“I suppose,” said Buel, “that you have met many of the noted authors of this country?”
“All of them, I think; all of them, at one time or another. The publishing business has its drawbacks like every other trade,” replied Brant, jauntily.
“Have you met Hodden?”
“Several times. Conceited ass!”
“You astonish me. I have never had the good fortune to become acquainted with any of our celebrated writers. I would think it a privilege to know Hodden and some of the others.”
“You’re lucky, and you evidently don’t know it. I would rather meet a duke any day than a famous author. The duke puts on less side and patronises you less.”
“I would rather be a celebrated author than a duke if I had my choice.”
“Well, being a free and independent citizen of the Democratic United States, I wouldn’t. No, sir! I would rather be Duke Brant any day in the week than Mr. Brant, the talented author of, etc., etc. The moment an author receives a little praise and becomes talked about, he gets what we call in the States ‘the swelled head.’ I’ve seen some of the nicest fellows in the world become utterly spoiled by a little success. And then think of the absurdity of it all. There aren’t more than two or three at the most of the present-day writers who will be heard of a century hence. Read the history of literature, and you will find that never more than four men in any one generation are heard of after. Four is a liberal allowance. What has any writer to be conceited about anyhow? Let him read his Shakespeare and be modest.”
Buel said with a sigh, “I wish there was success in store for me. I would risk the malady you call the ‘swelled head.’”
“Success will come all right enough, my boy. ‘All things come to him who waits,’ and while he is waiting puts in some good, strong days of work. It’s the working that tells, not the waiting. And now, if you will light one of these cigars, we will talk of you for a while, if your modesty will stand it. What kind of Chartreuse will you have? Yellow or green?”