One New York City writer who was not present at the event (nor expected to be, since Hungerford wasn’t his publisher) was Mr. Charles Curtis Easton. I asked Mr. Hungerford whether he had ever met that famous author.
“Charles Easton? Met him in passing once or twice. He’s a decent enough old man, not at all haughty about his success. He lives in a house off 82nd Street.”
“I have always admired his work.”
“Why don’t you go see him, if you’re curious? I hear he’s willing to entertain fellow writers if they don’t take up too much of his time.”
I was intrigued and dismayed by the suggestion. “I’m a complete stranger to him…”
Hungerford dismissed this objection as trivial. He took out one of his personal cards, and wrote on the back of it an introduction to me and my work. “Take this with you when you visit—it’ll get you in the door.”
“I wouldn’t like to disturb him.”
“Do or don’t—suit yourself,” John Hungerford said.
Of course I wanted to meet Charles Curtis Easton. But I was also afraid that I might embarrass myself by fawning, or exhibit my greenness in some other way. I could not visit him, I decided, without some better pretext than a first novel and a scribbled introduction on a calling card.
As it happened, it was Julian who provided that pretext.
Julian was visiting Calyxa when I arrived back at the guest-house. Flaxie sat in his lap, flailing at his beard with her tiny fist. Flaxie was tremendously interested in Julian’s beard, which depended from his chin like a hank of yellow twine. On the occasions when she managed to get hold of it she yanked it as enthusiastically as a boat-captain sounding a steam whistle, and laughed at the screeches Julian inevitably gave out. It was a game they both seemed to enjoy, though it left Julian’s eyes watering.
I showed off my new book, and gave copies to Julian and Calyxa. They admired it and praised it, though uncomfortable questions arose about the illustration on the cover. Eventually Flaxie grew restive, and Calyxa carried her off for a feeding.
Julian took advantage of her absence to confide in me that his work on The Life and Adventures of the Great Naturalist Charles Darwin remained stalled and incomplete. “I always meant to make this movie,” he said. “Now I have the means within my grasp—who knows for how much longer?—and it still won’t settle on the page. I’m serious about this, Adam. I need help—I admit it. And since you’re the author of a novel, and have some understanding of these things, I want to beg your assistance.”
He had brought the manuscript with him. It was a thin stack of pages, battered and dog-eared from his constant handling of it. He seemed abashed when he handed it to me.
“Will you look at it?” he asked with genuine humility. “And give me any advice that occurs to you?”
“I’m only a novice,” I said. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to help.”
But I could think of someone who might.
* * *
I waited until Monday, the third day of July, to ride out to 82nd Street to find the residence of Mr. Charles Curtis Easton. The house where he lived was clearly numbered, and easy enough to identify in the summer sunlight; but I passed it once, and passed it twice, and passed it yet again, working up the courage to knock at the door.
When I finally knocked, however tentatively, the door was opened by a woman with a young child tugging at her skirt. I showed her Hungerford’s card with its referral. She looked at it and smiled. “My father generally naps between three and five. But I’ll see if he’s available. Step in, please, Mr. Hazzard.”
Thus I entered the Easton house, that Temple of Story, which enclosed a cheerful din, and where the air was rich with the odors created by good food and perhaps less good children. After a brief interval, during which three of those same children stared at me with relentless interest, Mr. Easton’s daughter returned down a flight of stairs, dodging wheeled toys and other impediments, and invited me up to her father’s study. “He would be happy to meet you. Go on in, Mr. Hazzard,” she said, indicating the open door. “Don’t be shy!”
Charles Curtis Easton was inside. I recognized him instantly from the portrait which was embossed on the backs of all his books. He sat at a crowded desk, under a bright window dappled with ailanthus shade, the very picture of a working writer. He wasn’t a young man. His hair was snowy white, and it had retreated from his forehead and taken up a defensive position at the back of his skull. He wore a full beard, also white; and his eyes, which were embedded in networks of amiable wrinkles, gazed out from under ivory brows. He wasn’t fat, exactly, but he had the physique of a man who works sitting down and dines to his own satisfaction.
“Come in, Mr. Hazzard,” he said, glancing at the card his daughter had given him. “I’m always happy to meet a young writer.
The Adventures of Captain Commongold : that was yours, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, pleased that he had heard of it.
“A fine book, although the punctuation was somewhat eccentric. And you have a new one?”
It was in my hand. I had brought an inscribed copy as a gift. Stammering out my purpose, I passed it over.
“A Western Boy at Sea, ” he read, examining the boards. “And it has an Octopus in it!”
“Well, no… the Octopus was the illustrator’s conceit.”
“Oh? Too bad. But the sword and the pistol?”
“They make several appearances.” My embarrassment was almost painful. Why hadn’t I put an Octopus in the story? It wouldn’t have been hard to do. I ought to have thought of it in advance.
“That’s fine,” said Mr. Charles Curtis Easton, concealing any disappointment he might have felt. He put the book aside. “Sit down. You met my daughter? And my grandchildren?”
I fitted myself into an upholstered chair. “We weren’t fully introduced, but they seem very nice.”
He beamed at this modest compliment. “Tell me about yourself, then, Mr. Hazzard. You don’t appear to be one of the high Eupatridians—no insult intended—and yet you’re associated with the current President, isn’t that right?”
I told him as briefly as possible about my origins in the boreal west and about the unexpected events that had led to my residing on the Palace grounds. I told him how much his work had meant to me when I was a young lease-boy eager for books, and how I remained loyal to his writing and frequently recommended it to others. He accepted the praise gracefully, and asked more questions about the war, and Labrador, and such topics. He seemed genuinely interested in my answers; and by the time half an hour had passed we were “old friends.”
But it was not my intention just to flatter him, much as he may have deserved the flattery. Before long I mentioned Julian Comstock’s interest in the theater, and his intention of developing a movie script on a subject close to his heart.
“That’s an unusual ambition for a President,” Mr. Easton observed.
“It is, sir; but Julian is an unusual President. His love of cinema is genuine and earnest. He’s hit a snag, though, which his storytelling skills can’t surmount.” I went on to describe in general The Life and Adventures of the Great Naturalist Charles Darwin.
“Darwin and biological evolution are difficult topics to dramatize,” Mr. Easton said, “and isn’t he worried that the result won’t receive the Dominion’s approval? Very religious persons aren’t keen on Mr. Charles Darwin, if I remember my lessons.”
“You remember them correctly. Julian is no admirer of the worldly power of the Dominion, however, and he intends to overrule their objections in this case.”