A Clerk May Look At A Celebrity

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Title:     A Clerk May Look At A Celebrity
Author: Robert Cortes Holliday [More Titles by Holliday]

A clerk may look at a celebrity. For a number of years, we, being diligent in our business, stood and waited before kings in a celebrated book shop. Now (like Casanova, retired from the world of our triumphs and adventures) we compose our memoirs. "We know from personal experience that a slight tale, a string of gossip, will often alter our entire conception of a personality,"--from a contemporary book review. This, the high office of tittle-tattle, is what we have in our eye. We are Walpolian, Pepysian.

"These Memoirs, Confessions, Recollections, Impressions (as the title happens) are extremely valuable in the pictures they contain of the time. Especially happy are they in the intimate glimpses they give us of the distinguished people, particularly the men of letters, of the day. The writer was an attache of the court," the writer was this, the writer was that, but always the writer had peculiar facilities for observing intimately--and so forth. So it was with the writer here.

We remember with especial entertainment, we begin, the first time we saw F. Hopkinson Smith. (We are ashamed to say that he was known among our confrere, the salesmen, as "Hop" Smith.) He introduced himself to us by his moustache. Looming rapidly and breezily upon us--"Do you know me?" he said, swelling out his "genial" chest (so it seemed) and pointing, with a militarish gesture, to this decoration. We looked a moment at this sea gull adornment, somehow not unfamiliar to us, and said, "We do." Mr. Hopkinson Smith, we perceived, regards this literary monument, so to say, as a household word (to put it so) in every home in the land. Mr. Smith, a very robust man, wore yellow, sulphur-coloured gloves, a high hat, a flower in his buttonhole, white piping to his vest. A debonair figure, Chanticleerian. Fresh complexion. Exhaling a breeze of vigour. Though not short in stature, he is less tall than, from the air of his photographs, we had been led to expect. A surprise conveying a curious effect, reminded one of that subconscious sensation experienced in the presence of a one-time tall chair which has been lowered a little by having had a section of its legs sawed off.

Mr. Smith's conversation with book clerks we found to be confined to inquiries (iterated upon each reappearance) concerning the sale of his own books. We appreciate that this may not be the expression of an irrestrainable vanity, or obsessing greed, realising that very probably his professional insight into human character informs him that the subject of the sales of books is the range of the book clerk's mind. He expressed a frank and hearty pride (engaging in aspect, we felt) in the long-sustained life of "Peter," which remarkably selling book survived on the front fiction table all its contemporaries, and in full vigour lived on to see a new generation grow up around it there. In a full-blooded, sporting spirit Mr. Smith asked us if his new book was "selling faster than John Fox's." Heartiness and geniality is his role. A man built to win and to relish popularity. With a breezy salute of the sulphur-gloved hand, he is gone. Immediately we feel much less electric.

Alas, what an awful thing! Oliver Herford, with heavily dipped pen poised, is about to autograph a copy of his "Pen and Ink Puppet," when, lo! a monstrous ink blot spills upon the fair page. Hideous! Mr. Herford is nonplused. The book is ruined. No! Mr. Herford is not Mr. Herford for nothing. The book is enriched in value. Sesame! With his pen Mr. Herford deftly touches the ink blot, and it is a most amusing human silhouette. How characteristic an autograph, his delighted friend will say.

We were quite satisfied in the introduction given us in our sojourn as a book clerk with Mr. Herford. That is to say, our early education was received largely from the pages of St. Nicholas Magazine; and when grown to man's estate and brought to mingle with the great we might easily have suffered a sentimental disappointment in Mr. Herford. But no, he is as mad as a March hare. He never, we should say, has any idea where he is. An absolutely blank face. Mind far, far away. Doesn't act as though he had any mind. A smallish, clean-shaven man, light sack suit, somewhat crumpled. A fine shock of greyish-hair. Cane hooked over crooked arm. List to starboard, like a postman. Approaches directly toward us. We prepare to render our service. Perceives something in his path (us) just in time to avert a collision, swerves to one side. Takes an oblique tack. But speaks (always particular to avoid seeming to slight us) in a very friendly fashion. Though gives you the impression that he thinks you are some one else. A pleasant, unaffected man to talk to. Somewhat dazed, however, in effect. Curious manner of speech, of which evidently he is unconscious, partly native English accent, partly temperamental idiosyncrasy. A very simple eccentric, what in the eighteenth century was called "an original." Reads popular novels.

It was given to us to see the launching throes of a nouveau novelist. We noticed day after day a well-built young man come in to gaze at the fiction table, a sturdy, spirited, comely chap. A fine snap to his eye we particularly noticed, and admired. He seemed to derive much satisfaction from this occupation and to be in an excellent frame of mind. And then, it struck us, he grew of troubled mien. He asked us one day how "Predestined" was selling. So we had the psychology of the situation. He asked, on another, if we had sold a copy of "Predestined" yet. A few days following he inquired, "How long does it take before a book gets started?" Dejected was his mien. It took "Predestined" some time. Then it went very well. We sold a joyous-looking Stephen French Whitman, an embodiment of gusto--there was a positive crackle to his fine black eyes--a pile of books concerning themselves with Europe, and did not see him again for some time. Then he flashed upon us a handsome new moustache.

Our acquaintance with Mrs. Wharton was--merely formal. "Oh, very pleased," exclaimed an equiline lady, patrician unmistakable, of aristocratic features which we recognised from the portraits of magazines, "I'll take this." She had in her hand a copy of the then quite new pocket edition "Poems" of George Meredith. She was very fashionably, strikingly, gowned, somewhat conspicuously; a large pattern in the figure of the cloth. She carried a little dog. There was about her something, difficult to denote, brilliant and hard in effect, like a polished stone. And we felt the rarefied atmosphere of a wealthy, highly cultivated, rather haughty society. "Charge to Edward Wharton," she said, very nicely, bending over us as we wrote "Lenox, Mass." She pronounced it not Massachusetts, but Mass, as is not infrequent in the East. "Thank you," she said; she swept from us. Our regard was won to this incarnation of distinction by the pleasant humanity of her manners, her very gracious "Good morning" to the elevator man as she left.

"Dicky" Davis we always called him behind his back. And such he looks. A man of "strapping" physique, younger in a general effect than probably he is; immense chest and shoulders, great "meaty" back; constructed like (we picture) those gladiators Borrow lyrically acclaims the "noble bruisers of old England"; complexion, (to employ perhaps an excessive stylistic restraint) not pale. A heavy stick. A fondness for stocks. Very becoming. A vitality with an aversion, apparently, to wearing an overcoat in the coldest weather; deeming this probably an appurtenance of the invalid. Funny style of trowsers as if made for legs about a foot longer. In the reign of "high waters"!

We had picked up the notion that Mr. Davis was a snobbish person; we found him a very friendly man; gentle, describes it, in manner. Very respectful to clerks. "One of the other gentlemen here ordered another book for me," he mentions. But more. A sort of camaraderie. Says, one day, that he just stepped in to dodge some people he saw coming. Inquires, "Well, what's going on in the book world?" Buys travel books, Africa and such. Buys a quart of ink at a clip. He conveyed to us further, unconsciously, perhaps, a subtle impression that he was, in sympathy with us, on our side, so to say; in any difficulty, that would be, that might arise; with "the boys," in a manner of speaking. Veteran globe trotter and soldier of fortune on the earth's surface, Mr. Davis suffered a considerable shock to discover in tete-a-tete that we had never been in London. London? Such a human vegetable, we saw, was hardly credible.

"Charge," he said, "to James Huneker." He pronounced his name in a very eccentric fashion, the first syllable like that in "hunter." In our commerce with the world we have, with this rather important exception, invariably heard this "u" as in "humid." A substantial figure, very erect in carriage, supporting his portliness with that physical pride of portly men, moving with the dignity of bulk; a physiognomy of Rodinesque modelling. His cane a trim touch to the ensemble. Decidedly affable in manner to us. "Very nice man," comments our hasty note. "One of our young gentlemen here, black eyes, black hair."--describes with surprising memory of exact observation a fellow-serf--"was to get a book for me a couple of months ago." Bought the Muther monograph on Goya. Referred humorously to his new book--one on music. Said, "Many people won't believe that one can be equally good, or perhaps bad, at many things." Spoke of Arnold Bennett; said he was "a hard-working journalist as well as a novel writer." Seemed to possess the greater respect, great esteem, for the character of journalist. We felt a reminiscence of that solid practicality of sentiment of another heavy man. "Nobody but a blockhead," said Dr. Johnson, "ever wrote except for money."

Mentioned the novel then just out, "Predestined." "He [the author] is one of our [Sun] men, you know." Fraternal pride and affection in inflection, though he said he did not know Mr. Whitman. "Thank you very much indeed," he said at leaving.

From his carriage, moving slowly in on the arm of a Japanese boy, his servant, came one day John La Farge. Tales of the Far East. Profound erudition, skin of sear parchment, Indian philosophies, exotic culture, incalculable age, inscrutable wisdom, intellectual mystery, a dignity deep in its appeal to the imagination--such was the connotation of this presence. (Fine as that portrait by Mr. Cortissoz.) An Oriental scholar, all right, we thought. Mr. La Farge was in search of some abstruse art books. He did not care, he said, what language they were in, except German. He said he hated German. "Well, we have to go to the German for many things, you know," we said. "Yes," said Mr. La Farge, "we have to die, too, but I don't want to any sooner than I can help."

But it is not famous authors only that are interesting. We were approached one day by a tall, exceedingly solemn individual who asked for a copy of a book the name of which sounded to us like the title of what "the trade" knows as "a juvenile." "Who wrote it?" we inquired, puzzled. In a deep, hollow voice the unknown gentleman vibrated, "I did."

A very light-coloured new Norfolk suit, with a high hat; an exceedingly neat black cutaway coat and handsome checked trowsers, a decidedly big derby hat (flat on top), an English walking coat, with plaid trowsers to match, the whole about a dozen checks high. This? An inventory of the wardrobe of Dr. Henry van Dyke, as it has been displayed to our appreciation. Has not the handsome wardrobe been a familiar feature in the history of literature? And does anybody like Dr. Goldsmith the less for having loved a lovely coat?

A slight figure, very erect and alert. A dapper, dignified step. Movement precise. An effect of a good deal of nose glasses. Black, heavy rims. A wide, black tape. Head perpendicular, drawn back against the neck. Grave, scholarly face, chiselled with much refinement of technique; foil to the studious complexion, a dark, silken moustache. Holding our thumb-nail sketch up to the light, we see it thus.

We regret that our view of this figure so prominent in our literature is perforce so entirely external. But for this Dr. van Dyke has no one to blame but himself, his fastidiousness in clerks. Ignoring, as he passes, our offer of service, at the desk where he seats himself he removes his hat--a large head, we note, for the figure, a good deal of back as well as top head--and, preparing to write, to fill out the order forms himself, fumbles a great deal with his glasses, taking off and putting on again. A friend discovering him here, he springs up and greets him with much vivacity. His orders written out, he delivers them into the hands of the manager of the shop with whom he chats a bit. . . .

Nature imitated art, indeed, when she designed William Gillette, remarkable fleshly incarnation of the literary figment, Sherlock Holmes. In the soul of Mr. Gillette, as on a stage, we witnessed a dramatic moral conflict. Two natures struggled before us within him. Which would prevail? Mr. Gillette was much interested in Rackham books. Bought a great many. In stock at this time was a very elaborate set in several quarto volumes of "Alice in Wonderland," most ornately bound, with Rackham designs inlaid in levant of various colours in the rich purple levant binding. The illustrations within were a unique, collected set of the celebrated drawings made by various hands for this classic. The price, several hundred dollars. Mr. Gillette was torn with temptation here. And yet was it right for him to be so extravagant? Periodically he came in, impelled to inquire if the set had yet been sold. If somebody only would buy the set--why, then, of course--it would be all over.

In our contemplation of the literari we have amused ourselves with philosophic reflection. We recalled that old saw of Oscar Wilde's (as George Moore says of something of Wordsworth's) about the artist tending always to reproduce his own type. And we thought what an excellent model to the illustrator of his own "Married Life of the Frederic Carrolls" Jesse Lynch Williams would have been. No name itself, it struck us, would be happier for Mr. Williams than Frederic Carroll--if it were not Jesse Lynch Williams. A "colletch" chap alumnus. A typical, clever, exceedingly likable young American husband, fairly well to do: it is thus we behold him. Slender, in an English walking coat, smiling agreeably. One, we thought, you would think of as a popular figure in a younger "set."

It is irrelevant, certainly, but we must acknowledge our indebtedness to a lady customer who supposed that the "Married Life of the Frederic Carrolls" was an historic work, dealing with the domestic existence of the author of "Alice."

Thomas Nelson Page, autographing presentation copies of "A Coast of Bohemia," remarks, "This is one of the rewards of poetry." At this task, or, rather, pleasure, Mr. Page spent a good part of several successive days in the store. A gentleman, with a flavour of "the South" in his speech, very like his well-known pictures; stocky; an effect of not having, in length, much neck. Light, soft suit, or very becoming Prince Albert, and high hat. "He will wear you out," whispers a colleague to us; "he has no idea where any of his friends live. I doubt if he knows where he lives himself." The junior Mr. Weller, we recollect, when an inn "boots" referred to humankind in terms natural to his calling. "There's a pair of Hessians in thirteen," he said. Viewing Mr. Page with the eye of an attendant, we should remark that he is a Tartar. But a kindly, patient, courteous Tartar.

City directories, telephone "books," social registers, "Who's Whos," all are necessary to enable him to tell the addresses of his friends. And these are inadequate. He wishes to send, as a token of his regard, a book, affectionately inscribed, to his friend, let us say, J. M. D----, Esq. We learn by the agency of the machinery to which we have recourse that there reside in the City of New York four gentlemen of this identical name: one on Madison Avenue, one on Ninety-first Street, another in Brooklyn, the other somewhere else. Mr. Page is completely bewildered as to which is his friend. "Well, I don't know," he says, "but this man married former Senator So-and-So's daughter." Now, can't we solve that, somehow? Historic Spirit! we cried that day, impracticality of literary men for petty, mundane details, here hast thou still thy habitat, a temple in Mr. Page!

Lor', how we do run on!

[The end]
Robert Cortes Holliday's essay: Clerk May Look At A Celebrity

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