Jonathan and His Continent Part 18

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 pa.s.sage of nine days, entered the magnificent harbour of New York. The sun had risen resplendent in a cloudless blue sky. We had just pa.s.sed 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.

"Look out!" cried one of my fellow-pa.s.sengers, seeing that I appeared to be unconscious of danger.

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"The interviewers!"

"Nonsense! Not here, surely!" I exclaimed.

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than two young men handed me their cards, with the announcement that they were journalists.

"We have come to present our respects to you," they said, "and to wish you a pleasant time in our country."

While they uttered these words they scanned me from head to foot, jotting a few strokes on their note-books. They were taking my portrait, which appeared next morning at the head of the articles that the press of New York thought fit to devote to me. The portrait was a flattering one. One paper, however, gave the following description of your humble servant:

"Max O'Rell is a rather globular Frenchman of about forty." Then followed a description of my travelling suit and other effects.

"Globular!" The idea!

"Forty!" No, gentlemen; thirty-nine, if you please.

But to return to our reporters.

Question after question was put with the rapidity of lightning flashes.

"Have you had a good pa.s.sage?"

"Are you sick at sea?"

"Where were you born?"

"How old are you?"

"How long do you mean to stay in the United States?"

"How much do your books bring you in?"

This catechising began to annoy me.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," I said; "I am tired, and am going to the hotel to rest. I shall be happy to see you this afternoon."

Oh! that first afternoon in New York, spent in the company of the interviewers; I shall never forget it!

The office of my manager, Major[10] Pond, was situated on the ground floor of the Everett House, where I had put up. Thither I repaired after lunch, to undergo the operation of tapping by eight interviewers at once.

[10] My manager, as the reader will observe, was one of the rare Americans who are not Colonels.

"Ah!" said one of them, after the usual salutations, "we are going to bore you; so let us begin at the beginning."

Here I smiled.

"I know your first question," I said; "you are going to ask me whether it is the first time I have been in America."

"That is generally our first question, it is true; but I have another to ask you before. You have just eaten your first meal in America; what did you have?"

I submitted with a good grace, and replied as seriously as I could.

"Gentlemen, I have just been in for a piece of turbot, a beefsteak and potato chips, a celery salad, and a vanilla ice."

"And now," remarked another reporter, "I have an important question to put to you. I hope it will not astonish you."

"Oh, I am in America," I replied, "and quite ready not to be astonished at anything."

"Well, then," said he, "I wanted to ask you what are your impressions of America?"

"Excuse me," I exclaimed; "I have only been in it three hours, and those three hours have been spent in this hotel. You must really allow me to abstain for the moment from telling you what I think of America; for you will admit, I hope, that one must have pa.s.sed a whole day at least in America, in order to judge it with any accuracy."

Here I rolled a cigarette, and rang for a lemon squash.

The reporters immediately made an entry in their note-books.

"What is that you have put down?" I asked.

A young fellow, with a face beaming with activity and intelligence, replied:

"I wrote that at this point of our conversation you rolled a cigarette, and rang for a lemon squash."

"Really, gentlemen," I ventured to observe, "do you imagine that such a remark as that can possess the slightest interest for your readers?"

"Without doubt," they replied, and all their faces wore an imperturbable seriousness that nearly made me roar with laughter.

"Oh, in that case excuse me; I ought to have known that in America, as elsewhere, an intelligent man knows his business. Go on with your questions; you interest me greatly."

The fact is, I began to be immensely amused.

The questions recommenced. One wanted biographical details; another, the origin of my pseudonym. One wished to know if I worked in the morning, the afternoon, or the evening; another, whether I worked sitting or standing up, and also whether I used ruled paper and quill pens. One man asked me whether I thought in English or in French; another, whether General Boulanger had any chance of soon being elected President of the French Republic. If I crossed my legs during the conversation, if I took off my gla.s.ses, nothing escaped these journalists; everything was jotted down.

The questions they asked really appeared to me so commonplace, so trivial, that I was almost ashamed to think I was the hero of this little farce.

With the idea of giving them something better worth writing, I launched into anecdotes, and told a few to these interviewers.

This brought about a little scene which was quite comic. If I looked at one reporter a little oftener than the rest, while I told an anecdote, he would turn to his brethren and say: