For the interviewer, nothing is sacred. Audacity is his stock-in-trade: the most private details of your daily life are at his mercy; and unless you blow his brains out—which is not lawful in New York State—you have no means of getting rid of him.
Do not believe you have got over the difficulty by having him told that you are not at home. He will return to the charge ten, twenty times; he will stand sentinel at your door, sleep on the mat outside your hotel bedroom, so as to pounce on you as soon as you show your face in the morning. He is patient; and if any indisposition should oblige you to keep your room, he will wait till you are well again, and will have his meals brought to him in the corridor. Should you succeed in escaping the hunter, rather than return to the newspaper-office empty-handed from the chase, he will find your wife, and ask her if you snore, whether you are an early riser, whether you are the more amiable after dinner or before, what you eat at breakfast, what is your favourite colour in trousers, and what size boots you take. He will ask her when you were married, how long your honeymoon lasted, if you have children, and whether they have cut their teeth. With these materials he will make up a column.
There is no question too indiscreet for these enterprising inquisitors: they would have interviewed St. Anthony in his hut.
Do not shout victory, either, because you have succeeded in getting rid of the interviewer without replying to his questions. It is in such cases that the American journalist reveals himself in all his glory. To your stupefaction, the newspapers next day will have an account of the conversation which you might have had with their reporters.
If my advice be worth giving, the best thing you can do, when the interviewer presents himself, and says, "I am a reporter, sir, and I have come to ask you for a few moments' chat," is to say to him:
"Mad to see you. Pray be seated."
After all, interviewing is an operation that one survives; and, to be just, I must say that American reporters in general are courteous, obliging, and—which is simply astounding when one considers that they rarely take notes—exact in their accounts of interviews.
The courage, too, with which the interviewer braves rebuffs, and the philosophy with which he pockets abuse, are nothing short of admirable. For my part, I never could find a cross word to say to these intruders; and I had my reward in reading in the papers that it was a pleasure to interview me, because I submitted to the operation with such good grace.
On the 11th of November, 1887, at 9 a.m., the Germanic, after a terribly rough passage of nine days, entered the magnificent harbour of New York. The sun had risen resplendent in a cloudless blue sky. We had just passed Bartholdi's statue of "Liberty," and it seemed as if France were not very far off. It was a sweet sensation, and instinctively I had raised my hat. All at once the Germanic stopped. A little steam-tug drew up alongside, and there stepped on board one or two custom-house officers, followed by several other persons.