpest edge by its
employment with these problems, and is in prime condition for such
simple practical inquiries as those proposed by the letter we had
received. But, of course, he put on an air of great hurry, and spoke of
the different poems, novels, essays, and sketches which he had laid
aside to oblige us, and begged us to get down to business at once.
"We wish nothing better than to do so," we said, to humor him, "for we
know you are a very busy man, and we will not keep you a moment longer
than is absolutely necessary. Would you like to have all the questions
at once, or would you rather study them one after another?"
He said he thought he could better give an undivided mind to each if he
had them one at a time, and so we began with the first:
"'1. Would you advise the young story-writer to study the old masters in
literature or the stories in the current magazines, in order to meet the
demands of the current editors?'"
"Will you read that again?" the author prominently before the public
demanded, but when we had read it a second time it seemed only to plunge
him deeper into despair. He clutched his revered head with both hands,
and but for an opportune baldness would probably have torn his hair. He
murmured, huskily, "Do you think you have got it right?"
We avoided the response "Sure thing" by an appropriate circumlocution,
and then he thundered back: "How in--nature--is a young writer to
forecast the demands of current editors? If an editor is worth his
salt--his Attic salt--he does not know himself what he wants, except by
the eternal yearning of the editorial soul for something new and good.
If he has any other demands, he is not a current editor, he is a
stagnant editor. Is it possible that there is a superstition to the
contrary?"
"Apparently."
"Then that would account for many things. But go on."
"Go on yourself. You have not answered the question."
"Oh, by all means," the author sardonically answered; "if the current
editor has demands beyond freshness and goodness, let the young writer
avoid the masters in literature and study the stories in the current
magazines."
"You are not treating the matter seriously," we expostulated.
"Yes, I am--seriously, sadly, even tragically. I could not have imagined
a condition of things so bad, even with the results all round us. Let us
have the second question of your correspondent."
"Here it is: '2. Has the unknown writer an equal chance with the
well-known author, provided his work is up to the standard of the
latter's?'"
"Of the latter's?--of the latter's?--of the latter's?" Our friend
whispered the phrase to himself before he groaned out: "What a frightful
locution! Really, really, it is more than I can bear!"
"For the cause you ought to bear anything. What do you really think?"
"Why, if the former's work is as good as the latter's, why isn't the
former's chance as good if the current editor's demands are for the same
kind in the former's case as in the latter's? If the latter's aim is to
meet the imaginary demands of the stagnant editor, then the former's
work ought to be as attractive as the latter's. Ha, ha, ha!"
He laughed wildly, and in order to recall him to himself we read the
third question: "'3. Which is the more acceptable--a well-told story
with a weak plot, or a poorly told story with a strong plot?'"
"Oh, but that is a conundrum, pure and simple!" the author protested.
"It is a poor parody on the old End-man pleasantry, 'Would you rather be
as foolish as you look, or look as foolish as you are?' You are making
it up!"
"We assure you we are not. It is no more a conundrum than the others.
Come: question!"
"Well, in the first place, I should like to know what a plot is.
Something that has occurred to you primarily as an effect from your
experience or observation? Or something you have carpentered out of the
old stuff of your reading, with a wooden hero and heroine reciprocally
dying for each other, and a wooden villain trying to foil them?"
"You had better ask a current editor or a stagnant. Do you confess
yourself posed by this plain problem? Do you give it up?"
"For the present. Perhaps I may gather light from the next question."
"Then here it is: '4. What do you consider the primary weakness in the
average stories or verses of the old writers?"
"Oh, that is easy. The same as in the average stories and verses of the
younger writers--absence of mind."
"Are you sure you are not shirking? Cannot you give a categorical
answer--something that will really help some younger writer to take the
place which you are now more or less fraudulently holding? The younger
writers will cheerfully allow that the trouble is absence of mind, but
what line of reading would you suggest which would turn this into
presence of mind?"
"There is none, except to have themselves newly ancestored. Presence of
mind as well as absence of mind is something derived; you cannot acquire
it."
"We think you might be a little less sardonic. Now here is the next
problem: '5. What are the successful author's necessary qualifications
in the matters of natural ability, education, life as he sees it and
lives it, technical training, etc?'"
"This will be the death of me!" the prominent author lamented. "Couldn't
I skip that one?"
"It seems to cover some of the most important points. We do not think
your self-respect will allow you to skip it. At any rate, make an effort
to answer it."
Thus challenged, the prominent author pulled himself together. "Oh," he
said, sadly, "which of us knows whether he has natural ability or not,
and what is education, and what is life as one sees it, and what is
technical training? Do these poor young fellows think that one is tall
or short by taking thought? It is the same as that, it seems to me; or
if you prefer a mystical solution, I should say, if you have a longing,
from your earliest consciousness, to write poetry or fiction, and cannot
keep from doing it for any long time together, you are possibly born
with a gift for it. But this may be altogether a mistake; it may be the
effect of your early and incessant scribblings on the minds of
spectators wholly incompetent to judge of your abilities, such as your
fond parents. This must rather often happen if we can judge from what
nine-tenths of what is called literature is composed of. If your longing
to write is the real thing, or is not, still education will not help or
hinder you in doing it. No man was ever yet taught any art. He may be
taught a trade, and that is what most of the versing and prosing is, I
suppose. If you have the gift, you will technically train yourself: that
is, you will learn how to be simple and clear and honest. Charm you will
have got from your great-grandfather or great-grandmother; and life,
which is only another sort of school, will not qualify you to depict
life; but if you do not want to depict life, you will perhaps be able to
meet the demands of what our friend calls the current editors."
Here the prominent author rose, but we stayed him with a gesture. "There
is another question, the last: '6. Do you care to convey any hints or
suggestions gleaned from your personal experiences in the climb to
success that may make easier the gaining of the heights for the
beginner?"
The prominent author roared with laughter. "Read that again!" But when
we had done so, he became grave, even sorrowful. "Is it really true,
then, as we seem to see, that there is a large body of young people
taking up literature as a business? The thing that all my life I have
fondly dreamed was an art, dear and almost holy! Are they going into it
for the money there is in it? And am I, in my prominence--more or less
fraudulent, as you say--an incentive to them to persevere in their
enterprises? Is that what one has to come to after a life of
conscientious devotion to--an ideal? Come, old friend, say it isn't so
bad as that! It is? Then"--the prominent author paused and sank weakly
into the chair from which he had risen--"perhaps I have been dreaming
all these years; but in my dream it seems to me that everything outside
of myself which seemed to hinder me has really helped me. There has been
no obstacle in my way which if I were at the bottom of the hill, where I
might very rightfully be, I would have removed. I am glad that the climb
to success, as your friend calls it, has been hard and long, and I bless
God for my difficulties and backsets, all of them. Sometimes they seemed
cruel; they filled me with despair and shame; but there was not one that
did not make me stronger and fitter for my work, if I was fit for it.
You know very well that in this art of ours we need all the strength we
can get from our overthrows. There is no training that can ever make the
true artist's work easy to him, and if he is a true artist he will
suspect everything easily done as ill done. What comes hard and slow and
hopelessly, that is the thing which when we look at it we find is the
thing that was worth doing. I had my downs with my ups, and when I was
beginning the downs outnumbered the ups ten to one. For one manuscript
accepted, and after the days of many years printed, I had a dozen
rejected and rejected without delay. But every such rejection helped me.
In some cases I had to swallow the bitter dose and own that the editor
was right; but the bitter was wholesome. In other cases I knew that he
was wrong, and then I set my teeth, and took my courage in both hands,
and tried and tried with that rejected manuscript till the divinely
appointed editor owned that I was right. But these are the commonplaces
of literary biography. I don't brag of them; and I have always tried to
keep my head in such shape that even defeat has not swelled it beyond
the No. 7 I began with. Why should I be so wicked as to help another and
a younger man over the bad places? If I could only gain his confidence I
should like to tell him that these are the places that will strengthen
his heart for the climb. But if he has a weak heart, he had better try
some other road. There! I have given you all the 'hints and suggestions
from my experience' that I can think of, and now let me go."
Once more he rose, and once more we stayed him. "Yes," we said, "no
doubt you think you have spoken honestly and faithfully, but you have
addressed yourself to the wrong audience. You have spoken to artists,
born and self-made, but artists can always manage without help. Your
help was invoked in behalf of artisans, of adventurers, of speculators.
What was wanted of you was a formula for the fabrication of gold bricks
which would meet the demands of current dealers in that sort of wares."
"But if I have never made gold bricks myself, or not knowingly?"
"Ah, that is what you say! But do you suppose anybody will believe you?"
The prominent author put on the hat which he flattered himself was a
No. 7, but which we could plainly see was a No. 12, and said, with an
air of patronizing compassion, "You have sat here so long in your
cushioned comfort, looking out on the publishing world, that you have
become corrupt, cynical, pessimistic."
XX
PRACTICAL IMMORTALITY ON EARTH
The talk at a dinner given by the Easy Chair to some of its most valued
friends was of the life after death, and it will not surprise any
experienced observer to learn that the talk went on amid much unserious
chatter, with laughing irrelevancies more appropriate to the pouring of
champagne, and the changing of plates, than to the very solemn affair in
hand. It may not really have been so very solemn. Nobody at table took
the topic much to heart apparently. The women, some of them, affected an
earnest attention, but were not uncheerful; others frankly talked of
other things; some, at the farther end of the table, asked what a given
speaker was saying; the men did not, in some cases, conceal that they
were bored.
"No," the first speaker said, after weighing the pros and cons, "for my
part, I don't desire it. When I am through, here, I don't ask to begin
again elsewhere."
"And you don't expect to?" his closest listener inquired.
"And I don't expect to."
"It is curious," the closest listener went on, "how much our beliefs are
governed by our wishes in this matter. When we are young and are still
hungering for things to happen, we have a strong faith in immortality.
When we are older, and the whole round of things, except death, has
happened, we think it very likely we shall not live again. It seems to
be the same with peoples; the new peoples believe, the old peoples
doubt. It occurs to very, very few men to be convinced, as a friend of
mine has been convinced against the grain, of the reality of the life
after death. I will not say by what means he was convinced, for that is
not pertinent; but he was fully convinced, and he said to me:
'Personally, I would rather not live again, but it seems that people do.
The facts are too many; the proofs I have had are irresistible; and I
have had to give way to them in spite of my wish to reject them.'"
"Yes," the first speaker said, "that is certainly an uncommon
experience. You think that if I were perfectly honest, I should envy him
his experience? Well, then, honestly, I don't."
"No," the other rejoined, "I don't know that I accuse your sincerity.
But, may I ask, what are your personal objections to immortality?"