第42章 A NEW ARRIVAL(2)

"I was ordered by the editor of the newspaper to which I am attached,'The People's Perennial and Household Inquisitor,'to make a visit to a certain well-known writer,and obtain all the particulars I could concerning him and all that related to him.I have interviewed a good many politicians,who I thought rather liked the process;but Ihad never tried any of these literary people,and I was not quite sure how this one would feel about it.I said as much to the chief,but he pooh-poohed my scruples.'It is n't our business whether they like it or not,'said he;'the public wants it,and what the public wants it's bound to have,and we are bound to furnish it.Don't be afraid of your man;he 's used to it,--he's been pumped often enough to take it easy,and what you've got to do is to pump him dry.You need n't be modest,--ask him what you like;he is n't bound to answer,you know.'

As he lived in a rather nice quarter of the town,I smarted myself up a little,put on a fresh collar and cuffs,and got a five-cent shine on my best high-lows.I said to myself,as I was walking towards the house where he lived,that I would keep very shady for a while and pass for a visitor from a distance;one of those 'admiring strangers'who call in to pay their respects,to get an autograph,and go home and say that they have met the distinguished So and So,which gives them a certain distinction in the village circle to which they belong.

"My man,the celebrated writer,received me in what was evidently his reception-room.I observed that he managed to get the light full on my face,while his own was in the shade.I had meant to have his face in the light,but he knew the localities,and had arranged things so as to give him that advantage.It was like two frigates manoeuvring,--each trying to get to windward of the other.I never take out my note-book until I and my man have got engaged in artless and earnest conversation,--always about himself and his works,of course,if he is an author.

"I began by saying that he must receive a good many callers.Those who had read his books were naturally curious to see the writer of them.

"He assented,emphatically,to this statement.He had,he said,a great many callers.

"I remarked that there was a quality in his books which made his readers feel as if they knew him personally,and caused them to cherish a certain attachment to him.

"He smiled,as if pleased.He was himself disposed to think so,he said.In fact,a great many persons,strangers writing to him,had told him so.

"My dear sir,I said,there is nothing wonderful in the fact you mention.You reach a responsive chord in many human breasts.

'One touch of Nature makes the whole world kin.'

Everybody feels as if he,and especially she (his eyes sparkled),were your blood relation.Do they not name their children after you very frequently?

"He blushed perceptibly.'Sometimes,'he answered.'I hope they will all turn out well.'

"I am afraid I am taking up too much of your time,I said.

"No,not at all,'he replied.'Come up into my library;it is warmer and pleasanter there.'

"I felt confident that I had him by the right handle then;for an author's library,which is commonly his working-room,is,like a lady's boudoir,a sacred apartment.

"So we went upstairs,and again he got me with the daylight on my face,when I wanted it on has.

"You have a fine library,I remarked.There were books all round the room,and one of those whirligig square book-cases.I saw in front a Bible and a Concordance,Shakespeare and Mrs.Cowden Clarke's book,and other classical works and books of grave aspect.I contrived to give it a turn,and on the side next the wall I got a glimpse of Barnum's Rhyming Dictionary,and several Dictionaries of Quotations and cheap compends of knowledge.Always twirl one of those revolving book-cases when you visit a scholar's library.That is the way to find out what books he does n't want you to see,which of course are the ones you particularly wish to see.

"Some may call all this impertinent and inquisitive.What do you suppose is an interviewer's business?Did you ever see an oyster opened?Yes?Well,an interviewer's business is the same thing.

His man is his oyster,which he,not with sword,but with pencil and note-book,must open.Mark how the oysterman's thin blade insinuates itself,--how gently at first,how strenuously when once fairly between the shells!

"And here,I said,you write your books,--those books which have carried your name to all parts of the world,and will convey it down to posterity!Is this the desk at which you write?And is this the pen you write with?

"'It is the desk and the very pen,'he replied.

"He was pleased with my questions and my way of putting them.I took up the pen as reverentially as if it had been made of the feather which the angel I used to read about in Young's "Night Thoughts"ought to have dropped,and did n't.

"Would you kindly write your autograph in my note-book,with that pen?I asked him.Yes,he would,with great pleasure.

"So I got out my note-book.

"It was a spick and span new one,bought on purpose for this interview.I admire your bookcases,said I.Can you tell me just how high they are?

"'They are about eight feet,with the cornice.'

"I should like to have some like those,if I ever get rich enough,said I.Eight feet,--eight feet,with the cornice.I must put that down.

"So I got out my pencil.

"I sat there with my pencil and note-book in my hand,all ready,but not using them as yet.

"I have heard it said,I observed,that you began writing poems at a very early age.Is it taking too great a liberty to ask how early you began to write in verse?

"He was getting interested,as people are apt to be when they are themselves the subjects of conversation.

"'Very early,--I hardly know how early.I can say truly,as Louise Colet said,'Je fis mes premiers vers sans savoir les ecrire.'""I am not a very good French scholar,said I;perhaps you will be kind enough to translate that line for me.

"'Certainly.With pleasure.I made my first verses without knowing how to write them.'