Читать книгу The Four-Masted Cat-Boat, and Other Truthful Tales онлайн

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“Why, no,” he said; “I never think about my throat.”

He wasn’t a singer.

“Well, you’re in love with your art.”

He smiled. “Yes, I’m in love with it.”

I was in despair. What was he?

But now I would nail him. “What are your methods of work, Mr. Cavendish?”

“Oh, I don’t spend much time in over-elaboration. My brush-strokes are very broad.”

Ah, a painter! “Exactly,” I said. “You like a free hand.”

He said: “After all, the words are everything.”

Ah, a writer! “Yes,” said I; “your words are everything to the public.”

“I hope so. I try to make them so,” he said modestly.

Now I felt easier, and proceeded to praise him specifically.

“Which do you like best—to make your public laugh or cry? or do you aim to instruct it?”

“It is easy to make persons laugh, so I suppose I like rather to bring them to tears. As for instruction, there are those who say it is not our province to instruct.”

“But you do all three, Mr. Cavendish.”

He bowed as if he thought I had hit it.

I said: “To those who are familiar with your work there is something that makes you just the man to pick up for a quarter of an hour.”