like the boy in “Grimm’s Tales”—and describe that!

Host. But it is a serious matter. The best artists have live models to work from. But your writer of fiction—how, for instance, can he see a love scene enacted? He must describe it as best he can, and, although he may remember some of his own, he will never describe those.

Guest. Goethe was able to overcome such objections, I believe; and Heine tells us that,

But please go on.

Host. I think the beautiful young heroine of fiction generally gives the author of love stories a great deal of trouble. Such ladies exist, and their appearances may be described; but it is very difficult to find out what they would do under certain conditions necessary to the story, and therefore the author is obliged to rely upon his imagination, or upon the few examples he has met with in his reading, where men or women have delivered love-clinics at their own bedsides, or have had the rare opportunities of describing them at the bedsides of others. For this reason people who are not in love, and whose actions are open to the observations of others, are often better treated by the novelist than are his lovers. I have sometimes thought that a new profession might be created—that of Literary Model. Of course we would have none but the very highest order of dramatic performers, but such assistance as they might be able to give would be invaluable. Suppose the writer wanted to portray the behavior of a woman who has just received the tidings of the sudden death of her rejected lover. How does a writer, who has never heard such intelligence delivered, know what expressions of face, or what gestures, to give to his heroine in this situation? How would the intense, high-strung, nervous woman conduct herself? How would the fair-haired, phlegmatic type of women receive the news? The professional literary model might be enormously useful in delineating the various phases assumed by one’s hero or heroine.

Guest. The idea is certainly novel. But I’m afraid the professional literary model, if a woman, would never be content with “well enough.” She would want to excel herself; and, if you didn’t employ her constantly, would be devising new rôles for herself to fill. She would be super-serviceable.

Host. Perhaps. But such zeal could easily be restrained. It might be a good idea for a novel-writer to have a study near the greenroom of a theatre, and then between the acts he might send for this or that performer to give him a living picture of a certain character in a certain situation. It might not take a minute to do this. By the way, the writer’s model would have a better time than one who sat for an artist, for the sittings would generally be very short.

Guest. All the world’s a stage, and a thoroughly good actor might make a good literary model. But all sorts of people must help as models, by simply going on with their own little dramas of life, before the eyes of the sagacious author.

Host. That is true enough, so far as the comedy scenes of the play are concerned. But, as I said before, who is going to set the author the copy for tragedy or love scenes? Occasionally you get oblique views—mere intimations of such scenes. I wish I had had the good fortune to see what a lady of my acquaintance saw a while ago. She is one of the very few who have ever seen a proposal of love and its acceptance, carried on before spectators, exactly as if the contracting parties were alone. The scene took place in a street car between two young persons of foreign tongue, one of whom was about to take a steamer; and the man knew that what he had to say must be said then or never said at all. With the total oblivion of the presence of others these two opened their hearts to each other, the affair proceeded through all its stages, and the compact was sealed. This would have been a rare opportunity for a literary artist.