"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."