He doubted that I was a bona fide worker in his organization. Then came my only long speech. We will omit the speech. But he began to see light. He took a fresh grip on his argument. He said: “There is a man here in Asheville I see snooping around with a tin box and a butterfly net. They call him the state something-ologist. He goes around and—and—hunts bugs. But do you want to know what I think of a crank like that?” I wanted to know. He told me.
“But,” I objected, “I am not a scientist. I am an art student.”
He expressed an interest in art. He gave a pious and proper view of the nude in art. It took some time. It was the sort of chilly, cautious talk that could not possibly bring a blush to the cheek of ignorance. I assured him his decorous concessions were unnecessary. I was not expounding the nude.
There was an artist here, and Asheville needed no further instruction of the kind, he maintained. The gentleman had won some blue ribbons in Europe. He painted a big picture (dimensions were given) and sold it for thousands (price was given).
“He is holding the next one, two feet longer each way, for double the money.”
I told him if he felt there was enough art in Asheville, we might do something to popularize the poets.
In reply he talked about literary cranks. He spoke of how Thoreau, with his long hair and ugly looks, frightened strangers who suddenly met him in the woods. I thanked him for light on Thoreau.... But he had to admit that my hair was short.
He suspected I was neither artist nor literary man. I assured him my friends were often of the same opinion.
“But,” he said bitterly, “do you know sir, by the tone of letters I received from Mr. Powlison I expected to assemble the wealth and fashion of Asheville to hear you. I expected to see you first in your private car, wearing a dress-suit.”
I answered sternly, “Art, my friend, does not travel in a Pullman.”