Tales from Bohemia | Page 2

his felicity
of expression and soundness of judgment found adequate scope.
In the following two or three years the cultivation of the field of
dramatic criticism occupied his time to the temporary exclusion of his
ambition for creative work. He and I read independently; but our tastes
had much in common, though his preference was for imaginative
literature. Meanwhile I was writing short stories with plenty of plot,
some of which found their way into various magazines; but his taste lay
more in the line of the French short story writers who made an incident
the medium for portraying a character. Historical romance had
fascinations for me, but Alphonse Daudet attracted both of us to the

artistic possibilities that lay in selecting the romance of real life for
treatment in fiction as against the crude and repellent naturalism of
Zola and his school. This fact is not a little significant in view of the
turn toward historical romance which exercised all the activities of
Robert Neilson Stephens after the production of his play, "An Enemy to
the King," by E.H. Sothern.
Still our intimacy had prepared me for the change. Through many a
long night after working hours we had wandered through the moonlit
streets until daybreak exchanging views freely and sturdily on
historical characters on the philosophy of history, on the character of
Henry of Navarre and his followers, and on the worthies of Elizabethan
England, in the literature of which we had immersed ourselves. Kipling
had recently burst meteor-like on the world, and Barrie raised his head
with a whimsical smile closely chasing a tear. Thomas Hardy was in
the saddle writing "Tess," and in France Daudet was yet active though
his prime was past. Guy de Maupassant continued the production of his
marvellous short stories. These were the contemporary prose writers
who engaged our attention. A little later we hailed the appearance of
Stanley J. Weyman with "A Gentleman of France," and the Conan
Doyle of "The White Company" and "Micah Clarke" rather than the
creator of "Sherlock Holmes" commended our admiration. We were by
no means in accord on the younger authors. Diversity of opinion
stimulates critical discussion, however. I had not yet become reconciled
to Kipling, who provoked my resentment by certain coarse flings at the
Irish, but "Bob" hailed him with whole-hearted enthusiasm.
We were not the only members of the staff with literary aspirations.
Others, like the late Andrew E. Watrous, had achievements of no mean
order in prose and verse. Still others were sustaining the traditions of
"The Press" as a newspaper office which throughout its history had
been a stepping stone to magazine work and other forms of literary
employment. Richard Harding Davis was on the paper and "Bob"
Stephens was one of the two men most intimately in his confidence
regarding his ambitions.
Finally Bob told me that "Dick" had taken him to his house and read to
him "A bully short story," adding, "It's a corker."
I inquired the nature of the story.
"Just about the 'Press' office," Bob replied,

Among other particulars I asked the title.
"'Gallegher,'" said Bob.
Three years elapsed after our first acquaintance before Bob Stephens
began writing stories and sketches. The "Tales from Bohemia"
collected in this volume represent his early creative work. We were in
the better sense a small band of Bohemians, the few friends and
companions who will be found figuring in the tales under one guise or
another. Many a merry prank and many a jest is recalled by these pages.
Of criticism I have no word to say. Let the reader understand how they
came into being and they will explain themselves. "Bob" Stephens took
his own environment, the anecdotes he heard, the persons whom he met
and the friends whom he knew, and he treated them as the writers of
short stories in France twenty years ago treated their own Parisian
environment. He made an incident the means of illustrating a portrayal
of character. Later he was to construct elaborate plots for dramas and
historical novels.
"Bohemianism" was but a brief episode in the life of "R. N. S." It
ceased after his marriage. But his natural gaiety remained. Seldom was
his joyous disposition overcast, or his winning smile eclipsed. For six
months I was privileged to live in the house with his mother. If he had
inherited his literary predilections from his father,--a highly respected
educator of Huntington, Pa. from whose academy many eminent
professional men were graduated,--his gentleness, his cheerfulness, his
winning smile and the ingratiating qualities to which it was the key, as
surely came from his mother.
I remember a time when he was inordinately grave for several days and
pursued a tireless course of special reading through the office
encyclopaedias and some books he had