An Anecdote for Authors

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB

GENTLE reader, I once wrote a book. Among the mingled pains and pleasures attendant upon its appearance was a friendly note from a distant city, speaking of it, not effusively, but with a kind word for a weary author; commending it especially for its high idealism — idealism, a word to conjure with. Doubtless it was because of this word that the letter, after a line of thanks to the sender, was dropped into the little pile of notes to be saved, instead of being tossed into the glowing coals of the oak logs on the hearth. I know that it was not too good a book; but perhaps idealism might not unthinkably produce some result of which it would be pleasant to be reminded.

It is curious — the distinction between the letters regarding one’s books that one saves, and those that one destroys. The unfriendly ones go into the fire, making friendly heat and flame; the intelligently critical, one takes to heart, trying to profit by wholesome advice; it is those other warm and gentle missives chat one saves for possible moments of a golden old age, when the striving and the shaping are over, when one is beyond retrogression and improvement.

It was a year later that, one evening, a stranger was ushered into our livingroom — a tall, slender, elderly man, half shy, wholly friendly. He had a few minutes in my town, and, recalling a note of thanks I had written in answer to a letter about my book, had ventured to stop for a minute, trusting that I would send him away if I were too busy.

I was not too busy. He dropped into an easy-chair, and we fell to talking of books and men, of recent articles in the Atlantic, of literary folk whom we had both—proudly—met, Miss Repplier among them. We discussed both free verse and poetry, and the latest sophisticated treatises: he had under his arm Newbolt’s New Study of Poetry, which he took pains to show me. Had I happened to see any of the reviews that he had written of my books? No? He was sorry.

This was a great pleasure, he said, on a most unfortunate evening. He and his sister had missed friends they had intended to call on as they waited over a train, had missed connections everywhere; the sister’s husband was to meet them here, but had evidently by mistake gone on to Albany. The sister had wished to come with him for this brief call, as she knew certain friends of mine; but found herself too tired, and was waiting at the stat ion with her two little boys.

Then we plunged back into the immensities and eternities of books; he seemed to be a well-read man, with something of insight and with a sense of humor. That was a curious gesture he had of putting his long slender hand upright over his mouth when he laughed; but of course the mannerisms of literary folk are many.

Suddenly, the hand went to his watch pocket; it was nearly traintime; he must be going. Then, as he rose, bashfully, almost blushing through his wrinkles, he said that it was painful to ask, but he and his sister, having missed everybody, found that they had not quite enough money to take them on. It was hard on her and the little boys; whimsically he added that it was a bit hard on him to travel with the little boys, they were so restless, but he must see them all safely home. His sister had been digging down to the bottom of her bag; he had in vain emptied every pocket; they had almost enough, but would I —?

Of course I would. I remembered little boys, sleepy little boys and tired, for I, too, have nephews. Especially vivid in memory was the time I took little Tom home from the hospital, after the hurt to his hand had been cured. So sympathetic was I with the mother of these two, that I forgot, to ask the names of those friends of mine with whom she was acquainted. Almost apologetically, as we never keep large sums of money in the house, I hastily secured and pressed into my caller’s hand all I had. (Reader, it was about the price of a good pair of shoes.)

The relief and gratitude in his face made me see how much more serious his dilemma had been than I had realized. There was, of course, no suggestion of repayment: a ‘gentlemen’s agreement’ in these matters is a silent one; but I knew from his look, his bearing, the whole implication of his being, that he would mail his check for the amount as soon as he reached his study and his pen.

He left hastily, saying, as he slipped through the door, that he had had a very pleasant half-hour. I feared that I had made him late for his train; his step was over-lively for his years, as he went down the walk and vanished in the darkness.

As I went back to my chair by the fire, I began to wonder that a man of his age should have such little nephews: surely he was my senior, yet my nephews are over six feet tall, and some of them are taking care of their restless little boys. That odd gesture with the hand could not have been intended to hide the distinct peculiarities of the teeth, which I had tried not to notice? I went upstairs and unearthed that note of a year ago from the bottom of the friendly pile; it seemed unmistakably a gentleman’s letter, brief, courteous, and, — propitious name! — headed Oxford Street. Now, was this address fact, or art?

Reader, what could one have done otherwise? One would rather be the victim of a confidence man than fail to give help where help is needed. As the days passed and no check came I began to wonder what his real profession was. Was he an ex-actor, or, as he had seemed, a literary man of sorts, ex-professor, as he claimed, of the university in his own town? I began to realize that the tale he had told me had been too complete, too well-presented, too concrete. Doubtless he was a not wholly prosperous literary man, and I represented one of his few successes in fiction. My pride was hurt; how often, in feminine fashion had I derided (yet with secret admiration for the trust in humankind that underlies it) the easy gullibility of men, their over-readiness to be imposed upon by their fellows! To be sure, the days are decades past since I prided myself, as in the time of youth, upon a keenness of insight into human nature. Growing older, I am aware that human nature is no such easy matter.

Knowing that literary folk are the last people on earth who should be fleeced, I write my word of warning that a new Game of Authors has been devised, played for stakes. It is a clever game: your confidence man introduces himself long beforehand, perfectly and convincingly, by letter. He plays cunningly upon human nature in its more superficial as well as its deeper aspects, from vanity to a longing for sympathy, and a deep desire to showsympathy. I would not have my fellows of the Atlantic, who follow the gentle craft, become victims of this most ungentle craft, and so I tell my tale.

Yet misgiving comes. Remembering that among the literary progeny of Sherlock Holmes was Raffles, shall I, in warning my fellowauthor, but be giving points to other elderly confidence men, bashful, friendly—but no! Surely these are unthinkable among readers of the Atlantic.