Jules Verne at Home E-Book

R.H. Sherard

• Herausgeber: Full Well Ventures
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

In this article "Jules Verne at Home," acclaimed French author Jules Verne was interviewed in 1893 at his home in Amiens, France, located about an hour and a half directly north of Paris by the author, whose account was published in the January 1894 issue of McClure's Magazine. 

Leseprobe

Jules Verne at Home

© 2020 Full Well Ventures

Originally published in January 1894 issue of McClure’s Magazine

MCCLURE’S

Jules Verne at work

His Own Account of His Life and Work

By R.H. Sherard

THE GREAT regret of my life is that I have never taken any place in French literature.”

As the old man said this his head drooped, and a ring of sadness sounded in the cheerful and hearty voice.

“Je ne compte pas dans la literature Française,” he repeated. Who was it who spoke thus, with drooping head, and with a ring of sadness in his cheerful voice? Some writer of cheap but popular feuilletons for the half-penny press, some man of letters who has never made a scruple of stating that he looks upon his pen as a money-getting implement, and who has always preferred to glory and honor a large account at the cash office of the Society of French Men of Letters? No; strange, monstrous, as it will appear, it was none other than Jules Verne. Yes, Jules Verne, the Jules Verne, your Jules Verne and mine, who has delighted us all the world over for so many years, and who will delight the world for generations and generations to come.

It was in the cool withdrawing-room of the Société Industrielle at Amiens that the master said these words, and I shall never forget the tone of sadness in which he said them. It was like the confession of a wasted life, the sigh of an old man over what can never be recalled. It was to me a poignant sorrow to hear him speak thus, and all that I could do was to say, with no unfeigned enthusiasm, that he was to me and millions like me, a great master, the subject of our unqualified admiration and respect, the novelist who delights many of us more than all the novelists that have ever taken pen in hand. But he only shook his gray head and said: “I do not count in French literature.”

Sixty-six, and but for his limp still hale and hearty, with much in his face that reminds one of Victor Hugo; like a fine old sea captain, ruddy of face and full of life. One eyelid slightly droops, but the gaze is firm and clear, and from his whole person emanates an aroma of goodness and kindness of heart which have ever been the characteristics of the man of whom Hector Malot, writing many years ago, said: “He is the best of best fellows;” of the man whom the frigid and reserved Alexandre Dumas loves like a brother, and who has not and never has had, in spite of his brilliant success, a single real enemy. His health troubles him, unfortunately. Of late his eyes have weakened, so that at times he is unable to guide his pen, and there are days when gastralgia martyrizes him. But he is as valiant as ever.

“I have written sixty-six volumes,” he said, “and if God grants me life, I shall finish eighty.”