Page:The International - Volume 1.djvu/275

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UR authors all have one great fault. They are wasteful of their money—that is, on paper.

Let us follow one of their heroes for but ten chapters and what do we find? He has, in nine cases out of ten, absolutely no occupation or profession by which he can support himself, and yet he lives at the most expensive hotels, eats the daintiest of foods, smokes the finest Havanas, and even for the poor he always has a six-pence. He has plenty for drinks and will ride nothing but thorough-bred horses. He spends his time at sea-side resorts and in travel. And at the close of these ten chapters of wild extravagance we find him in the eleventh still possessing a sufficient fortune to allow him to drown his sorrows—caused by the faithlessness of his love—in splendid champagne suppers and mad orgies.

All because our authors have no idea of the real value of money. Modest sums they scorn. An income short of twenty or thirty thousand is beneath their notice. Who has ever read of a hero who had a salary of forty-five dollars a month, for instance?

Another mistake these writers are guilty of, is in the way they describe their characters. They go into detail as to the figure, the color of the hair and eyes, the shape of the nose. They even allow us to look into their hero's heart, to read his most private thoughts—everything is made quite clear to us except the condition of his purse.

Yet the purse, in my judgment, should be opened first of all, so that the reader may know whom he has the honor of meeting. It would then require only a few strokes of the pen and the whole character would be disclosed.

I will now practice what I preach and endeavor to set clearly before you the state of my hero's finances. Let us open his purse. You see several compartments with nothing in them. Here is a special compartment—again nothing. Turn the purse upside down, what falls out? Nothing The rest of his personality can now be readily described. A tall, slender figure, pale face with dreamy eyes, and a sarcastic mouth that shows the cynical turn of the man's mind. Clothed in tattered trousers and two-thirds of a coat, with a pair of old, faded flowered slippers on his feet, let me present to you my hero, Mr. Alfred N. He holds a long pipe from which struggle a few last rings of smoke, that form as they rise, a beautiful picture which fades and with the pipe, grows cold. What is the picture which has disappeared with the last ring? A beautiful but cold-hearted maiden and now the dreamer's mind is empty—as empty as his room.

The shadows of approaching night fill the corners of the bare chamber. The closet is hungry for clothes, the bedstead longs for a feather bed, the book-case is lonely for books—poverty stares pitilessly from all sides and seems to say:

"Ha, ha! forsaken by the world! Every one, even your love, has deserted you. But I will stand by you, my boy!"

The cold pipe drops from his hand, the bitter smile vanishes from his lips, his eye lids droop dreams cost nothing.

Suddenly there was a rap at the door. Alfred sprang up.

"Probably some one has mistaken the door. Shall I open it?"