On my way back from the Polish home of the De Reszkes it occurred to me
that it would be worth while to stop over a day or so and interview Mr.
Sienkiewicz. There were a great many things I desired to ask that
gentleman, and he is so comparatively unknown a personality that I
thought a word or two with him would be interesting.
I had great difficulty in finding him, for the very simple reason that,
like most other people, I did not know how to ask for him. Ordinarily I
can go into a shop and ask where the person I wish to see may chance to
dwell. But when a man has a name like Sienkiewicz, the task is not an
easy one. When it is remembered that poets in various parts of the
United States have made the name rhyme to such words as sticks, fizz,
and even vichy, it will be seen that it requires an unusually bold
person to try to speak it in a country where words of that nature are
considered as easy to pronounce as Jones or Smith would be in my own
beloved land. However, I was not to be daunted, and set about my
self-appointed task without hesitation. My first effort was to seek
information from my friends the De Reszkes, and I telegraphed them:
"Where can I find Sienkiewicz? Please answer." With their usual courtesy
the brothers replied promptly: "We don't know what it is. If it is a
patent-medicine, apply at any apothecary shop; if it is a vegetable, we
do not raise it, but we have a fine line of parsley we can send you if
there is any immediate hurry."
I suppose I ought not to give the brothers away by printing their
message of reply, but it seems to me to be so interesting that I may
hope to be forgiven if I have erred.
I next turned to the book-shops, but even there I was puzzled. Most of
the booksellers spoke French; and while I am tolerably familiar with the
idiom of the boulevards, I do not speak it fluently, and was utterly at
a loss to know what _Quo Vadis_ might be in that language. So I asked
for a copy of _With Fire and Sword_.
"Avez-vous _Avec Feu et Sabre_?" I asked of the courteous salesman.
It may have been my accent, or it may have been his stupidity. In any
event, he did not seem to understand me, so I changed the book, and
asked for _The Children of the Soil_.
"N'importe," said I. "Avez-vous _Les Enfants de la Terre_?"
"Excuse me, madame," he replied, in English, "but what do you want,
anyhow?"
"I want to know where--er--where the author of _Quo Vadis_ lives."
"Oh!" said he. "I did not quite understand you. It is so long since I
was in Boston that my American French is a trifle weak. If you will take
the blue trolley-car that goes up Ujazdowska Avenue, and ask the
conductor to let you out at the junction of the Krakowskie Przedmiescie
and the Nowy Swiat, the gendarme on the corner will be able to direct
you thither."
"Great Heavens!" I cried. "Would you mind writing that down?"
He was a very agreeable young man, and consented. It is from his
memorandum that I have copied the names he spoke with such ease, and if
it so happens that I have got them wrong, it is his fault, and not mine.
"One more thing before I go," said I, folding up the memorandum and
shoving it into the palm of my hand through the opening in my glove.
"When I get to--er--the author of _Quo Vadis's_ house, whom shall I ask
for?"
I fear the young man thought I was mad. He eyed me suspiciously for a
moment.
"That all depends upon whom you wish to see," he said.
"I want to see--er--him," said I.
"Then ask for him," he replied. "It is always well, when calling, to ask
for the person one wishes to see. If you desired to call upon Mrs.
Brown-Jones, for instance, it would be futile to go to her house and ask
for Mrs. Pink-Smith, or Mrs. Greene-Robinson."
"I know that," said I. "But what's his name?"
The young man paled visibly. He now felt certain that I was an escaped
lunatic.
"I mean, how do you pronounce it?" I hastened to add.
"Oh!" he replied, with a laugh, and visibly relieved. "Oh, that! Why,
Sienkiewicz, of course! It is frequently troublesome to those who are
not familiar with the Polish language. It is pronounced Sienkiewicz.
S-i-e-n-k, Sienk, i-e, ie, w-i-c-z, wicz--Sienkiewicz."
And so I left him, no wiser than before. He did it so fluently and so
rapidly that I failed to catch the orthoepic curves involved in this
famous name.
[Illustration: ASKED A POLICEMAN]
Armed with the slip of paper he had so kindly handed me, I sought out
and found the trolley-car; conveyed by signs rather than by word of
mouth to the conductor where I wished to alight; discovered the
gendarme, who turned out to be a born policeman, and was therefore an
Irishman, who escorted me without more ado to the house in which dwelt
the man for whom I was seeking.
"Is--er--the head of the house in?" I asked of the maid who answered my
summons. I spoke in French, and this time met with no difficulty. The
maid had served in America, and understood me at once.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR IN HIS STUDY]
"Yes, ma'm," she replied, and immediately ushered me into the author's
den, where I discovered the great man himself scolding his secretary.
"I cannot understand why you are so careless," he was saying as I
entered. "In spite of all my orders, repeatedly given, you will not dot
your jays or cross your ells. If you do not take greater care I shall
have to get some one else who will. Write this letter over again."
Then he looked up, and perceiving me, rose courteously, and, much to my
surprise, observed in charming English:
"Miss Witherup, I presume?"
"Yes," said I, grasping his proffered hand. "How did you know?"
"I was at the De Reszkes' when your telegram reached there yesterday,"
he explained. "We thought you would be amused by the answer we sent
you."
"Oh!" said I, seeing that I had been made the victim of a joke. "It
wasn't polite, was it?"
"Oh, I don't know," he replied. "It was inspired by our confidence in
your American alertness. We were sure you would be able to find me,
anyhow, and we thought we'd indulge in a little humor, that was all."
"Ah!" I said, smiling, to show my forgiveness. "Well, you were right;
and now that I have found you, tell me, do you write or dictate your
stories?"
"I dictate them," he said.
"Wonderful!" said I. "Can you really speak all those dreadful Polish
words? They are so long and so full of unexpected consonants in curious
juxtaposition that they suggest barb-wire rather than literature to the
average American mind."
I had a sort of sneaking idea that he would find in juxtaposition a word
to match any of his own, and I spoke it with some pride. He did not seem
to notice it, however, and calmly responded:
"One gets used to everything, Miss Witherup. I have known men who could
speak Russian so sweetly that you'd never notice how full of jays the
language is," said he. "And I have heard Englishmen say that after ten
years' residence in the United States they got rather to like the
dialect of you New-Yorkers, and in some cases to speak it with some
degree of fluency themselves."
"What is your favorite novel, Mr.--er--"
"Sienkiewicz," he said, smiling over my hesitation.
"Thanks," said I, gratefully. "But never mind that. I have a toothache,
anyhow, and if you don't mind I won't--"
"Don't mention it," he said.
"I won't," I answered. "What is your favorite novel?"
"_Quo Vadis_," he replied, promptly, and without any conceit whatever.
He was merely candid.
"I don't mean of your own. I mean of other people's," said I.
"Oh!" said he. "I didn't understand; still, my answer must be the same.
My favorite novel in Polish is, of course, my own; but of the novels
that others have published, I think _Quo Vadis_, by Jeremiah Curtin, is
my favorite. Of course it is only a translation, but it is good."