Part 2 (1/2)
”Well, for instance, this,” responded the critic: ”You attempt to depict the sensations of love, though you have never had a pa.s.sion. Can you expect to know how it feels to hold a beautiful girl in your arms, when you never had one there? You put words of temptation into the mouth of your villain which no real scamp would think of using, for their only effect would be to alarm your heroine. You talk of a planned seduction as if it were part of an oratorio. And you make your hero so superlatively pure and sweet that no woman formed of flesh and blood could endure him for an hour.”
The color mounted to Roseleaf's face. He felt that this criticism was not without foundation. But presently he rallied, and asked if it were necessary for a man to experience every sensation before he dared write about them.
”Do you suppose,” he asked, desperately, ”that Jules Verne ever traveled sixty thousand leagues under the sea or made a journey to the moon?”
Mr. Weil could not help uttering a little laugh. Mr. Gouger struck his hands together and clinched them.
”No,” said he. ”But he could have written neither of those wonderful tales without a knowledge of the sciences of which they treat.”
”He has read, and I have read,” responded Roseleaf. ”What is the difference?”
”He has studied, and you have not,” retorted the critic. ”That makes all the difference in the world. He has a correct idea of the structure of the moon and what should be found in the unexplored caverns of the ocean; while you, in total ignorance, have attempted to deal in a science to which these are the merest bagatelles! You know as little of the tides that control the heart of a girl as you do of the personal history of the inhabitants of Jupiter! Your powers of description are good; those of invention feeble. Either throw yourself into a love affair, till you have learned it root and branch, or never again try to depict one.”
Mr. Archie Weil smiled and nodded, as if he entirely agreed with the speaker.
”What a novel _I_ could make, my dear fellow!” he exclaimed, ”if I only had the talent. I have had experiences enough, but I could no more write them out than I could fly.”
”It is quite as well,” was the response, ”your women would all be Messalinas and fiction has too many now.”
”Not _all_ of them, Lawrence,” was the quick and meaning reply.
”In that case,” said Gouger, ”I wish heartily you could write. The world is famis.h.i.+ng for a real love story, based on modern lines, brought up to date. I tell you, there has been nothing satisfactory in that line since Goethe's day.”
Mr. Weil suggested Balzac and Sand.
”Why don't you include George William Reynolds?” inquired Gouger, with a sneer. ”Neither of them wrote until they were depraved by contract with humanity. If we could get a young man of true literary talent to see life and write of it as he went along, what might we not secure? But I have no more time to spare, Mr. Roseleaf. I was sorry to be obliged to reject your story. Some day, when you have seen just a little of the world, begin again on the lines I have outlined, and come here with the result.”
Quite dispirited, now that the last plank had slipped from under him, the novelist walked slowly down the stairs. He did not even ask for his ma.n.u.script. After what he had heard, it did not seem worth carrying to his lodgings. His plans were s.h.i.+pwrecked. Instead of the fame and fortune he had hoped for, he felt the most bitter disappointment. All his bright dreams had vanished.
A step behind him quicker than his own, made him aware that some one was following him, and presently a voice called his name. It was Mr. Archie Weil, who had put himself to unusual exertion, and required some seconds to recover his breath before he could speak further.
”I want you to come over to my hotel and have a little talk with me,” he said. ”Gouger has interested me in you immensely. I believe, as he says, that you have the making of a distinguished author, and I want to arrange a plan by which you can carry out his scheme.”
Mr. Roseleaf stared doubtfully at his companion.
”What scheme?” he said, briefly.
”Why, of imparting to you that knowledge of the world which will enable you to draw truthful portraits. You have the art, he says, the talent, the capacity--whatever you choose to call it. All you lack is experience. Given that, you would make a reputation second to none. What can be plainer than that you should acquire the thing you need without delay?”
”The 'thing I need'?” repeated Roseleaf, dolefully.
Mr. Weil laughed, delightfully.
”Yes!” he explained. ”What you need is a friend able to interest you, to begin with. Pardon me if I say I may be described by that phrase. Come to my hotel a little while and let us talk it over.”
It was not an opportunity to be refused, in Roseleaf's depressed condition, and the two men walked together to the Hoffman House, where Mr. Weil at that time made his home.
CHAPTER II.