The situation was becoming ludicrous. Villiers felt strongly disposed to laugh.
“I’m afraid I am very ignorant!” — he said, with a humorous sparkle in his blue eyes,— “But really I am quite in the dark as to your meaning. Will you explain?”
The lady’s nose grew deeper of tint, and the look she shot at him had quite a killing vindictiveness. With evident difficulty she forced a smile.
“Oh, you MUST have heard of me!” — she declared, with a ponderous attempt at playfulness— “You read the papers, don’t you?”
“Some of them,” returned Villiers cautiously— “Not all. Not the Sunday ones, for instance.”
“Still, you can’t possibly have helped seeing my descriptions of famous people ‘At Home,’ you know! I write for ever so many journals. I think” — and she became complacently reflective— “I think I may say with perfect truth that I have interviewed everybody who has ever done anything worth noting, from our biggest provision dealer to our latest sensational novelist! And all my articles are signed ‘Tiger-Lily.’ NOW do you remember? Oh, you MUST remember? … I am so VERY well known!”
There was a touch of genuine anxiety in her voice that was almost pathetic, but Villiers made no attempt to soothe her wounded vanity.
“I have no recollection whatever of the name,” he said bluntly— “But that is easily accounted for, as I never read newspaper descriptions of celebrities. So you are an ‘interviewer’ for the Press?”
“Exactly!” and the lady leaned back more comfortably in the Louis Quatorze fauteuil— “And of course I want to interview Mr. Alwyn. I want…” here drawing out a business looking note-book from her pocket she opened it and glanced at the different headings therein enumerated,— “I want to describe his personal appearance, — to know when he was born, and where he was educated, — whether his father or mother had literary tastes, — whether he had, or has, brothers or sisters, or both, — whether he is married, or likely to be, and how much money he has made by his book.” She paused and gave an upward glance at Villiers, who returned it with a blank and stony stare.
“Then,” — she resumed energetically— “I wish to know what are his methods of work; — WHERE he gets his ideas and HOW he elaborates them, — how many hours he writes at a time, and whether he is an early riser, — also what he usually takes for dinner, — whether he drinks wine or is a total abstainer, and at what hour he retires to rest. All this is so INTENSELY interesting to the public! Perhaps he might be inclined to give me a few notes of his recent tour in the East, and of course I should be very glad if he will state his opinions on the climate, customs, and governments of the countries through which he has passed. It’s a great pity this is not his own house, — it is a pretty place and a description of it would read well. Let me see!” — and she meditated,—” I think I could manage to insert a few lines about this apartment, . . it would be easy to say ‘the picturesque library in the house of the Honble. Francis Villiers, where Mr. Alwyn received me,’ etc., — Yes! that would do very well! — very well indeed! I should like to know whether he has a residence of his own anywhere, and if not, whether he intends to take one in London, because in the latter case it would be as well to ascertain by whom he intends to have it furnished. A little discussion on upholstery is so specially fascinating to my readers! Then, naturally, I am desirous to learn how the erroneous rumor of his death was first started, . . whether in the course of his travels he met with some serious accident, or illness, which gave rise to the report. Now,” — and she shut her note-book and folded her hands,— “I don’t mind waiting an hour or more if necessary, — but I am sure if you will tell Mr. Alwyn who I am, and what I have come for, he will be only too delighted to see me with as little delay as possible.”
She ceased. Villiers drew a long breath, — his compressed lips parted in a slightly sarcastic smile. Squaring his shoulders with that peculiar pugnacious gesture of his which always indicated to those who knew him well that his mind was made up, and that nothing would induce him to alter it, he said in a tone of stiff civility:
“I am sorry, madam, . . very sorry! … but I am compelled to inform you that your visit here is entirely useless! Were I to tell my friend of the purpose you have in view concerning him, he would not feel so much flattered as you seem to imagine, but rather insulted! Excuse my frankness, — you have spoken plainly, — I must speak plainly too. Provision dealers and sensational story writers may find that it serves their purpose to be interviewed, if only as a means of gaining extra advertisement, but a truly great and conscientious author like Theos Alwyn is quite above all that sort of thing.”
The lady raised her pale eyebrows with an expression of interrogative scorn.
“ABOVE all that sort of thing!” she echoed incredulously— “Dear me! How very extraordinary! I have always found all our celebrities so exceedingly pleased to be given a little additional notoriety! … and I should have thought a POET,” this with much depreciative emphasis— “would have been particularly glad of the chance! Because, of course you know that unless a very astonishing success is made, as in the case of Mr. Alwyn’s ‘Nourhalma,’ people really take such slight interest in writers of verse, that it is hardly ever worth while interviewing them!”
“Precisely!” agreed Villiers ironically,— “The private history of a prize-fighter would naturally be much more thrilling!” He paused, — his temper was fast rising, but, quickly reflecting that, after all, the indignation he felt was not so much against his visitor as against the system she represented, he resumed quietly, “May I ask you, madam, whether you have ever ‘interviewed’ Her Majesty the Queen?”
Her glance swept slightingly over him.
“Certainly not! Such a thing would be impossible!”
“Then you have never thought,” went on Villiers, with a thrill of earnestness in his manly, vibrating voice— “that it might be quite as impossible to ‘interview’ a great Poet? — who, if great indeed, is in every way as royal as any Sovereign that ever adorned a throne! I do not speak of petty verse-writers, — I say a great Poet, by which term I imply a great creative genius who is honestly faithful to his high vocation. Such an one could no more tell you his methods of work than a rainbow could prattle about the way it shines, — and as for his personal history, I should like to know by what right society is entitled to pry into the sacred matters of a man’s private life, simply because he happens to be famous? I consider the modern love of prying and probing into other people’s affairs a most degrading and abominable sign of the times, — it is morbid, unwholesome, and utterly contemptible. Moreover, I think that writers who consent to be ‘interviewed’ condemn themselves as literary charlatans, unworthy of the profession they have wrongfully adopted. You see I have the courage of my opinions on this matter, — in fact, I believe, if every one were to speak their honest mind openly, a better state of things might be the result, and ‘interviewing’ would gradually come to be considered in its true light, namely, as a vulgar and illegitimate method of advertisement. I mean no disrespect to you, madam,” — this, as the lady suddenly put down her veil, thrust her note-book in her pocket, and rose somewhat bouncingly from her chair— “I am only sorry you should find such an occupation as that of the ‘interviewer’ open to you. I can scarcely imagine such work to be congenial to a lady’s feelings, as, in the case of really distinguished personages, she must assuredly meet with many a rebuff! I hope I have not offended you by my bluntness, … “ — here he trailed off into inaudible polite murmurs, while the “Tiger-Lily” marched steadily toward the door.
“Oh dear, no, I am not in the least offended!” she retorted contemptuously,— “On the contrary, this has been a most amusing experience! — most amusing, I assure you! and quite unique! Why—” and suddenly stopping short, she turned smartly round and gesticulated with one hand … “I have interviewed all the favorite actors and actresses in London! The biggest brewers in Great Britain have received me at their country ma
nsions, and have given me all the particulars of their lives from earliest childhood! The author of ‘Hugger Mugger’s Curse’ took the greatest pains to explain to me how he first collected the materials for his design. The author of that most popular story, ‘Darling’s Twins,’ gave me a description of all the houses he has ever lived in, — he even told me where he purchased his writing-paper, pens, and ink! And to think that a POET should be too grand to be interrogated! Oh, the idea is really very funny! … quite too funny for anything! “She gave a short laugh, — then relapsing into severity, she added … “You will, I hope, tell Mr. Alwyn I called?”
Villiers bowed. “Assuredly!”
“Thank you! Because it is possible he may have different opinions to yours, — in that case, if he writes me a line, fixing an appointment, I shall be very pleased to call again. I will leave my card, — and if Mr. Alwyn is a sensible man, he will certainly hold broader ideas on the subject of ‘interviewing’ than YOU appear to entertain. You are QUITE sure I cannot see him?”
“Quite!” — There was no mistake about the firm emphasis of this reply.
“Oh, very well!” — here she opened the door, rattling the handle with rather an unnecessary violence,— “I’m sorry to have taken up any of your time, Mr. Villiers. Good-morning!”
“Good-morning!” … returned Villiers calmly, touching the bell that his servant might be in readiness to show her out. But the baffled “Tiger-Lily” was not altogether gone. She looked back, her face wrinkling into one of those strangely unbecoming expressions of grim playfulness.
“I’ve half a mind to make an ‘At Home’ out of YOU!” she said, nodding at him energetically. “Only you’re not important enough!”
Villiers burst out laughing. He was not proof against this touch of humor, and on a sudden good-natured impulse, sprang to the door and shook hands with her.
“No, indeed, I am not!” he said, with a charming smile— “Think of it! — I haven’t even invented a new biscuit! Come, let me see you into the hall, — I’m really sorry if I’ve spoken roughly, but I assure you Alwyn’s not at all the sort of man you want for interviewing, — he’s far too modest and noble-hearted. Believe me! — I’m not romancing a bit — I’m in earnest. There ARE some few fine, manly, gifted fellows left in the world, who do their work for the love of the work alone, and not for the sake of notoriety, and he is one of them. Now I’m not certain, if you were quite candid with me, you’d admit that you yourself don’t think much of the people who actually LIKE to be interviewed?”
His amiable glance, his kindly manner, took the gaunt female by surprise, and threw her quite off her guard. She laughed, — a natural, unforced laugh in which there was not a trace of bitterness. He was really a delightful young man, she thought, in spite of his old-fashioned, out-of-the-way notions!
“Well, perhaps I don’t!” she replied frankly— “But you see it is not my business to think about them at all. I simply ‘interview’ them, — and I generally find they are very willing, and often eager, to tell me all about themselves, even to quite trifling and unnecessary details. And, of course, each one thinks himself or herself the ONLY or the chief ‘celebrity’ in London, or, for that matter, in the world. I have always to tone down the egotistical part of it a little, especially with authors, for if I were to write out exactly what THEY separately say of their contemporaries, it would be simply frightful! They would be all at daggers drawn in no time! I assure you ‘interviewing’ is often a most delicate and difficult business!”
“Would it were altogether impossible!” said Villiers heartily— “But as long as there is a plethora of little authors, and a scarcity of great ones, so long, I suppose, must it continue — for little men love notoriety, and great ones shrink from it, just in the same way that good women like flattery, while bad ones court it. I hope you don’t bear me any grudge because I consider my friend Alwyn both good and great, and resent the idea of his being placed, no matter with what excellent intention soever, on the level of the small and mean?”
The lady surveyed him with a twinkle of latent approval in her pale-colored eyes.
“Not in the least!” she replied in a tone of perfect good-humor. “On the contrary, I rather admire your frankness! Still, I think, that as matters stand nowadays, you are very odd, — and I suppose your friend is odd too, — but, of course, there must be exceptions to every rule. At the same time, you should recollect that, in many people’s opinion, to be ‘interviewed’ is one of the chiefest rewards of fame!—” Villiers shrugged his shoulders expressively. “Oh, yes, it seems a poor reward to you, no doubt,” — she continued smilingly,— “but there are no end of authors who would do anything to secure the notoriety of it! Now, suppose that, after all, Mr. Alwyn DOES care to submit to the operation, you will let me know, won’t you?”
“Certainly I will!” — and Villiers, accepting her card, on which was inscribed her own private name and address, shook hands once more, and bowed her courteously out. No sooner had the door closed upon her than he sprang upstairs, three steps at a time, and broke impetuously in upon Alwyn, who, seated at a table covered with papers, looked up with a surprised smile at the abrupt fashion of his entrance. In a few minutes he had disburdened himself of the whole story of the “Tiger-Lily’s” visit, telling it in a whimsical way of his own, much to the amusement of his friend, who listened, pen in hand, with a half-laughing, half-perplexed light in his fine, poetic eyes.
“Now did I express the proper opinion?” he demanded in conclusion. “Was
I not right in thinking you would never consent to be interviewed?”
“Right? Why of course you were!” — responded Alwyn quickly. “Can you imagine me calmly stating the details of my personal life and history to a strange woman, and allowing her to turn it into a half-guinea article for some society journal! But, Villiers, what an extraordinary state of things we are coming to, if the Press can actually condescend to employ a sort of spy, or literary detective, to inquire into the private experience of each man or woman who comes honorably to the front!”
“Honorably or DIShonorably, — it doesn’t matter which,” — said Villiers, “That is just the worst of it. One day it is an author who is ‘interviewed,’ the next it is a murderer, — now a statesman, — then a ballet dancer, — the same honor is paid to all who have won any distinct notoriety. And what is so absurd is, that the reading million don’t seem able to distinguish between ‘notoriety’ and ‘fame.’ The two things are so widely, utterly apart! Byron’s reputation, for instance, was much more notoriety during his life than fame — while Keats had actually laid hold on fame while as yet deeming himself unfamous. It’s curious, but true, nevertheless, that very often the writers who thought least of themselves during their lifetime have become the most universally renowned after their deaths. Shakespeare, I dare say, had no very exaggerated idea of the beauty of his own plays, — he seems to have written just the best that was in him, without caring what anybody thought of it. And I believe that is the only way to succeed in the end.”
“In the end!” repeated Alwyn dreamily— “In the end, no worldly success is worth attaining, — a few thousand years and the greatest are forgotten!”
“Not the GREATEST,” — said Villiers warmly— “The greatest must always be remembered.”
“No, my friend! — Not even the greatest! Do you not think there must have been great and wise and gifted men in Tyre, in Sidon, in Carthage, in Babylon? — There are five men mentioned in Scripture, as being ‘ready to write swiftly’ — Sarea, Dabria, Selemia, Ecanus, and Ariel — where is the no doubt admirable work done by these? Perhaps … who knows? … one of them was as great as Homer in genius, — we cannot tell!”
“True, — we cannot tell!” responded Villiers meditatively— “But, Alwyn, if you persist in viewing things through such tremendous vistas of time, and in measuring the Future by the Past, then one may ask what is the use of anything?”
“There IS no use in an
ything, except in the making of a strong, persistent, steady effort after good,” said Alwyn earnestly … “We men are cast, as it were, between two swift currents, Wrong and Right, — Self and God, — and it seems more easy to shut our eyes and drift into Self and Wrong, than to strike out brave arms, and swim, despite all difficulty, toward God and Right, yet if we once take the latter course, we shall find it the most natural and the least fatiguing. And with every separate stroke of high endeavor we carry others with us, — we raise our race, — we bear it onward, — upward! And the true reward, or best result of fame, is, that having succeeded in winning brief attention from the multitude, a man may be able to pronounce one of God’s lightning messages of inspired Truth plainly to them, while they are yet willing to stand and listen. This momentary hearing from the people is, as I take it, the sole reward any writer can dare to hope for, — and when he obtains it, he should remember that his audience remains with him but a very short while, — so that it is his duty to see that he employ his chance WELL, not to win applause for himself, but to cheer and lift others to noble thought, and still more noble fulfilment.”
Villiers regarded him wistfully.
“Alwyn, my dear fellow, do you want to be the Sisyphus of this era? — You will find the stone of Evil heavy to roll upward, — moreover, it will exhibit the usually painful tendency to slip back and crush you!”
“How can it crush me?” asked his friend with a serene smile. “My heart cannot be broken, or my spirit dismayed, and as for my body, it can but die, — and death comes to every man! I would rather try to roll up the stone, however fruitless the task, than sit idly looking at it, and doing nothing!”
“Your heart cannot be broken? Ah! how do you know” … and Villiers shook his head dubiously— “What man can be certain of his own destiny?”
“Everyman can WILL his own destiny,” — returned Alwyn firmly. “That is just it. But here we are getting into a serious discussion, and I had determined to talk no more on such subjects till to-night.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 192
