We had not noticed this.
"I am afraid," said the Novelist, "that the pigs are all asleep inside."
We begged him on no account to waken them. He offered to open the little door at the side and let us crawl in. We insisted that we could not think of intruding.
"What we would like," we said, "is to hear something of your methods of work in novel writing." We said this with very peculiar conviction.
Quite apart from the immediate purposes of our interview, we have always been most anxious to know by what process novels are written. If we could get to know this, we would write one ourselves.
"Come and see my bulls first," said the Novelist. "I"ve got a couple of young bulls here in the paddock that will interest you."
We felt sure that they would.
He led us to a little green fence. Inside it were two ferocious looking animals, eating grain. They rolled their eyes upwards at us as they ate.
"How do those strike you?" he asked.
We a.s.sured him that they struck us as our beau ideal of bulls.
"Like to walk in beside them?" said the Novelist, opening a little gate.
We drew back. Was it fair to disturb these bulls?
The Great Novelist noticed our hesitation.
"Don"t be afraid," he said. "They"re not likely to harm you. I send my hired man right in beside them every morning, without the slightest hesitation."
We looked at the Eminent Novelist with admiration. We realized that like so many of our writers, actors, and even our thinkers, of to-day, he was an open-air man in every sense of the word.
But we shook our heads.
Bulls, we explained, were not a department of research for which we were equipped. What we wanted, we said, was to learn something of his methods of work.
"My methods of work?" he answered, as we turned up the path again.
"Well, really, I hardly know that I have any."
"What is your plan or method," we asked, getting out our notebook and pencil, "of laying the beginning of a new novel?"
"My usual plan," said the Novelist, "is to come out here and sit in the stye till I get my characters."
"Does it take long?" we questioned.
"Not very. I generally find that a quiet half-hour spent among the hogs will give me at least my leading character."
"And what do you do next?"
"Oh, after that I generally light a pipe and go and sit among the beehives looking for an incident."
"Do you get it?" we asked.
"Invariably. After that I make a few notes, then go off for a ten mile tramp with my esquimaux dogs, and get back in time to have a go through the cattle sheds and take a romp with the young bulls."
We sighed. We couldn"t help it. Novel writing seemed further away than ever.
"Have you also a goat on the premises?" we asked.
"Oh, certainly. A ripping old fellow--come along and see him."
We shook our heads. No doubt our disappointment showed in our face. It often does. We felt that it was altogether right and wholesome that our great novels of to-day should be written in this fashion with the help of goats, dogs, hogs and young bulls. But we felt, too, that it was not for us.
We permitted ourselves one further question.
"At what time," we said, "do you rise in the morning?"
"Oh anywhere between four and five," said the Novelist.
"Ah, and do you generally take a cold dip as soon as you are up--even in winter?"
"I do."
"You prefer, no doubt," we said, with a dejection that we could not conceal, "to have water with a good coat of ice over it?"
"Oh, certainly!"
We said no more. We have long understood the reasons for our own failure in life, but it was painful to receive a renewed corroboration of it.
This ice question has stood in our way for forty-seven years.
The Great Novelist seemed to note our dejection.
"Come to the house," he said, "my wife will give you a cup of tea."
In a few moments we had forgotten all our troubles in the presence of one of the most charming chatelaines it has been our lot to meet.
We sat on a low stool immediately beside Ethelinda Afterthought, who presided in her own gracious fashion over the tea-urn.
"So you want to know something of my methods of work?" she said, as she poured hot tea over our leg.
"We do," we answered, taking out our little book and recovering something of our enthusiasm. We do not mind hot tea being poured over us if people treat us as a human being.
"Can you indicate," we continued, "what method you follow in beginning one of your novels?"
"I always begin," said Ethelinda Afterthought, "with a study."
"A study?" we queried.
"Yes. I mean a study of actual facts. Take, for example, my _Leaves from the Life of a Steam Laundrywoman_--more tea?"
"No, no," we said.
"Well, to make that book I first worked two years in a laundry."