"Now that your house is sold," said I, "_why_, Mr. Peters, did you leave
Vermont?"
"For several reasons," he replied, putting the check in his pocket, and
relighting his jinrikisha, which had gone out. "In the first place, it
was some distance from town. I thought, when I built the house, that I
could go to New York every morning and come back at night. My notion
was correct, but I discovered afterwards that while I could go to New
York by day and return by night, there was not more than five minutes
between the trains I had to take to do it. Then there was a certain
amount of human sympathy involved. The postman was fairly bent under the
weight of the letters I received asking for autographs. He came twice a
day, and each time the poor chap had to carry a ton of requests for
autographs."
"Still, you needn't have replied to them," I said.
"Oh, I never tried to," he said. "It was the postman who aroused my
sympathy."
"But you didn't give up trying to live in your own house that had cost
you $20,000 for that?" I said.
[Illustration: "HE WAS ERECTING A GRAND-STAND"]
"Well, no," he answered. "Frankly, I didn't. There were other drawbacks.
You Americans are too fond of collecting things. For instance, I went to
a reception one night in Boston, and I wore a new dress-suit, and, by
Jove! when I got home and took my coat off I found that the tails had
been cut off--I presume by souvenir-hunters! Every mail brought
countless requests for locks of my hair; and every week, when my laundry
came back, there were at least a dozen things of one kind or another
missing, which I afterwards learned had been stolen off the line by
collectors of literary relics. Then the kodak fiends, that continually
lurked about behind bushes and up in the trees and under the piazzas,
were a most infernal nuisance. I dare say there are 50,000 unauthorized
photographs of myself in existence to-day. Even these I might have
endured, not to mention visitors who daily came to my home to tell me
how much they had enjoyed my books. Ten or a dozen of these people are
gratifying, but when you come down to breakfast and find a line
stretching all the way from your front door to the railway station, and
excursion trains coming in loaded to the full with others every hour, it
ceases to be pleasant and interferes seriously with one's work.
However, I never murmured until one day I observed a gang of carpenters
at work on the other side of the street, putting up a curious-looking
structure which resembled nothing I had ever seen before. When I had
made inquiries I learned that an enterprising circus-manager had secured
a lease of the place for the summer, and was erecting a grand-stand for
people who came to catch a glimpse of me to sit on.
"It was then that the thread of my patience snapped. I don't mind
writing autographs for eight hours every day; I don't mind being kodaked
if it makes others happy; and if any Boston relic-hunter finds comfort
in possessing the tails of my dress-coat he is welcome to them; but I
can't go being turned into a side-show for the delectation of a
circus-loving people, so I got out."
I was silent. I knew precisely what he had suffered, and could not blame
him.
"I suppose," I said, sympathetically, "that this means that you will
never return."
"Oh no," said he. "I expect to go back some day, but not until public
interest in my personal appearance has died out. Some time somebody will
discover some new kind of a freak to interest you people, and when that
happens I will venture back for a day or two, but until then I think I
will stay over here, where an illustrious personage can have a fit in
the street, if he wants to, without attracting any notice whatsoever.
There are so many great people over here, like myself and Lord Salisbury
and Emperor William, that fame doesn't distinguish a man at all, and it
is possible to be happy though illustrious, and to enjoy a certain
degree of privacy."
Just then the English coast hove in sight, and Mr. Kipling went below to
pack up his mullagatawny, while I drew close to the rail and reflected
upon certain peculiarities of my own people.
They certainly do love a circus!