Stephen Vincent Benet He Carries About Gum, Candy, Some Books

Stephen Vincent Benet He Carries About Gum, Candy, Some Books

This drizzly day, when the weather quarrels with Autumn and Winter and does not know to which it shall pay allegiance, I scarcely know what author to pick down from the shelves. As a matter of fact, I have been reading Midwinter, by John Buchan. What a rollicking tale! Of Bonnie Prince Charlie and Brobdingnagian Dr. Sam Johnson. But I have never met John Buchan. Who is there in America who can spin such a romance? George Barr Mc-Cutcheon? Robert W. Chambers? John Marquand? Some day when Stephen Vincent Benét turns his hand to romancing, perhaps he will do it.

Now, there seems no reason why I should not write a few words concerning my friend and collaborator, Stephen Vincent Benét. Logrolling? If you wish, you may call it that. I’ve often told the story of our first meeting at Yale, when he was a Freshman and I was a Sophomore, and I sought him out in the top floor of a gloomy dormitory where he was gayly pitching pennies of a Winter afternoon. Shortly after that, S. V. B. published his first book of poems. Since then he has published two others and three novels. Until his latest novel, Jean Huguenot, I had thought him more poet than novelist. In Jean, however, he has drawn a character of charm and power.

Stephen Benét has a large head, indefinite hair, wears huge glasses, carries an entire desk-full of papers, gum, candy, cigarettes and a book or two constantly about his person. His military ancestors, among them a Chief of Ordnance, have not given him precision of movement.

His second novel, Young People’s Pride, was written so that he might marry and depart for a honeymoon in France. This he accomplished.

He is exceedingly fond of his poet-editor brother, William Rose Benét.

Stephen Benét has read constantly and rapidly from cradle days.He has assembled to his mind an extraordinary array of facts and fancies. His poetry bristles with them. Simple, honest, retiring, he is a phenomenon not often encountered among the literary young men of our time. He is a contributor to these pages.

I just called him on the telephone to see what his next novel would be like. ” I don’t know,” he answered. ‘ Only one thing—it’s going to be exceedingly long! ” Which, after all, is a perfectly safe plan for a novel, isn’t it? J. F.