The New York herald., 1922-12-31


which is not its name. there used to be
much talk of a mellow and informing
mature in that lively hour between the
striking of six and the striking OF seven
in the evening. The glow of the blazing
logs in the great fireplace would brighten
the eyes of the half dozen or so seated
in semi-circle. and there would be the
occasional tarping of bell and the tinkle
of ice in tall glasses. Then the painter
man. tall and gaunt as a friar of the
middle ages a clever short story of ten
years ago described him, would be moved
TO "reminiscences of r. L. s. as he knew
him in the Forest of Fontainebleau, or
TO the retelling of the story of his. the
painter mans, verbal crossing of swords
with Whistler in the Chelsea studio, one
Oeeasion-to accept the painter mans
version-when Jimmy did not come off
first best
ENOR time il would be, not conversa-
L tioD but delightful monologue. for
nothing short of loss of breath or an in
sistent telephone call ever stopped the
painter man when he was in flood But
that telephone might honestly come, or it
could be treacherously engineered, and
then the distinguished architect would
have chance to tell of certain plans to
make Washington the most beautiful of
cities. and necessity of the whimsical
eajOling of the type of Congressman who
says: Il don't know much about art,
but | know what | like" and the emf
nent thespian with the golden voice would
recall diverting experiences when travel
ing with company which was the Amer
lean equivalent of the Comedie Fran
caise: and there would be tales in the
vein of what Mark Twain said one morn
ing at breakfast out yonder in the Trellis
grill room. That hour of talk about the
humanities and amiabilitieS of life is
gone. Men don't gather about the fire as
Of yore. Voices are no more mellow, but
raueous in dispute as they come up from
the game of kelly pool going on below.
VET one evening in the Trellis not long
ago. after the elamOr about the pool
table had died down and cues and balls
had been replaced in their racks. there
was talk of kind that recalled the flavor
Of the bookish talk of nights before July
i. 1919. Yet in its general tone there
was a difference that must be considered
significant. In former years a natural
topic would have been the discussion of
favorite heroes and heroines of fiction
and there would have been warm com
parison of their virtues and charms
But this night the general tone was one
Of pessimistic protest There was no cali
for characters of amiable qualities The
complaint was that the novelist had lost
the art of inventing an adequate villain.
The man who had just finished "If Win
ter Comes and before that Main Street"
began il. The books indicate the man.
Next spring he will be discovering Maria
Chapdelaine" and about a year hence he
will be taking up This Freedom and
"Babbitt"
EEINHY don't they write novels with
good old fashioned villain tucked
away in the cupboard" he was protest
ing Its the milk and water in their
own veins They can turn out plenty Of
detestable characters. but where is the
villain who is a real man in his villainy2
Here's Main Street The sO-ealled hero.
DR.. VIII Kinnicutt. has the making of a
pretty good scamp and Cy Bogert de-
serves the business end Of a horse whip.