I confided to him.
"And do you understand them?"
"Fairly well," I answered. "Mamma says I'll like them better as I go on. I want to learn to write very, very well indeed," I admitted to him; "then I'll be able to earn heaps of money."
He smiled. "So you don't believe in Art for Art's sake, Paul?"
I was puzzled. "What does that mean?" I asked.
"It means in our case, Paul," he answered, "writing books for the pleasure of writing books, without thinking of any reward, without desiring either money or fame."
It was a new idea to me. "Do many authors do that?" I asked.
He laughed outright this time. It was a delightful laugh. It rang through the quiet Park, awaking echoes; and caught by it, I laughed with him.
"Hush!" he said; and he glanced round with a whimsical expression of fear, lest we might have been overheard. "Between ourselves, Paul," he continued, drawing me more closely towards him and whispering, "I don't think any of us do. We talk about it. But I'll tell you this, Paul; it is a trade secret and you must remember it: No man ever made money or fame but by writing his very best. It may not be as good as somebody else's best, but it is his best. Remember that, Paul."
I promised I would.
"And you must not think merely of the money and the fame, Paul," he added the next moment, speaking more seriously. "Money and fame are very good things, and only hypocrites pretend to despise them. But if you write books thinking only of money, you will be disappointed. It is earned easier in other ways. Tell me, that is not your only idea?"
I pondered. "Mamma says it is a very noble calling, authorship," I remembered, "and that any one ought to be very proud and glad to be able to write books, because they give people happiness and make them forget things; and that one ought to be very good if one is going to be an author, so as to be worthy to help and teach others."
"And do you try to be good, Paul?" he enquired.
"Yes," I answered; "but it's very hard to be quite good--until of course you're grown up."
He smiled, but more to himself than to me. "Yes," he said, "I suppose it is difficult to be good until you are grown up. Perhaps we shall all of us be good when we're quite grown up." Which, from a gentleman with a grey beard, appeared to me a puzzling observation.
"And what else does mamma say about literature?" he asked. "Can you remember?"
Again I pondered, and her words came back to me. "That he who can write a great book is greater than a king; that the gift of being able to write is given to anybody in trust; that an author should never forget he is God's servant."
He sat for awhile without speaking, his chin resting on his folded hands supported by his gold-topped cane. Then he turned and laid a hand upon my shoulder, and his clear, bright eyes were close to mine.
"Your mother is a wise lady, Paul," he said. "Remember her words always. In later life let them come back to you; they will guide you better than the chatter of the Clubs."
"And what modern authors do you read?" he asked after a silence: "any of them--Thackeray, Bulwer Lytton, Dickens?"
"I have read 'The Last of the Barons,'" I told him; "I like that. And I've been to Barnet and seen the church. And some of Mr. Dickens'."
"And what do you think of Mr. Dickens?" he asked. But he did not seem very interested in the subject. He had picked up a few small stones, and was throwing them carefully into the water.
"I like him very much," I answered; "he makes you laugh."
"Not always?" he asked. He stopped his stone-throwing, and turned sharply towards me.
"Oh, no, not always," I admitted; "but I like the funny bits best. I like so much where Mr. Pickwick--"
"Oh, damn Mr. Pickwick!" he said.
"Don't you like him?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, I like him well enough, or used to," he replied; "I'm a bit tired of him, that's all. Does your mamma like Mr.--Mr. Dickens?"
"Not the funny parts," I explained to him. "She thinks he is occasionally--"
"I know," he interrupted, rather irritably, I thought; "a trifle vulgar."
It surprised me that he should have guessed her exact words. "I don't think mamma has much sense of humour," I explained to him. "Sometimes she doesn't even see papa's jokes."
At that he laughed again. "But she likes the other parts?" he enquired, "the parts where Mr. Dickens isn't--vulgar?"
"Oh, yes," I answered. "She says he can be so beautiful and tender, when he likes."
Twilight was deepening. It occurred to me to enquire of him again the time.
"Just over the quarter," he answered, looking at his watch.
"I'm so sorry," I said. "I must go now."
"So am I sorry, Paul," he answered. "Perhaps we shall meet again.
Good-bye." Then as our hands touched: "You have never asked me my name, Paul," he reminded me.
"Oh, haven't I?" I answered.
"No, Paul," he replied, "and that makes me think of your future with hope. You are an egotist, Paul; and that is the beginning of all art."
And after that he would not tell me his name. "Perhaps next time we meet," he said. "Good-bye, Paul. Good luck to you!"
So I went my way. Where the path winds out of sight I turned. He was still seated upon the bench, but his face was towards me, and he waved his hand to me. I answered with a wave of mine. And then the intervening boughs and bushes gradually closed in around me. And across the rising mist there rose the hoarse, harsh cry:
"All out! All out!"
