# A Literary Conversation

Extracted from Century magazine, v. 33, 1897-98, p. 639.
A Literary Conversation
It was at a summer hotel—a combination of piazzas and cheap bedroom sets attached to a very ordinary restaurant. Dinner—at one o'clock—was over, and Miss Catherine Harlem came out upon the piazza.
Finding an available rocking-chair near her friend of two days' sitting, Miss Arabella Morris, Miss Harlem occupied it. and in a few moments was able to make her chair keep time to the swinging of Miss Morris's. Then they talked.
"Is n't this a delightful day?"
"Simply perfect."
"I think you said you were here last year?"
Yes; not long, though. The man who kept it then was horrid—simply horrid."
"How do you mean?"
"Mr. Albyn seems nice; don't you think so?"
"Just as nice as he can be. He has such good ideas. But then, he is educated, you know; he graduated from—some college."
"That makes a difference, does n't it? He seems to know what people like."
"Yes. That is such a good idea of his—getting those books up here."
"Books? How do you mean?"
"Why, have n't you heard? He has a lot of new books sent up every few weeks—or days, maybe. Anyway, I know you can get them from the clerk."
"Oh, is n't that splendid! I just dote on books. Don't you like to read?"
"Read? Why, mama says I don't do anything else! When I get a new book I just devour it!"
"And so do I. Why, I sat up all night, nearly, to finish 'Trilby.' And how I cried when she died!"
"And was n't it awful about that poor Little Billee? A perfect genius—and all for nothing."
"Do you like historical novels?"
"I like Miss Yonge ever so much."
"I don't mean that kind. I mean those new foreign books—like 'Quo Vadis?' for instance."
"Oh, yes. You mean by Henryk Sienkiewicz—if that's his name. I never feel quite sure of those foreign names. It was the longest time before I could get Paderewski's name right!"
"Dear Paddy!—was n't he just divine!"
"Was n't he! Why, I know girls who kept his photograph just wreathed in fresh flowers every day."
"So do I. But one never cares so much about authors as about musicians. I wonder why?"
"Well, it's different. Now, this Sienkiewicz—what does he look like?"
"Why, he's the image of my Uncle Charlie. But—there!—you don't know Uncle Charlie, do you? No matter; he is very dashing, you know—sort of military."
"It is wonderful how men can think of such things. Just imagine all that about Nero, and the lions, and the martyrs, and the early Christians, and catacombs, and things—why, it makes my head ache to think of a man's knowing so much. How do you suppose they do it?"
"I suppose it is their business—the same as anything else. Then there are great libraries; there are tons of books about things in them—miles of shelves full."
"Yes; but how can Sienkiewicz know just when to make them say the things they do say?"
"I'm sure I don't know. And yet he seems to bring it before you so, just as if you saw it. Those scenes in the arena must have been blood-curdling."
"Exciting, too. That chariot-race in 'Ben Hur,' they say, was as real as if you were there."
"I don't think there has been anything better than that."
"Not even in 'Quo Vadis?""
"I don't know, really. Of course that is a translation, you know, and a translation can't be the same as the original."
"No; I notice that in all the, French books; and it must be harder to translate from such a tongue as the German."
"Why from the German?"
"I mean, such a book as 'Quo Vadis?'"
"But 'Quo Vadis?' is n't a translation from the German."
"What is it, then?—Norwegian?"
"No, my dear; it is from the Polish."
"Are you sure?"
"Or Hungarian. Anyway, it is in some of the languages nobody knows. I don't remember for certain. Maybe it is Austrian. But I know it was n't German."
"Well, I don't exactly remember—for I have n't read it."
"Have n't you? Why, I thought from the way you spoke that you knew all about it. You quite scared me with your knowledge."
Scared you? Why—have n't you read it, either?"
"Not yet."
"I must go up and get my embroidery, or I 'll never finish those doilies."
"I just love embroidery. Will you let me see them?"
"Why, of course I will."
And the chairs were left vacant. They swung to and fro thoughtfully for a few moments, creaking in a chuckling way, and then were still.
Tudor Jenks.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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