The New York herald., 1922-04-02
By LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE,

even he whose dreams are
haunted by a vision Of himself in
the habit Of Hamlet must be ex-
pected to bristle a bit if he have rea-
son to believe his ancient art mis-
priced. And the chances are that he
will need only to be subjected to a
psychic frisking. such as provides
our intelligentsia with its favorite
indoor sport, to be found guilty OF
hip toting professional prejudices
containing far more than half of
one per cent. of pure venom. Upon
such manifestations of humanity in
clowns the seasoned will look in
diligently. It is comfortable to pre-
tend that the opinions of others don't
In this mood the writer is dis
posed to question the wisdom dis
played by the editor in picking on
one so long identified as a writer of
mystery stories to write about mys-
terry stories and their writer's. He
addresses himself to his topic, indeed,
with considerable diffidence, well
aware that his frankly partisan
pleadings are open to challenge as
utterances of simple self-interest, by
no means unconscious of the prompt
ings of amour propre, and fearful
lest his prejudices and faulty men,
ory lead him into error. A ticdish
task
But one thing nerves his paltering
hand, the knowledge that the plea
he means to enter on behalf of the
mystery story can't be construed as
wholly a selfish one in this season,
when the book he is offering isn't
a mystery story in any sense ].
if one except an obvious question in
respect of it's publication at any
He has now in mind time, too
long ago, when dumb luck startled
him out of an uneasy obscurity in
the penumbra of the literary spot
light with the news that he had,
overnight, in effect, become the
father of a best selling book. An
experience which imbued him with
sympathetic insight into the emo
tional reactions of all parents Of ugly
ducklings. He recalls an
evening subsequently spent in the
home OF a pretty lady with a good
husband, a kind heart, a vague eye
and an editorial berth that brimmed
her cup with sweetness and light.
She was telling the author how per-
fectly thrilled she had been by his
book, how she had been positively
unable to put it down from the mo-
ment when her attention was riv-
eted by it's opening phrases until
that Inevitable ungodly hour in the
small of the morning when her poor.
tired eyes read the closing words.
And he remembers. oh. most
clearly! how glad and proud this
incense made him, and how he
purred little-modestly, he hopes.
But of sudden the pretty lady
became acutely aware that others
were listening in of the little COM
pany whom she had hidden to meet
this lucky dog. and she stammered
guilty. But" she said, smoothing
her lap with a nervous hand-SBut.
Of course. you understand, / don't
really care for mystery stories"
II.
The author wondered then. and he
Is still wondering. with a wonder re-
stimulated from time to time by
echoes in substantial sense Of that
apology. why is 1t that a taste for
fiction that pleases mainly because
of the ingenuity with which its
plot is fashioned should be held
something low. and why a knack at
fabricating such tales connotes to
the general an intelligence incapable
of approaching (much less essaying)
other forms OF. literary expression?
For they are few and far to seek,
outside the thin well read line OF
Presidents and Justices Of the Su-