I do not dwell in a back-attic with the windows pasted up with brown
paper, neither do I wallow up to my eyes in a litter of manuscript
with flue on the carpet and dust on all the furniture. If ye, or the
Public, have any such impression, ye are very much mistaken. I may be
a literary person and a prose-poet; but I live quite respectably, and
have everything handsome about me. Come and see!
Ye will find the doorsteps freshly scoured, and the door-handle
brightly polished--which ye will make a note of after ye have rung the
bell.
A trim parlourmaid--whom ye will allude to as "a neat-handed
PHYLLIS"--will open the door, and request ye to wipe your dirty boots
upon the doormat in the passage--which ye are expected to mention as
the "spacious entrance hall."
I shall stand on the threshold of my dining-room, and receive ye with
as much surprise as if the visit were not by previous appointment;
shall accompany ye through all my rooms, and tell ye interesting facts
about the china and the chimney ornaments. I shall not object to your
bringing a camera and taking views of my "cosy corner" and my hat and
umbrella-stand.
They are exactly like those of everybody else, so they are sure to be
pleasing to an art-loving Public.
Ye will find in the drawing-room the perfume of many flowers--provided
I do not forget to send out for some penny bunches of violets
beforehand--and ye can take a photograph of the cottage piano and
my pet canary (which usually has its habitation in the kitchen, as I
loathe all birds--but this is _not_ for publication).
I will show ye the stand of wax-flowers fashioned by my maternal
grandmother--which will give ye an opportunity of commenting upon the
heredity of genius in my talented family--and ye may peer into the
silver _épergne_ that was presented to my Uncle at the Cattle Show for
a prize pig. Ye will probably think it necessary to make a copy of the
inscription.
In the study--to which I shall humorously allude as my "den"--there
is little of general interest except my old carpet slippers. Mayhap
ye will point to a few pipes that lie on the mantelpiece; but they
are merely "properties," for the public expects all striking literary
personalities to write with pipes in their mouths.
Come to me! I fear ye not. It is ye who confer celebrity. I know ye
so well. I shall follow ye out into the garden, and ye shall carry
stylographs in your waistcoat pockets, and I will relate to ye
my early literary experiences, give ye my theories on the Social
Question, and let ye kodak my child in its perambulator.
I know ye; ye will convey a totally false impression of my views,
which I shall have to write to all the leading journals to correct. Ye
will force me into the publicity and self-advertisement from which my
sensitive soul shrinks. Ye will describe the insides of my rooms,
for the benefit of the buzzing swarm which has hitherto shown no
overwhelming curiosity concerning the insides of my works.
Still, I do not mind your coming, provided that ye give me an
opportunity of revising a proof of the interview. Ye are necessary
nuisances.
* * * * *