The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, May 19, 1901, Page 2

e novel to the tha ar s ry scems L We have cr Lots them. You know, T thi is % good thing that we no definite aut We can all critic herc ts of address to the commu v {1 v s out for our- as only a m of human kin- ed genially the warmth w with o the t of truti rs cailed mind and heart fi in hur cold 1 5 1 The greatest tragec life grown tentior tend within, given us t Z» Honest Psychologist. a s ndid example influences of that realistic psy- which few men conscier y n themselves—the psychology of nes I ever done a false bit of work or bee ed into saying a false thir and is a supreme confidence in his his criticisms on about a Puritan simplicit and as I Ic 1 remembered being present years ago at a public reading given by celebrated authors and poets at Chicker- in New York, for the purpose of funds to establish a firm law for tional copyright. James Russell Lowell was in the chair. About the middle of the afternoon he made this announcement, in quiet, tranquil fashion that was his own earth- ly atmosphere: “Ladies and Gentlemen—Some years past & young man came to my house with 2 bundle of manuscript, which he wished me to look at. He said, most earnestly, it was his intention, his ambition, his deter- mination to enter the field of literature, and—would I read some of his work and edvise him? 1 was so pleased with what he had given me to read that I gave him & letter to & prominent author in active service, and I fancy it must have encour- eged him.” Then came one of those electric pauses & silence in the crowded hall that was al- moet oppressive. Jar. Lowell turried to the group of celebrities seated on the plat- form and said quietly: “]I have great pleasure in introducing ‘that young man to you now, William Dean Howells.” Mr. Howells arose from his geat, and as he stepped forward, one of his books un- der his arm, he grasped Lowell's hand in ‘silent friendship as they passed. Many “seconds, perhaps sixty, went by amid @eafening applause and almost hysterical enthusiasm. Every one there shared for the moment the hand grasp they had ‘seer the fruition of the inspl ecdote they had just heard. ed some at It took Mr. Howells a while to maste: the emotion of those seconds, in which he nervously pulled out his handkerchief and it back in his pocket, and of the period, “there were 1 at last he spoke his voice steady and his head was bent low of the book he was open He page sa entlemen: The best thing \ do is to read to you the selection « scheduled to read this after- noo I have any voice left,” and he plunged & on, mastering suspicious chokes as best he could as ote reveals, while there is much tenderness in the man, there is tive vigor of sentiment that is of work badly done, only half or built on a basis of emo- In morals Mr. head is a better the heart. and he applies his his human experience to the ure ely the ane mentality tional sen Howells guide th conviction art of lite believes the nan Novels on the Stage. “Any novel made into a play is neces- sarily a disappointment to the reader in the fact that it is an attempt to compress sction that was originally barely suffi- cient to tell the story,” he said. “Novels should not be dramatized?” “I'm not a dramatist, you know.,” he said, smiling reproachfully. “You must pot lead me into a positive position or I ghall jump out through the door. ‘@eut you wrote “‘Yorick’s Love.” W, i \ B;E FIND TRuE I*\\W“‘L:“)U(T / HiNKing gpoUT ¢ “No, T merely transinted it; but 1 be- other side of the literary fam- el, not to the piay.” know what the process of novel to the theater means?’ ! a little about it. long to tt 1 kn i to say the only ; to do it ad the novel, then throw -it out ndow and write a play about it.” i essentlal difference be- e twa? hey are both literature. It is ity novel has be- that the k and wig. Pe « Play was tory, toid in a man fc ntation at the theater of indcnendent literature aps t ays « literary lue produced 10W are ly taose from an original source, I ¢ ler that ‘Unleav- € Bread' was f the best exam- pies of modern d ature. It vas a bit of life.” & sincerity is always form ture; s what lite in with ssful o's plays fine 1 the face, te! th atches the orais in nd k! acter and 1 think ‘The Secc storious N Auzus and true in his merican life on th slage, Are the wri “The liter lay relies equally what the looks as well as e be says. 1 know it is the custom to treat plays as something apart from lit- erature, but it scems absurd, for instance, to say when Tbsen writes a play that it is ost a tradition of the stage a very fixed tradition, to com- gesticn of literature in a pl vs that have liter “I know, t any s t is only art in them that survive. Lock at tne foreign’ dran ts, of whom some of the best T s come from Spanish writ- ers hegaray, for instance. “Is the melodrama a true picture of life?" “I suppose most plays have a melodra- matic flavor to them somewhere. Even a society play may be melodramatic.” “Would you call Rostand's plays melo- drama?” “Rostand’s plays are literary, but he has a false view of human nature. Of course he is absolutely sincere in his perception, but it is a false conception none the less, tn my opinion.” ou are thinking of ‘Cyrano de Ber- gerac'? “Perhaps I am. Cyrano does a false thing in marrying Roxane to his cousin Christian. The latter was quite inferior to him and this attitude of apparent self- sacrifice was morbid and false.. Roxane loved Cyrano’s mind: she probably never thought of his nose; it should have been his duty to prevent her from marrying Christian.” “How do you explain its success?" Cyrano’s Success. “The success of ‘Cyrano,’ I should like to feel, 1s its sentimentality. You know, people who go to the theater are sentl- mental. They are moved to enthusiasm by a little vaudeville ‘stunt,’ for instance; by the vis comica of the comedian, by the stress and terror of tragedy. They forget the moral in the emotional elements that are presented, and in things moral the head is better than the heart.” piscusses Tl ARADICAL OPINION OF “One should look at the moral ot a play “Why not? It is done in books, and books are the result of some head work. We find true morality by thinking about conduct. If Rostand I thought more, extended his research of Cyrano's char- acter to rock bottom depths he would have altered his play.” “And what of ‘L'Alglon’?" “‘L’Aiglon’ i made up of the lumber of Bonapartism. The play is puerilized by the puerility of the protagonist; rather tall words, but they express my meaning. I consider that melodrama is inferior art.” “Would you call Sardou’s plays litera- ture?” “I don't know them. The dramatist, as the novelist, should look at life and tell about it as it is. Pinero’s plays are the result of thinking about soclety, looking soclety straight in the eye.” “And yet, Pinero has been accused of writing decadent drama!” “‘Has he? Well! we've all been accused of something we didn't mean, I suppose. I consider that poor Oscar Wilde, gty A STupY OF M2 HOWELLS THE SUNDAY CALL. iy #13 "EAsY CRAIP® and wretched as the was a great mind in literature.” “He will never be forgotten in litera- ture.” “He should not be. dramatist, a brilllant genius, man was, He was a great and I am glad to be one to say it of him, now that he {s dead and gone. We cannot afford to belittle men who have made us think, no matter how they dishonor them- selves. “There is too much sentimentality in the position of the public, to-day; people used to go to the theater for the thought there was in a play; they don’t do so now, Up to the time of the unquestioned success of the novel the stage was a suc- cess artistically."” “You champion the original play?” “I do, most positively. Sometimes a play will be named from a general idea given by another writer, just as Charles Reade wrote his play called ‘Dora,’ taken from Tennyson's poem of the same name; there is an example of a man being moved by some one else's impression, but I believe that the play is one branch of AEL ] literature, a gift apart and independent of the novel.” “Is the American novel profuse in pro- duction?”’ “In selecting eight American novels for publication by Messrs. Harper their read- ers turned over nearly. three hundred manuseripts, nearly all of them promis- ing, but not quite up to the mark for our purpose.” “All these by unknown authors?’ Nearly all. Kight out of twelve books we accepted were by authors who had never been published before.” *“Is there much good fiction written that fails to get published?” “I don't believe many fail absolutely, notwithstanding the number of people writing in the dark, as it were. I think most good novels get into print eventu- ally.. You can always find some one who will listen to a story; it is the way the werld repeats itself.” “Should a story be completely worked out before it is written?” “The story does not exist until it is told. The actual life of a story is in the telling of it. You may start with a gen- M DOSTINY LHGLON o ORANO 2 BERGLIAC M) ACKWOWLEDGLD CRITICI AUTRORITY. w ART w THIS COUNTRY " SHYS /M? [AOWELLS Ly N i%"fltxym"wfl'c or A PLAY Wy :SPON WHAT THE eral motive, but even the plot can be de- veloped after you have begun to tell the story. But then, you know, you cannot teach people how to wr A novel is born very much on the same plan as any the ethical or You intend a certain and something grows from the germ of your intention.” “Is it necessary for the writer to be a recluse?” “A good deal depends upon surround- ings, I think; but then, a young man, for instance, has a strong grip on life and is not easily scattered. Perhaps it is the old fellows who are more likely to trip up in the clash and noise of a busy world.” “Don’t you think many young writers are Inclined to overwork, to do too many things at once, as it were?” “To write anything else while a man is at work on a novel disperses him. He should do as litsle in any other occupa- tion as possible.” Mr. Howells’ Method. ‘We drifted gradually to the more per- sonal phase of creative writing and I asked the author if a complete construct- course of action, ive formula was necessary before the story should begin on paper. “I never work that way,” he sald. “T couldn’t. My method is still a sort of psychic puzzle to myself. I usually have the last word of my book, the last pic- ture, before I begin. I know when and where I am going to end. Each da work seems to be the result of a new mo- tive. Every morning’s work on a novel 1 am writing completes itself Intuitively, rounds itself out and leaves something to unfold—to come after for the following day’'s writing.” “And how long is it before you set to work on paper?” “The development of a novel general motive is the most pain . GERONIMO 1S TURNING <GOOD INDIAN’” IN RIS | 7R LTHOUGH by no means a dead | /L\ Indian or likely to be one for a 4 \long time to come from all appear- ances, Geronimo, the famous war- good Indian nowadays. Not choice, however, for it bores him extremely. The rcason he is good is that, a prisoner of war at Fort Sill, Okla- homa, he has to be. He who was once the meanest and most bloodthirsty In- dian chief that ever fought the Govern- ment, now leads a quiet and peaceful life | that is in striking contrast to the old {days. In fact he is rather proud of it. | In moments of confidence he admits that he wouid like to do it all over again. One of the things over which he gloats is that he personally has Kkilled ten whites in a single battle. It is also a matter of pride to old age that he has led forays wherein as many as 500 palefaces were slaughtered. He has a deep-set, bred-in- the-bone taste for murder. Such is Geronimo's English that it is | well to hire an interpreter if one desires | to get an intelligent talk out of him. Also it is necessary to hire Geronimo. He does not talk for nothing, a fact of which the | writer was apprised immediately upon | questioning him. A dollar bill loosened | his tongue, but to the first question asked | how he liked his present position, he gave apswers rather difficult to reconcile. rior, from is a | } | his First, he liked the place. Then he said that tkhe soldiers treated him badly. As a corollary, he added that he wished to die. In the s *quent conversation his allegations 'of ill-treatment and his pin- ing for death cropped out with suspicious frequency. It is said by the officers that he repeats this to all white visitors, whereby -their pity is aroused and they buy his beadwork and trinkets at an ad- vance over, the market rates. Apparently the old chief has an easy and pleasant life. The officers at the fort treat him with kindness and consideration, allowing him all the privileges possible under the rules governing the conduct of prisoners of war. His position is peculiar in this respect, that although a prisoner he is also a paid employe of the Govern- ment. He draws $35 per month as a scout, though he is not permitted to carry a loaded gun. He has no work to do and spends most of his time making bead- work and other fancy articles to sell white visitors. Out of this trade, the soldiers think, he makes no less than §2000 a year.! “When asked if he had any money laid by for a rainy day, he replied in his guttural-Eng- lish: ‘“Me no save money. Me spend it for Eva. squaws and heap gladness. Me like to have gladness and see fun.” Eva is his favorite daughter. By squaws he means his wives. In the In- dian vernacular gladness is synonymous with gambling, and a great deal of the old man's money goes into the game and never comes out again. He is a very poor gambler, so far as winning goes, but he plays with that unfailing courage which, when coupled with skill, makes the most successful gamester: He is a re better and runs a strong bluff. He never hesitates about a bet and if you raise him' he will look you traight in the eyes and if he thinks you are blufling will raise you a stiff sum. One can never read by his face whether or mnot he has a good hand. But the weakness of his er game is that he almcst invariably overbids his hand. Poker and monte are his favorite games and the Geronimo tepee is the scene of many highly exciting sittings. Soldiers and cowboys often sit in the games with the Indians. One curious trait of the old chief is that when he makes a big winning at cards or has .a large‘sale of trinkets he gives the proceeds to the little children in camp to spend for school books. Much of hig mopey goes to his favorite daughter, Eva, and his favorite squaw, Ketona. The daughter of Ketona gets little love from her father. This is because she married a white man, and what was still worse in’ the eyes of the father—a cowboy. Geronimo is said to be 80. He does not know his age. He was with Vietoria when that chieftain went against the Mexicans d later he developed into a leader him- if. He is a born leader of redskins for the reason that he is not only a fighting man, but also a medicine man, and it takes a man who can talk with unseen beings to make a really deep impression on the Indian. Geronimo is small in stature, possessed of a keen face and a piercing eye. The blue in his eye is of that peculiar steely color that arouses unpleasant sensatio:: in the mind. His face is wrinkled and his hands are smail and rough. His color is a dark red. Geronimo smokes cigarettes these days and would drink firewater had he the privilege. He has six wives, but lives with none of them. His favorite daughter, Eva, lives with him when she is at home. He gives her sufficient money to send her to an Eastern school eight months in the year. Geronimo does no work; that is, such as raising a crop of corn or millet. He gets rent free a two-room house to live in, but he keeps his ponies therein and re- sides in a tepee, All of the Apaches who are held as war prisoners live in tents and keep their horses in the houses fur- nished to them. The Apache viliage is on an open plain in sight of Fort Sill. In summer the tepees catch all of the dust and in winter the snow flurries into ‘he doors. It would not be a white man’s no- tion of comfort, but the Indians like it. A few weeks ago Geronimo's daughter Eva was taken ill with some skin dis- ease and was placed at the Government hospital at the fort. A large boil ap- peared on her neck. Geronimo told the white physician in charge that it should be opened. The white medicine man told Geronimo that it should not. When the doctor was not watching the old warrior WHRT HE 2 RE of it. Two or three months of misery get- ting ready.” I asked Mr. Howells to recall the orig- inal suggestions from which some of his books had cause of life and with difficulty he some of them. They serve as valuable sign posts to ers bound for the market where manuscripts are bought and sold. “If I remember rightly ‘The Modern Instance’ came to me from seeing Janau- schek in a play founded on Euripides and Medea. I said to myself, “Why, this is an Indiana divorce case,’ and the novel was the resuit. I called the book originally ‘The New Medea.” Then came ‘Silas Lap- ham.” I had always promised myself the pleasure of completing a study of the modern business man, which was my in- tention in that book.” ¢ I recalled to him the story of J. Milton Northwick, the defaulting cashier. “I am glad you mentioned that. I was always very fond of that book. Perhaps its title, “The Quality o Mercy,” was the suggestion completely expressed. I was moved by the pathos of such a case and there happened to be a number of big defalcations at that time, which enhanced my interest. There was a pecullar statis- tical revelation came to me in writing that book.” I sent to a clipping bureau for clip- pings all over the country about defalca- tions and embezzlements and I discovered that the average occurrence of this crime in the United States was one a day. The fate of the defaulter was always one of three ends. He compromised with his creditors or committed suicide or weat to Canada. There was scarcely any varfation of these closing scenes to each tragedy.” As to Ideals. “You have said nothing about {deals” I ventured, curious to know what Mr. Howells' tendency in future fiction might b ““There is an interesting effort in realfs- reme should - o he said, slowly scan- Ln £ his thought for suitable expression. ~ | “The realism of action?” . | YA re that takes in the whole of pulled out a jackknife and opened the | Tt S SN Actual. wnden 00 Pore. The soldiers placed himored he |realism when faithfully, arduously stu- guardhouse for three days, but the g improved daily thereafter. Amodng Apaches Geronimo is called an_excell doctor and they will have no other. While little in sympathy with m civilization the old chief apbre of its inventions, the camera. $ for his picture He always logks pictures. of devilish feracity when being graphed. The older he grows the is his desire to make a flendish appe ance. Five years ago, when he first came to Fort Sili, he was content to wear white men’s clothes and consented to himself photographed wearing them. Now when he pases he look redskin of the Apach cause he sees that his one He charges his toughest war clothes tract more attention from white visitors He does his best to give them their money’s worth and to live up to their ex- pectations. In talking about his war exr e he spoke in the Apache language to this ef- | fect: “I do not know how many white men [ have killed. They must be hundreds. I have killed many women, too. But I never killed a white baby. 1 like children. I will fight some more some day. I am good for five years more on the battlefield. I will get out of this some day and then will go back to Arizona and kill some of my enemies.”—New York Sun. dern | c in his | He likes to strike an attitude | at- 3~lu-nl is toward a form of writing that is | ccrsidered least real—I mean psychology The fa idents of realism s that they have applied to their method | too much to the nature of the material.” “The psychologic has a tendency to bor- der upon a critical view of life, has it t with many s not?” *“Criticism, as I said before, in this | country, at least, Is the voice of the pop- nd the student’s criticism is authority than the opinion of the reader or the theater goer. I don’t think that the dramatie criticisms of New York for instance, have any influence The newspapers do that work too and the articles help neither the it nor the actor. The influence, ce, of flippant criticisms is abom- y art, and frequently brutal toward a d actresses “Can the er make a play?” “No. The critics cannot make a play, but they can do worse; they can often kill | it outright.” i As I said before, while there is a pre- | dominant spirit of tenderness in him, Wil- |liam Dean Howells 13 an Amegican at | heart, whose convictions spring from a | vigor of sentiment that Is always “Sans peur et sans reproche.,” PENDENNIS. - no nable to 3