Part 16

“Some may call all this impertinent and inquisitive. What do you suppose is an interviewer's business? Did you ever see an oyster opened? Yes? Well, an interviewer's business is the same thing. His man is his oyster, which he, not with sword, but with pencil and note-book, must open. Mark how the oysterman's thin blade insinuates itself,--how gently at first, how strenuously when once fairly between the shells!

“And here, I said, you write your books,--those books which have carried your name to all parts of the world, and will convey it down to posterity! Is this the desk at which you write? And is this the pen you write with?

“'It is the desk and the very pen,' he replied.

“He was pleased with my questions and my way of putting them. I took up the pen as reverentially as if it had been made of the feather which the angel I used to read about in Young's 'Night Thoughts' ought to have dropped, and did n't.

“Would you kindly write your autograph in my note-book, with that pen? I asked him. Yes, he would, with great pleasure.

“So I got out my note-book.

“It was a spick and span new one, bought on purpose for this interview. I admire your bookcases, said I. Can you tell me just how high they are?

“'They are about eight feet, with the cornice.'

“I should like to have some like those, if I ever get rich enough, said I. Eight feet,--eight feet, with the cornice. I must put that down.

“So I got out my pencil.

“I sat there with my pencil and note-book in my hand, all ready, but not using them as yet.

“I have heard it said, I observed, that you began writing poems at a very early age. Is it taking too great a liberty to ask how early you began to write in verse?

“He was getting interested, as people are apt to be when they are themselves the subjects of conversation.

“'Very early,--I hardly know how early. I can say truly, as Louise Colet said,

“'Je fis mes premiers vers sans savoir les ecrire.'”

“I am not a very good French scholar, said I; perhaps you will be kind enough to translate that line for me.

“'Certainly. With pleasure. I made my first verses without knowing how to write them.'

“How interesting! But I never heard of Louise Colet. Who was she?

“My man was pleased to give me a piece of literary information.

“'Louise the lioness! Never heard of her? You have heard of Alphonse Karr?'

“Why,--yes,--more or less. To tell the truth, I am not very well up in French literature. What had he to do with your lioness?

“'A good deal. He satirized her, and she waited at his door with a case-knife in her hand, intending to stick him with it. By and by he came down, smoking a cigarette, and was met by this woman flourishing her case-knife. He took it from her, after getting a cut in his dressing-gown, put it in his pocket, and went on with his cigarette. He keeps it with an inscription:

“Donne a Alphonse Karr Par Madame Louise Colet.... Dans le dos.

“Lively little female!'

“I could n't help thinking that I should n't have cared to interview the lively little female. He was evidently tickled with the interest I appeared to take in the story he told me. That made him feel amiably disposed toward me.

“I began with very general questions, but by degrees I got at everything about his family history and the small events of his boyhood. Some of the points touched upon were delicate, but I put a good bold face on my most audacious questions, and so I wormed out a great deal that was new concerning my subject. He had been written about considerably, and the public wouldn't have been satisfied without some new facts; and these I meant to have, and I got. No matter about many of them now, but here are some questions and answers that may be thought worth reading or listening to:

“How do you enjoy being what they call 'a celebrity,' or a celebrated man?

“'So far as one's vanity is concerned it is well enough. But self-love is a cup without any bottom, and you might pour the Great Lakes all through it, and never fill it up. It breeds an appetite for more of the same kind. It tends to make the celebrity a mere lump of egotism. It generates a craving for high-seasoned personalities which is in danger of becoming slavery, like that following the abuse of alcohol, or opium, or tobacco. Think of a man's having every day, by every post, letters that tell him he is this and that and the other, with epithets and endearments, one tenth part of which would have made him blush red hot before he began to be what you call a celebrity!'