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rode in the woods。 And every night we sat in front of the
fire （that didn't smoke because of pretending） and talked
until the next morning。
He was one of those rarely gifted men who find their chiefest
pleasure not in looking backward or forward； but in what is
going on at the moment。 Weeks did not have to pass before it
was forced upon his knowledge that Tuesday； the fourteenth
（let us say）； had been a good Tuesday。 He knew it the moment
he waked at 7 A。 M。 and perceived the Tuesday sunshine making
patterns of bright light upon the floor。 The sunshine
rejoiced him and the knowledge that even before breakfast
there was vouchsafed to him a whole hour of life。 That day
began with attentions to his physical well…being。 There were
exercises conducted with great vigor and rejoicing； followed
by a tub； artesian cold； and a loud and joyous singing of
ballads。
At fifty R。 H。 D。 might have posed to some Praxiteles and；
copied in marble； gone down the ages as 〃statue of a young
athlete。〃 He stood six feet and over； straight as a Sioux
chief； a noble and leonine head carried by a splendid torso。
His skin was as fine and clean as a child's。 He weighed
nearly two hundred pounds and had no fat on him。 He was the
weight…throwing rather than the running type of athlete； but
so tenaciously had he clung to the suppleness of his
adolescent days that he could stand stiff…legged and lay his
hands flat upon the floor。
The singing over； silence reigned。 But if you had listened at
his door you must have heard a pen going； swiftly and boldly。
He was hard at work； doing unto others what others had done
unto him。 You were a stranger to him； some magazine had
accepted a story that you had written and published it。
R。 H。 D。 had found something to like and admire in that story
（very little perhaps）； and it was his duty and pleasure to
tell you so。 If he had liked the story very much he would
send you instead of a note a telegram。 Or it might be that
you had drawn a picture； or； as a cub reporter； had shown
golden promise in a half column of unsigned print； R。 H。 D。
would find you out； and find time to praise you and help you。
So it was that when he emerged from his room at sharp eight
o'clock； he was wide…awake and happy and hungry； and whistled
and double…shuffled with his feet； out of excessive energy；
and carried in his hands a whole sheaf of notes and letters
and telegrams。
Breakfast with him was not the usual American breakfast； a
sullen； dyspeptic gathering of persons who only the night
before had rejoiced in each other's society。 With him it was
the time when the mind is； or ought to be； at its best； the
body at its freshest and hungriest。 Discussions of the latest
plays and novels； the doings and undoings of statesmen；
laughter and sentimentto him； at breakfast； these things
were as important as sausages and thick cream。
Breakfast over； there was no dawdling and putting off of the
day's work （else how； at eleven sharp； could tennis be played
with a free conscience？）。 Loving； as he did； everything
connected with a newspaper； he would now pass by those on the
hall…table with never so much as a wistful glance； and hurry
to his workroom。
He wrote sitting down。 He wrote standing up。 And； almost you
may say； he wrote walking up and down。 Some people；
accustomed to the delicious ease and clarity of his style；
imagine that he wrote very easily。 He did and he didn't。
Letters； easy； clear； to the point； and gorgeously human；
flowed from him without let or hindrance。 That masterpiece of
corresponding； 〃The German March Through Brussels；〃 was
probably written almost as fast as he could talk （next to
Phillips Brooks； he was the fastest talker I ever heard）； but
when it came to fiction he had no facility at all。 Perhaps I
should say that he held in contempt any facility that he may
have had。 It was owing to his incomparable energy and Joblike
patience that he ever gave us any fiction at all。 Every
phrase in his fiction was； of all the myriad phrases he could
think of； the fittest in his relentless judgment to survive。
Phrases； paragraphs； pages； whole stories even； were written
over and over again。 He worked upon a principle of
elimination。 If he wished to describe an automobile turning
in at a gate； he made first a long and elaborate description
from which there was omitted no detail； which the most
observant pair of eyes in Christendom had ever noted with
reference to just such a turning。 Thereupon he would begin a
process of omitting one by one those details which he had
been at such pains to recall； and after each omission he
would ask himself： 〃Does the picture remain？〃 If it did not；
he restored the detail which he had just omitted； and
experimented with the sacrifice of some other； and so on； and
so on； until after Herculean labor there remained for the
reader one of those swiftly flashed； ice…clear pictures
（complete in every detail） with which his tales and romances
are so delightfully and continuously adorned。
But it is quarter to eleven； and； this being a time of
holiday； R。 H。 D。 emerges from his workroom happy to think
that he has placed one hundred and seven words between
himself and the wolf who hangs about every writer's door。 He
isn't satisfied with those hundred and seven words。 He never
was in the least satisfied with anything that he wrote； but
he has searched his mind and his conscience and he believes
that under the circumstances they are the very best that he
can do。 Anyway； they can stand in their present order until
after lunch。
A sign of his youth was the fact that to the day of his death
he had denied himself the luxury and slothfulness of habits。
I have never seen him smoke automatically as most men do。 He
had too much respect for his own powers of enjoyment and for
the sensibilities； perhaps； of the best Havana tobacco。 At a
time of his own deliberate choosing； often after many hours
of hankering and renunciation； he smoked his cigar。 He smoked
it with delight； with a sense of being rewarded； and he used
all the smoke there was in it。
He dearly loved the best food； the best champagne； and the
best Scotch whiskey。 But these things were friends to him；
and not enemies。 He had toward food and drink the Continental
attitude； namely； that quality is far more important than
quantity； and he got his exhilaration from the fact that he
was drinking champagne and not from the champagne。 Perhaps I
shall do well to say that on questions of right and wrong he
had a will of iron。 All his life he moved resolutely in
whichever direction his conscience pointed； and； although
that ever present and never obtrusive conscience of his made
mistakes of judgment now and then； as must all consciences； I
think it can never once have tricked him into any action that
was impure or unclean。 Some critics maintain that the heroes
and heroines of his books are impossibly pure and innocent
young people。 R。 H。 D。 never called upon his characters for
any trait of virtue； or renunciation； or self…mastery of
which his own life could not furnish examples。
Fortunately； he did not have for his friends the same
conscience that he had for himself。 His great gift of
eyesight and observation failed him in his judgments upon his
friends。 If only you loved him； you could get your biggest
failures of conduct somewhat more than forgiven； without any
trouble at all。 And of your mole…hill virtues he made
splendid mountains。 He only interfered with you when he was
afraid that you were going to hurt some one else whom he also
loved。 Once I had a telegram from him which urged me for
heaven's sake not to forget that the next day was my wife's
birthday。 Whether I had forgotten it or not is my own private
affair。 And when I declared that I had read a story which I
liked very； very much and was going to write to the author to
tell him so； he always kept at me till the letter was
written。
Have I said that he had no habits？ Every day； when he was
away from her； he wrote a letter to his mother； and no swift
scrawl at that； for； no matter how crowded and eventful the
day； he wrote her the best letter that he could write。 That
was the only