When Winter Comes to Main Street Part 6

=iii=

_Neither Here Nor There_ is the t.i.tle of a new book by Oliver Herford, author of _This Giddy Globe_.

I do not know which is funnier, Herford or his books. Among the unforgotten occasions was one when he was in the Doran office talking about a forthcoming book and nibbling on animal crackers. Suddenly he stopped nibbling and exclaimed with a gasp of dismay:

"Good heavens! I've been eating the ill.u.s.trations for my book."

=iv=

_Timothy Tubby's Journal_ is, of course, the diary of the famous British novelist with notes by Theresa Tubby, his wife. Tubby, on his visit to this side, was remarkably observant. He says:

"How weary we were after a few hours of being interviewed and photographed! This deep appreciation on the part of the American people was touching, but exhausting. Yet my publishers telephoned me every two or three hours, to say that editions of my latest novel were flying through mult.i.tudinous presses; that I must bear up under the strain and give the public what it demands; namely, the glimpse of me and of my aristocratic wife. This, it seems, is what sells a book in America. The public must see an author in order to believe that he can write.

"When my distinguished forebear Charles d.i.c.kens[1] arrived in the town of Boston, he found his room flooded with offers of a pew at Sunday morning church. This fashion in America has apparently pa.s.sed, though I was taken on sightseeing expeditions to various cathedrals whose architecture seemed to me to be execrable (largely European copies--nothing natively American). It was never suggested that I attend divine service. On the contrary, I had countless invitations to be present at what is known as a 'c.o.c.ktail chase.' My New York literary admirers seemed tumbling over one another to offer me keys to their cellars and to invite me to take part in one of those strange functions. It is their love of danger, rather than any particular pa.s.sion for liquor, that has, I believe, given birth to these elaborate fetes.

"A c.o.c.ktail chase takes place shortly before dinner. It may lead you into any one of a number of places, even as far as the outlying districts of the Bronx. If you own a motor, you may use that; if not, a taxi will do.

Usually a large number of motors are employed. Add to this pursuing motorcycle policemen, and the sight is most impressive. The police are for protection against crime waves, not for the arrest of the c.o.c.ktail chasers. A revenue agent performs this function, when it becomes necessary.

"The number of our invitations was so large that it was hard to pick and choose. Naturally, we did not care to risk attendance at any function which might injure our reputation. Usually my wife has an almost psychic sense of such matters; but the Social Register was of no a.s.sistance in this case.[2] Before several hours had pa.s.sed, however, we decided to hire a social secretary. I phoned my publisher for a recommendation. 'Dear Tubby,' he said, 'what you need is a publicity agent, not a social secretary. I'll send you the best New York can offer immediately. It was careless of me not to think of it before. You seemed to have a genius for that sort of thing yourself.'

"The publicity agent is difficult to explain. He is somehow connected with an American game which originated in the great northwest, and which is called log-rolling. He stands between you and the public which is clamouring for a glimpse of you. The difference between a social secretary and a publicity agent seems to be that the former merely answers invitations, while the latter makes sure that you are invited. He writes your speeches for you, sometimes even goes so far as to write your novels, and, in a strange place, will impersonate you at all public functions unless your wife objects.[3]

"Mr. Vernay arrived, fortunately, in time to sort our invitations.

'First,' he said, 'just you and Terry' (he was one of those brusque new world types and Theresa rather enjoyed his familiarity--'so refreshing,' I remember she said) 'sit right down and I'll tell you all about literature in this here New York.'"

... I have always been meaning to read Tubby's novels--so like those of Archibald Marshall and Anthony Trollope, I understand--but have never got around to it. Now I feel I simply must.

[1] The relationship was on my husband's father's side. The Turbots were never so closely connected with the bourgeoisie.

[2] We, of course, had entree to all the best Fifth Avenue homes, but since we have now become literary folk, we hose to remain so. We therefore avoided the better cla.s.ses.

[3] Indeed Mr. Vernay was a most accomplished gentleman, and I never objected to him. I only remarked once that I was glad Timothy was not so attractive to the ladies as Mr. Vernay. This, I did not consider an objection.

=v=

Such an expert judge as Franklin P. Adams has considered that the ablest living parodist in verse is J. C. Squire. Certainly his _Collected Parodies_ is a masterly performance quite fit to go on the shelf with Max Beerbohm's _A Christmas Garland_. In _Collected Parodies_ will be found all those verses which, published earlier in magazines and in one or two books, have delighted the readers of Punch and other magazines--"Imaginary Speeches," "Steps to Parna.s.sus," "Tricks of the Trade," "Repertory Drama, How They Do It and How They Would Have Done It," "Imaginary Reviews and Speeches" and "The Aspirant's Manual."

The great source book of fun in rhyme, however, is and will for a long time remain Carolyn Wells's _The Book of Humorous Verse_. This has not an equal in existence, so far as I know, except _The Home Book of Verse_.

Here in nearly 900 pages are specimens of light verse from Chaucer to Chesterton. Modern writers, such as Bert Leston Taylor and Don Marquis, share the pages with Robert Herrick and William Cowper, Charles Lamb and Oliver Wendell Holmes. Verses whimsical, satiric, narrative, punning--there is no conceivable variety overlooked by Miss Wells in what was so evidently a labour of love as well as of the most careful industry, an industry directed by an exceptional taste.

P. G. Wodehouse used to write lyrics for musical plays in England, interpolating one or two in existing successes. Then he came to America and began writing lyrics, interpolating them in musical comedies over here. Then he began interpolating extremely funny short stories in the American magazines and he has now succeeded in interpolating into modern fiction some of the funniest novels of the last few years. This bit from his latest, _Three Men and a Maid_, is typical:

"Mrs. Hignett was never a very patient woman. "'Let us take all your negative qualities for granted,' she said curtly. 'I have no doubt that there are many things which you do not do. Let us confine ourselves to issues of definite importance. What is it, if you have no objection to concentrating your attention on that for a moment, that you wish to see me about?'

"This marriage.'

"'What marriage?'

"'Your son's marriage.'

"'My son is not married.'

"'No, but he's going to be. At eleven o'clock this morning at the Little Church Around the Corner!'

"Mrs. Hignett stared.

"'Are you mad?'

"'Well, I'm not any too well pleased, I'm bound to say,' admitted Mr.

Mortimer. 'You see, darn it all, I'm in love with the girl myself!'

"'Who is this girl?'

"'Have been for years. I'm one of those silent, patient fellows who hang around and look a lot, but never tell their love....'

"'Who is this girl who has entrapped my son?'

"'I've always been one of those men who....'

"'Mr. Mortimer! With your permission we will take your positive qualities for granted. In fact, we will not discuss you at all.... What is her name?'

"'Bennett.'

"'Bennett? Wilhelmina Bennett? The daughter of Mr. Rufus Bennett? The red-haired girl I met at lunch one day at your father's house?'

"'That's it. You're a great guesser. I think you ought to stop the thing.'

"'I intend to.'

"'Fine!'

"'The marriage would be unsuitable in every way. Miss Bennett and my son do not vibrate on the same plane.'

"That's right. I've noticed it myself.'

"'Their auras are not the same colour.'

"'If I thought that once,' said Bream Mortimer, ''I've thought it a hundred times. I wish I had a dollar for every time I thought it. Not the same colour! That's the whole thing in a nutsh.e.l.l.'"

Mr. Wodehouse is described by a friend as "now a somewhat fluid inhabitant of England, running over here spasmodically. Last summer he bought a race-horse. It is the beginning of the end!"

CHAPTER VII

THE VITALITY OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART