Hausa Was a reader at Rodney’s, and probably the best publisher’s reader in America. He might have been a publisher’s editor—a rare and good one—had he been driven forward by ambition, enthusiasm, daring, tenacious resolution, and that eagerness to seek and find the best which a great editor must have. But Hauser was content to spend his days reading ridiculous manuscripts written by ridiculous people on all sorts of ridiculous subjects “The Breast Stroke,” “Rock Gardens for Everybody,” “The Life and Times of Lydia Pinkham,” “The New Age of Plenty”—and once in a while something that had the fire of passion, the spark of genius, the glow of truth.
Otto Hauser lived in a tiny apartment near First Avenue, and he invited George to drop in one evening. George went, and they spent the evening talking. After that he returned again and again because he liked Otto, and also because he was puzzled by the contradictions of his qualities, especially by something aloof, impersonal, and withdrawing in his nature which seemed so out of place beside the clear and positive elements in his character.
Otto did all the housekeeping himself. He had tried having cleaning women in from time to time, but eventually he had dispensed entirely with their services. ‘They were not clean and tidy enough to suit him, and their casual and haphazard disarrangements of objects that had been placed exactly where he wanted them annoyed his order-loving soul. He hated clutter. He had only a few books—a shelf or two—most of them the latest publications of the house of Rodney, and a few volumes sent him by other publishers. Usually he gave his books away as soon as he finished reading them because he hated clutter, and books made clutter. Sometimes he wondered if he didn’t hate books, too. Certainly he didn’t like to have many of them around: the sight of them irritated him.
George found him a curious enigma. Otto Hauser was possessed of remarkable gifts, yet he was almost wholly lacking in those qualities which cause a man to “get on” in the world. In fact, he didn’t want to “get on”. He had a horror of “getting on”, of going any further than he bad already gone. He wanted to be a publisher’s reader, and nothing more. At James Rodney & Co. he did the work they put into his hands. He did punctiliously what he was required to do. He gave his word, when he was asked to give it, with the complete integrity of his quiet soul, the unerring rightness of his judgment, the utter finality of his Germanic spirit. But beyond that he would not go.
When one of the editors at Rodney’s, of whom there were several besides Foxhall Edwards, asked Hauser for his opinion, the ensuing conversation would go something like this:
“You have read the manuscript?”
“Yes,” said Hauser, “I have read it.”
“What did you think of it?”
“I thought it was without merit.”
“Then you do not recommend its publication?”
“No, I do not think it is worth publishing.”
Or:
“Did you read that manuscript?”
“Yes,” Hauser would say. “I read it.”
“Well, what did you think of it? (Confound it, can’t the fellow say what he thinks without having to be asked all the timer)”
“I think it is a work of genius.”
Incredulously: “You do!”
“I do, yes. To my mind there is no question about it.”
“But look here, Hauser—” excitedly—“if what you say is true, this boy—the fellow who wrote it—why, he’s just a kid—no one ever heard of him before—comes from somewhere out West—Nebraska, Iowa, one of those places—never been anywhere, apparently—if what you say is true, we’ve made a discovery!”
“I suppose you have. Yes. The book is a work of genius.”
“But—(Damn it all, what’s wrong with the man anyway? Here he makes a discovery like this—an astounding statement of this sort—and shows no more enthusiasm than if he were discussing a cabbage head!)—but, see here, then! You—you mean there’s something wrong with it?”
“No, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. I think it is a magnificent piece of writing.”
“But—(Good Lord, the fellow is a queer fish!)—but you mean to say that—that perhaps it’s not suitable for publication in its present form?”
“No. I think it’s eminently publishable.”
“But it’s overwritten, isn’t it?”
“It is overwritten. Yes.”
“I thought so, too,” said the editor shrewdly. “Of course, the fellow shows he knows very little about writing. He doesn’t know how he does it, he repeats himself continually, he is childish and exuberant and extravagant, and he does ten times too much of everything.. We have a hundred other writers who know more about writing than he does.”
“I suppose we have, yes,” Hauser agreed. “Nevertheless, he is a man of genius, and they are not. His, book is a work of genius, and theirs are not.”
“Then you think we ought to publish him?”
“I think so, yes.”
“But—(Ah, here’s the catch, maybe—the thing he’s holding back on!)—but you think this is all he has to say?—that he’s written himself out in this one book?—that he’ll never be able to write another?”
“No. I think nothing of the sort. I can’t say, of course. They may kill him, as they often do----”
“(God, what a gloomy Gus the fellow is!)”
“—but on the basis of this book, I should say there’s no danger of his running dry. He should have fifty books in him.”
“But—(Good Lord! What is the catch?)—but then you mean you don’t think it’s time for such a book as this in America yet?”
“No, I don’t mean that. I think it is time.”