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Peeps at People - Being Certain Papers from the Writings of Anne Warrington Witherup (Dramatic Reading)

<h2>HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ</h2> On my way back from the Polish home of the De Reszkes it occurred to me that it would be worth while to stop over a day or so and interview Mr. Sienkiewicz. There were a great many things I desired to ask that gentleman, and he is so comparatively unknown a personality that I thought a word or two with him would be interesting. I had great difficulty in finding him, for the very simple reason that, like most other people, I did not know how to ask for him. Ordinarily I can go into a shop and ask where the person I wish to see may chance to dwell. But when a man has a name like Sienkiewicz,[Pg 156] the task is not an easy one. When it is remembered that poets in various parts of the United States have made the name rhyme to such words as sticks, fizz, and even vichy, it will be seen that it requires an unusually bold person to try to speak it in a country where words of that nature are considered as easy to pronounce as Jones or Smith would be in my own beloved land. However, I was not to be daunted, and set about my self-appointed task without hesitation. My first effort was to seek information from my friends the De Reszkes, and I telegraphed them: "Where can I find Sienkiewicz? Please answer." With their usual courtesy the brothers replied promptly: "We don't know what it is. If it is a patent-medicine, apply at any apothecary shop; if it is a vegetable, we do not raise it, but we have a fine line of parsley we can send you if there is any immediate hurry." I suppose I ought not to give the brothers away by printing their message of reply, but it seems to me to be so interesting[Pg 157] that I may hope to be forgiven if I have erred. I next turned to the book-shops, but even there I was puzzled. Most of the booksellers spoke French; and while I am tolerably familiar with the idiom of the boulevards, I do not speak it fluently, and was utterly at a loss to know what Quo Vadis might be in that language. So I asked for a copy of With Fire and Sword. "Avez-vous Avec Feu et Sabre?" I asked of the courteous salesman. It may have been my accent, or it may have been his stupidity. In any event, he did not seem to understand me, so I changed the book, and asked for The Children of the Soil. "N'importe," said I. "Avez-vous Les Enfants de la Terre?" "Excuse me, madame," he replied, in English, "but what do you want, anyhow?" "I want to know where—er—where the author of Quo Vadis lives." [Pg 158] "Oh!" said he. "I did not quite understand you. It is so long since I was in Boston that my American French is a trifle weak. If you will take the blue trolley-car that goes up Ujazdowska Avenue, and ask the conductor to let you out at the junction of the Krakowskie Przedmiescie and the Nowy Swiat, the gendarme on the corner will be able to direct you thither." "Great Heavens!" I cried. "Would you mind writing that down?" He was a very agreeable young man, and consented. It is from his memorandum that I have copied the names he spoke with such ease, and if it so happens that I have got them wrong, it is his fault, and not mine. "One more thing before I go," said I, folding up the memorandum and shoving it into the palm of my hand through the opening in my glove. "When I get to—er—the author of Quo Vadis's house, whom shall I ask for?" I fear the young man thought I was[Pg 159] mad. He eyed me suspiciously for a moment. "That all depends upon whom you wish to see," he said. "I want to see—er—him," said I. "Then ask for him," he replied. "It is always well, when calling, to ask for the person one wishes to see. If you desired to call upon Mrs. Brown-Jones, for instance, it would be futile to go to her house and ask for Mrs. Pink-Smith, or Mrs. Greene-Robinson." "I know that," said I. "But what's his name?" The young man paled visibly. He now felt certain that I was an escaped lunatic. "I mean, how do you pronounce it?" I hastened to add. <div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/ill_033.jpg" width-obs="274" height-obs="400" alt="" /> ASKED A POLICEMAN</div> "Oh!" he replied, with a laugh, and visibly relieved. "Oh, that! Why, Sienkiewicz, of course! It is frequently troublesome to those who are not familiar with the Polish language. It is pronounced Sienkiewicz. S-i-e-n-k, Sienk, i-e, ie, w-i-c-z, wicz—Sienkiewicz." [Pg 160] And so I left him, no wiser than before. He did it so fluently and so rapidly that I failed to catch the orthoepic curves involved in this famous name. Armed with the slip of paper he had so kindly handed me, I sought out and found the trolley-car; conveyed by signs rather than by word of mouth to the conductor where I wished to alight; discovered the gendarme, who turned out to be a born policeman, and was therefore an Irishman, who escorted me without more ado to the house in which dwelt the man for whom I was seeking. "Is—er—the head of the house in?" I asked of the maid who answered my summons. I spoke in French, and this time met with no difficulty. The maid had served in America, and understood me at once. <div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/ill_034.jpg" width-obs="400" height-obs="306" alt="" /> THE AUTHOR IN HIS STUDY</div> "Yes, ma'm," she replied, and immediately ushered me into the author's den, where I discovered the great man himself scolding his secretary. "I cannot understand why you are so[Pg 161] careless," he was saying as I entered. "In spite of all my orders, repeatedly given, you will not dot your jays or cross your ells. If you do not take greater care I shall have to get some one else who will. Write this letter over again." Then he looked up, and perceiving me, rose courteously, and, much to my surprise, observed in charming English: "Miss Witherup, I presume?" "Yes," said I, grasping his proffered hand. "How did you know?" "I was at the De Reszkes' when your telegram reached there yesterday," he explained. "We thought you would be amused by the answer we sent you." "Oh!" said I, seeing that I had been made the victim of a joke. "It wasn't polite, was it?" "Oh, I don't know," he replied. "It was inspired by our confidence in your American alertness. We were sure you would be able to find me, anyhow, and we thought we'd indulge in a little humor, that was all." [Pg 162] "Ah!" I said, smiling, to show my forgiveness. "Well, you were right; and now that I have found you, tell me, do you write or dictate your stories?" "I dictate them," he said. "Wonderful!" said I. "Can you really speak all those dreadful Polish words? They are so long and so full of unexpected consonants in curious juxtaposition that they suggest barb-wire rather than literature to the average American mind." I had a sort of sneaking idea that he would find in juxtaposition a word to match any of his own, and I spoke it with some pride. He did not seem to notice it, however, and calmly responded: "One gets used to everything, Miss Witherup. I have known men who could speak Russian so sweetly that you'd never notice how full of jays the language is," said he. "And I have heard Englishmen say that after ten years' residence in the United States they got rather to like the dialect of you New-Yorkers, and in some cases to speak it with some degree of fluency themselves." "What is your favorite novel, Mr.—er—" "Sienkiewicz," he said, smiling over my hesitation. "Thanks," said I, gratefully. "But never mind that. I have a toothache, anyhow, and if you don't mind I won't—" "Don't mention it," he said. "I won't," I answered. "What is your favorite novel?" "Quo Vadis," he replied, promptly, and without any conceit whatever. He was merely candid. "I don't mean of your own. I mean of other people's," said I. "Oh!" said he. "I didn't understand; still, my answer must be the same. My favorite novel in Polish is, of course, my own; but of the novels that others have published, I think Quo Vadis, by Jeremiah Curtin, is my favorite. Of course it is only a translation, but it is good." [Pg 163] [Pg 164] I did not intend to be baffled, however, so I persisted. "Very well, Mr.—er—You," said I. "What is your favorite novel in Chinese?" "My favorite novel has not yet been translated into Chinese," he replied, calmly, and I had to admit myself defeated. "Do you like Vanity Fair?" I asked. "I have never been there," said he, simply. "What do you think of Pickwick?" I asked. "That is a large question," he replied, with some uneasiness, I thought. "But as far as my impressions go, I think he was guilty." I passed the matter over. "Are you familiar with American literature?" I asked. "Somewhat," said he. "I have watched the popular books in your country, and have read some of them." "And what books are they?" I asked. [Pg 165] "Well, Quo Vadis and The Prisoner of Zenda," he replied. "They are both excellent." "I suppose you never read Conan Doyle," I put in, with some sarcasm. A man who is familiar with what is popular in American literature ought to have read Conan Doyle. "Yes," he replied, "I have read Conan Doyle. I've read it through three times, but I think Dr. Holmes did better work than that. His Autograph on the Breakfast Table was a much better novel than Conan Doyle, and his poem, 'The Charge of the Light Brigade,' is a thing to be remembered. Still, I liked Conan Doyle," he added. "Everybody does," I said. "Naturally. It is a novel that suggests life, blood, insight, and all that," said my host. "But of all the books you Americans have written the best is Mr. Thackeray's estimate of your American boulevardier. It was named, if I remember rightly, Tommie Fadden. I read that[Pg 166] with much interest, and I do not think that Mr. Thackeray ever did anything better, although his story of Jane Eyre was very good indeed. Fadden was such a perfect representation of your successful American, and in reading it one can picture to one's self all the peculiar qualities of your best society. Really, I am grateful to Mr. Thackeray for his Tommie Fadden, and when you return to New York I hope you will tell him so, with my compliments." I looked at my watch and observed that the hour was growing late. "I am returning to Paris," said I, "so I have very little time left. Still, I wish to ask you two questions. First, did you find it hard to make a name for yourself?" "Very," said he. "It has taken sixteen hours a day for twenty years." <div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/ill_035.jpg" width-obs="309" height-obs="400" alt="" /> "ONE MUST BE INTRODUCED"</div> "Then why didn't you choose an easier name, like Lang, or Johnson?" I asked. "What is your other question?" he said, in response. "When I make a name, I make a name that will be remembered. Sienkiewicz will be remembered, whether it can be pronounced without rehearsal or not. What is your other question?" "Are you going to read from your own works in America, or not? Dr. Doyle, Dr. Watson, Anthony Hope, Matthew Arnold, and Richard Le Gallienne have done it. How about yourself?" I said. Mr. Sienkiewicz sighed. "I wanted to, but I can't," said he. "Nobody will have me." "Nonsense," said I. "Have you? They'll all have you." "But," he added, "how can I? One must be introduced, and how can chairmen of the evening introduce me?" "They have intelligence," said I. And some of them have, so I was quite right. "Yes, but they have no enunciation or memory," said he. "I can explain forever the pronunciation of my name, but your American chairman can never remember how it is pronounced. I shall not go." [Pg 167] [Pg 168] And so I departed from the house of Mr. Sienkiewicz. I can't really see why, when he was making a name for himself, he did not choose one that people outside of his own country could speak[Pg 169] occasionally without wrecking their vocal chords—one like Boggs, for instance. <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 170] [Pg 171] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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