Ardath, Marie Corelli [e ink ebook reader txt] 📗

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 mansions, 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