THE central character of Hazard’s book was an actress, young and very
beautiful. Her lover was a newspaper man, deeply in love with her and
yet not faithful, in one instance anyhow. This brought about a Zolaesque
scene in which she spanked another actress with a hairbrush. There was
treacherous plotting on the part of somebody in regard to a local
murder, which brought about the arrest and conviction of the newspaper
man for something he knew nothing about. This entailed a great struggle
on the part of Theo to save him, which resulted in her failure and his
death on the guillotine. A priest figured in it in some way, grim,
jesuitical.
To this day some of the scenes of this book come back to me as having
been forcefully done—the fight between the two actresses, for one thing,
a midnight feast with several managers, the gallows scene, a confession.
I am not sure of the name of the newspaper man who collaborated with
Hazard on this work, but the picture of his death in an opium joint
later, painted for me by Hazard, and the eccentricities of his daily
life, stand out even now as Poe-like. He must have been blessed or
cursed with some such temperament as that of Poe, dark, gloomy,
reckless, poetic, for he was a dope-fiend and died of dope.
Be that as it may, this posthumous work, never published, so far as I
know, was the opening wedge for me into the realm of realism. Being
distinctly imitative of Balzac and Zola, the method was new and to me
impressive. It has always struck me as curious that the first novel
written by an American that I read in manuscript should have been one
which by reason of its subject matter and the puritanic character of the
American mind could never be published. These two youths knew this.
Hazard handed it to me with the statement: “Of course a thing like this
could never be published over here. We’d have to get it done abroad.”
That struck me as odd at the time—the fact that if one wrote a fine
thing nevertheless because of an American standard I had not even
thought of before, one might not get it published. How queer, I thought.
Yet these two incipient artists had already encountered it. They had
been overawed to the extent of thinking it necessary to write of French,
not American life in terms of fact. Such things as they felt called upon
to relate occurred only in France, never here—or at least such things,
if done here, were never spoken of. I think it nothing less than tragic
that these men, or boys, fresh, forceful, imbued with a burning desire
to present life as they saw it, were thus completely overawed by the
moral hypocrisy of the American mind and did not even dare to think of
sending their novel to an American publisher. Hazard was deeply
impressed with the futility of attempting to do anything with a book of
that kind. The publishers wouldn’t stand for it. You couldn’t write
about life as it was; you had to write about it as somebody else thought
it was, the ministers and farmers and dullards of the home. Yet here he
was, as was I, busy in a profession that was hourly revealing the fact
that this sweetness and light code, this idea of a perfect world which
contained neither sin nor shame for any save vile outcasts, criminals
and vagrants, was the trashiest lie that was ever foisted upon an all
too human world. Not a day, not an hour, but the pages of the very
newspaper we were helping to fill with our scribbled observations were
full of the most incisive pictures of the lack of virtue, honesty,
kindness, even average human intelligence, not on the part of a few but
of nearly everybody. Not a business, apparently, not a home, not a
political or social organization or an individual but in the course of
time was guilty of an infraction of some kind of this seemingly perfect
and unbroken social and moral code. But in spite of all this, judging by
the editorial page, the pulpit and the noble mouthings of the average
citizen speaking for the benefit of his friends and neighbors, all men
were honest—only they weren’t; all women were virtuous and without evil
intent or design—but they weren’t; all mothers were gentle,
self-sacrificing slaves, sweet pictures for songs and Sunday
Schools—only they weren’t; all fathers were kind, affectionate, saving,
industrious—only they weren’t. But when describing actual facts for the
news columns, you were not allowed to indicate these things. Side by
side with the most amazing columns of crimes of every kind and
description would be other amazing columns of sweet mush about love,
undying and sacrificial, editorials about the perfection of the American
man, woman, child, his or her sweet deeds, intentions and the like—a
wonderful dose. And all this last in the face of the other, which was
supposed to represent the false state of things, merely passing
indecencies, accidental errors that did not count. If a man like Hazard
or myself had ventured to transpose a true picture of facts from the
news columns of the papers, from our own reportorial experiences, into a
story or novel, what a howl! Ostracism would have followed much more
swiftly in that day than in this, for today turgid slush approximating
at least some of the facts is tolerated. Fifteen years later Hazard told
me he still had his book buried in a trunk somewhere, but by then he had
turned to adventurous fiction, and a year later, as I have said, be blew
his brains out.
Just the same the book made a great impression on me! It gave me a great
respect for Hazard, made me really fond of him. And it fixed my mind
definitely on this matter of writing—not a novel, curiously, but a play,
a form which from the first seemed easier for me and which I still
consider so, one in which I work with greater ease than I do in the
novel. I mentioned to Wood and McCord that Hazard and another man had
written a novel and that I had read it. I must have enthused over it for
both were impressed, and I myself seemed to gain standing, especially
with Wood. It was generally admitted then that Hazard was one of the
best reporters in the city, and my being taken into his confidence in
this fashion seemed to Wood to be a significant thing.
And not long after that I had something else to tell these two which
carried great weight. There was at that time on the editorial page of
the paper a column entitled “Heard in the Corridors,” which was nothing
more than a series of imaginary interviews with passing guests at the
various hotels, or interviews condensed into short tales, about six to
the column, one at least being accredited to a guest at each of the
three principal hotels, the others standing accredited as things heard
at the Union Station or upon the street somewhere. Previous to my
arrival this column had been written by various men, the last one having
been the already famous W. C. Brann, then editor of the brilliant
_Iconoclast_. By the time I arrived, however, Brann had departed, and
the column had sagged. Hazard was doing a part of it, Bellairs another,
but both were tired of it. At first when I considered it (a little extra
work added to my daily reporting) I was not so pleased; indeed it seemed
an all but impossible thing to do. Later, however, after a trial, I
discovered that it gave free rein to my wildest imaginings, which was
exactly what I wanted. I could write any sort of story I pleased,
romantic, realistic or lunatic, and credit it to some imaginary guest at
one of the hotels, and if it was not too improbable it was passed
without comment. At any rate, when this was assigned to me I went forth
to get names of personages stopping at the hotels. I inquired for
celebrities. As a rule, the clerks could give me no information or were
indifferent, and seemed to take very little interest in having the hotel
advertised. I returned and racked my brain, decided that I could
manufacture names as well as stories, and forthwith scribbled six
marvels, attaching such names as came into my mind. The next day these
were all duly published and I was told to do the column regularly as
well as my regular assignments. My asinine ebullience had won me a new
task without any increase in pay.
However, it seemed an honor to have a whole column assigned to me, and
this honor I communicated to McCord and Wood. It was then that either
Wood or McCord informed me that Brann had done it previously and had
written snake stories for the paper into the bargain. This flattered me,
for they pictured him for what he was, a rare soul, and I felt myself
growing. Peter had illustrated some of these tales for him, for, as he
said with mock dignity: “I am the official snake artist of this paper.”
That very night, as a reward for my efficiency I was invited by Dick to
come to his room—_the_ room, the studio—where he inflicted about nine of
his horrible masterpieces upon me.
I would not make so much of this great honor if it were not for what it
meant to me then. The room was large and dark, on Broadway between
Market and Walnut, with the cars jangling below. It contained one great
white bed, a long table covered with the papers and literary
compositions of Mr. Richard Wood, and was decorated and reinforced with
that gentleman’s conception of what constituted literary insignia. On
the walls hung dusty engravings representing the death of Hamlet and the
tempting of Faust. In one corner, over a chest of drawers, was the
jagged blade of a sword-fish, and in another a most curious display of
oriental coins. The top of the wardrobe was surmounted by a gruesome
_papier-mâché_ head representing that somewhat demented creature known
in England as Ally Sloper. A clear space at one corner of the table held
a tin pail for carrying beer, and the floor, like the walls, was covered
with some dusty brown material which might once have been a carpet.
Owing to the darkness of the furnishings and the brightness of the fire,
the room had a very cheery look.
“Say, Dick, did you see where one of ——’s plays had made a great hit in
New York?” asked McCord. “He’s made a strike this time.”
“No,” replied Dick solemnly, poking among the coals of the grate and
drawing up a chair. “Sit down, Dreiser. Pull up a chair, Peter. This
confounded grate smokes whenever the wind’s from the South. Still
there’s nothing like a grate fire.”
We drew up chairs. I was revolving in my mind the charm of the room and
a vision of greatness in play-writing. These two men seemed subtly
involved with the perfection of the arts. In this atmosphere, with such
companions, I felt that I could accomplish anything, and soon.
“I’ll tell you how it is with the game of play-writing,” observed Dick
sententiously. “You have to have imagination and feeling and all that,
but what’s more important than anything is a little business sense, to
know how to get in with those fellows. You might have the finest play in
the world in your pocket, but if you didn’t know how to dispose of it
what good would it do you? None at all. You got to know that end first.”
He reached over and pulled the coal-scuttle into position as a footrest
and then looked introspectively at the ceiling.
“The play’s the thing,” put in Peter. “If you could write a real good
play you wouldn’t need to worry about getting it staged.”
“Aw, wouldn’t I? Listen to that now!” commented Dick irascibly. “I tell
you, Peter, you don’t know anything about it. You only think you do;
that’s all. Say, did Campbell have a good play in his pocket or didn’t
he? You betcher neck he did. Did he get it staged? No, you betcher boots
he didn’t. Don’t talk to me; I know.”
By his manner you would have thought he had a standing bone to pick with
Peter, but this was only his way. It made me laugh.
“Well, the play’s the first thing to worry about anyhow,” I observed. “I
wish I were in a position to write one.”
“Why don’t you try?” suggested McCord. “You ought to be able to do
something in that line. I bet you could write a good one.”
We fell to discussing dramatists. Peter, with his eye for gorgeous
effects, costuming and the like, immediately began to describe the
ballet effects and scenery of a comic opera laid in Algeria which was
then playing in St. Louis.
“You ought to go and see that, Dreiser,” he urged. “It’s something
wonderful. The effect of the balconies in the first act, with the
muezzins crying the prayers from the towers in the distance, is great.
Then the harmony of the color work in the stones of the buildings is
something exquisite. You want to see it.”
I felt myself glowing. This intimate conversation with men of such
marked artistic ability, in a room, too, which was the reflection of an
artist’s personality, raised my sense of latent ability to the highest
point. Not that I felt I was not fit to associate with these people—I
felt that I was more than fit, their equal at every point, conceal it as
I might—but it was something to come in touch with your own, to find
real friends to the manner born who were your equals and able to
sympathize with you and appreciate your every mood. A man who had found
such friends as these so quickly surely need never worry.
“I’ll tell you what I propose to do, Peter, while you people are
talking,” observed Dick. “I propose to go over to Frank’s and get a can
of beer. Then I’ll read you that story.”
This proposal to read a story was new to me; I had not heard Wood had
written one before. I looked at him more keenly, and a little flame of
envy leaped to life in me. To be able to write a short story—or any kind
of a story!
He went to his wardrobe, whence he extracted a medium-length black cape
of broadcloth, which he threw about his shoulders, and a soft hat which
he drew rakishly over his eyes, then took the tin pail and a piece of
money from a plate, after the best fashion of the artistic romances of
the day, and went out. I gazed admiringly after him, touched by the
romance of it all. That face, waxen, drawn, sensitive, with deep burning
eyes, and that frail body! That cape! That hat! That plate of coins!
Yes, this was Bohemia! I was now a part of that happy middle world which
was superior to wealth and poverty. I was in that serene realm where
moved freely talent, artistic ability, noble thought, ingenious action,
unhampered by conventional thought and conduct. A great man should so
live, an artist certainly. These two could and did do as they pleased.
They were not as others, but wise, sensitive, delicately responsive to
all that was best in life; and as yet the great world was not aware of
their existence!
Wood came back with the beer and then Peter insisted that he read us the
story. I noticed that there was something impish in his manner. He
assured me that all of Dick’s stories were masterpieces, every one; that
time alone was required for world-wide recognition.
Dick picked up a single manuscript from a heap. “I don’t want to inflict
this on you, Dreiser,” he said sweetly and apologetically. “We had
planned to do this before I knew you were coming.”
“That’s the way he always talks,” put in Peter banteringly. “Dick loves
to stage things. But they’re great stories just the same.”
I leaned back, prepared to be thrilled. Dick drew up his chair to the
table and adjusted a green-shaded gas lamp close to the table’s edge. He
then unfolded his MS. and began reading in a low, well-modulated,
semi-pathetic voice, which seemed very effective in the more sentimental
passages. Reverently I sat and listened. The tale was nothing, a mere
daub, but, oh, the wonder of it! Was I not in the presence and
friendship of artists? Was not this Bohemia? Had I not long heard and
dreamed of it? Well, then, what difference whether the tales were good
or bad? They were by one whom I was compelled to admire, an artist,
pale, sensitive, recessive, one who at the slightest show of inattention
or lack of appreciation might leave me and never see me more.
I listened to about nine without dying, declaring each and every one to
be the best I had ever heard—perfect.
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