“I hear,” said the former lady, “that the author of the new book which has just appeared in Boston, “The Story of a Life,” is to be at Lakeville soon to visit a cousin. The book is selling rapidly. It is a delightful psychological story of a woman’s heart, I have heard, and the men are as eager to read it as the women. Mr. Smithnight, the author, has become famous suddenly, and all the young ladies are enthusiastic over him. He is quite young, and very delightful, they say.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Brunswick, “anything that comes from Boston is delightful! Society is very deep there. The people are always making a study of hidden things of the mind, while we at the West are so very practical over the bread and butter matters of life. Alas! how far we are drifting from the beautiful and the sublime! We must have Mr. Smithnight at our next reception, and make it as elegant as possible. How lovely those people are who write books!”
The cousin of Mr. Smithnight, who lived on a side street, and never would have been thought worthy to step into the Twilight Hour circle, was visited, and asked if a reception for Mr. Smithnight could possibly be arranged. The young Plato was glad to be shown off before the admiring gaze of the uncultured West, and readily consented to be present.
“Heléna,” said Mrs. Brunswick, as they draped the mantel with smilax and lilies of the valley, “I have always hoped that you would marry an author. Perhaps in Mr. Smithnight you will find your ideal.”
“I hope he’s handsome, mamma, and not too conceited, as so many literary people are.”
“I think you misjudge literary people, dear. They must hold themselves aloof from general society, else they would not be considered so great. You know a writer across the water always seems greater to us than our own authors.”
The old-fashioned house of the Brunswicks was lighted, not so gorgeously as to seem loud, and fragrant flowers were in profusion. Very elegant people came in their choicest robes to pay allegiance to the new novelist. Had he been a poet, he must needs have waited till he was fifty for America to find out whether he had genius or no; had he been a scientist, he would not have won his fame till death probably; but having given the public a well-written book which sold, America at once pronounced him a genius. Without doubt there were wheels within wheels which procured its publication. Perhaps he was a cousin to some first-class novelist, or had a governor to recommend his work; for how are publishers to know when a thing will be a success? Nearly all the great books, like “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” and “Jane Eyre,” have been refused for months, and even years.
Mr. Smithnight was present to receive the homage of Lakeville. He had a fine, even commanding, presence: black hair, which lay lightly over his forehead, a stray lock drooping occasionally, which his white hand tossed back; expressive dark eyes; and a bland smile. He was evidently a good student of human nature, for, while he was egotistical,—successful men usually have a good opinion of themselves,—he had the tact to make every lady feel that the intellectual culture of Lakeville was something phenomenal. Mrs. Brunswick thanked him heartily for coming, coming from such a centre of knowledge as Boston, to stimulate the over-practical West. She wanted to enjoy his conversation at another time, when she and dear Heléna could have him all to themselves. As he took his departure he held Heléna’s hand somewhat tenderly, and begged the pleasure of frequent visits during his short stay at Lakeville.
“Heléna,” said Mrs. Brunswick, after the guests had departed, “I think Mr. Smithnight the most charming celebrity we have ever had. Think how people will speak of it! I know of nothing so delightful as a salon for literary people. How many must envy me the rare pleasure of bringing together these appreciative people and these great people! You know some of our celebrities from other cities have been so dull and stupid, and read such non-understandable essays, that our ladies have not known what to say or do. I think some of the manuscripts must have lain in trunks for years. But Mr. Smithnight is so charming, so fresh and entertaining! I think he likes you, Heléna, for I saw him bestowing very admiring glances upon you.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t trouble myself much about him. I liked him, though, well enough.”