A Frenchman in America Part 2

There sat the unhappy Major Pond in his office, his head bowed upon his chest, his arms hanging limp, the very picture of despair.

The country is seized with a panic. Everybody has the influenza. Every one does not die of it, but every one is having it. The malady is not called influenza over here, as it is in Europe. It is called "Grippe."

No American escapes it. Some have _la grippe_, others have _the grippe_, a few, even, have _the la grippe_. Others, again, the lucky ones, think they have it. Those who have not had it, or do not think they have it yet, are expecting it. The nation is in a complete state of demoralization. Theaters are empty, business almost suspended, doctors on their backs or run off their legs.

At twelve a telegram is handed to me. It is from my friend, Wilson Barrett, who is playing in Philadelphia. "Hearty greetings, dear friend.

Five grains of quinine and two tablets of antipyrine a day, or you get _grippe_." Then came many letters by every post. "Impossible to go and welcome you in person. I have _la grippe_. Take every precaution." Such is the tenor of them all.

The outlook is not bright. What to do? For a moment I have half a mind to call a cab and get on board the first boat bound for Europe.

I go to my room, the windows of which overlook Union Square. The sky is somber, the street is black and deserted, the air is suffocatingly warm, and a very heavy rain is beating against the windows.

Shade of Columbus, how I wish I were home again!

Cheer up, boy, the hand-grasps of your dear New York friends will be sweet after the frantic grasping of stair-rails and other ship furniture for so many days.

I will have lunch and go and pay calls.

Excuse me if I leave you for a few minutes. The interviewers are waiting for me downstairs in Major Pond's office. The interviewers! a gay note at last. The hall porter hands me their cards. They are all there: representatives of the _Tribune_, the _Times_, the _Sun_, the _Herald_, the _World_, the _Star_.

What nonsense Europeans have written on the subject of interviewing in America, to be sure! To hear them speak, you would believe that it is the greatest nuisance in the world.

A Frenchman writes in the _Figaro_: "I will go to America if my life can be insured against that terrific nuisance, interviewing."

An Englishman writes to an English paper, on returning from America: "When the reporters called on me, I invariably refused to see them."

Trash! Cant! Hypocrisy! With the exception of a king, or the prime minister of one of the great powers, a man is only too glad to be interviewed. Don't talk to me about the nuisance, tell the truth, it is always such a treat to hear it. I consider that interviewing is a compliment, a great compliment paid to the interviewed. In asking a man to give you his views, so as to enlighten the public on such and such a subject, you acknowledge that he is an important man, which is flattering to him; or you take him for one, which is more flattering still.

I maintain that American interviewers are extremely courteous and obliging, and, as a rule, very faithful reporters of what you say to them.

Let me say that I have a lurking doubt in my mind whether those who have so much to say against interviewing in America have ever been asked to be interviewed at all, or have even ever run such a danger.

I object to interviewing as a sign of decadence in modern journalism; but I do not object to being interviewed, I like it; and, to prove it, I will go down at once, and be interviewed.

_Midnight._

The interview with the New York reporters pa.s.sed off very well. I went through the operation like a man.

After lunch, I went to see Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman, who had shown me a great deal of kindness during my first visit to America. I found in him a friend ready to welcome me.

The poet and literary critic is a man of about fifty, rather below middle height, with a beautifully chiseled head. In every one of the features you can detect the artist, the man of delicate, tender, and refined feelings. It was a great pleasure for me to see him again. He has finished his "Library of American Literature," a gigantic work of erudite criticism and judicious compilation, which he undertook a few years ago in collaboration with Miss Ellen Mackay Hutchinson. These eleven volumes form a perfect national monument, a complete cyclopaedia of American literature, giving extracts from the writings of every American who has published anything for the last three hundred years (1607-1890).

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE INTERVIEWERS.]

On leaving him, I went to call on Mrs. Anna Bowman Dodd, the author of "Cathedral Days," "Glorinda," "The Republic of the Future," and other charming books, and one of the brightest conversationalists it has ever been my good fortune to meet. After an hour's chat with her, I had forgotten all about the _grippe_, and all other more or less imaginary miseries.

I returned to the Everett House to dress, and went to the Union League Club to dine with General Horace Porter.

The general possesses a rare and most happy combination of brilliant flashing Parisian wit and dry, quiet, American humor. This charming _causeur_ and _conteur_ tells an anecdote as n.o.body I know can do; he never misses fire. He a.s.sured me at table that the copyright bill will soon be pa.s.sed, for, he added, "we have now a pure and pious Administration. At the White House they open their oysters with prayer."

The conversation fell on American society, or, rather, on American Societies. The highest and lowest of these can be distinguished by the use of _van_. "The blue blood of America put it before their names, as _Van Nicken_; political society puts it after, as _Sullivan_."

O VAN-ITAS VAN-ITATUM!

Time pa.s.sed rapidly in such delightful company.

I finished the evening at the house of Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll. If there had been any cloud of gloom still left hanging about me, it would have vanished at the sight of his sunny face. There was a small gathering of some thirty people, among them Mr. Edgar Fawcett, whose acquaintance I was delighted to make. Conversation went on briskly with one and the other, and at half-past eleven I returned to the hotel completely cured.

To-morrow morning I leave for Boston at ten o'clock to begin the lecture tour in that city, or, to use an Americanism, to "open the show."

There is a knock at the door.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HALL PORTER.]

It is the hall porter with a letter: an invitation to dine with the members of the Clover Club at Philadelphia on Thursday next, the 16th.

I look at my list of engagements and find I am in Pittsburg on that day.

I take a telegraph form and pen the following, which I will send to my friend, Major M. P. Handy, the president of this lively a.s.sociation:

Many thanks. Am engaged in Pittsburg on the 16th. Thank G.o.d, cannot attend your dinner.

I remember how those "boys" cheeked me two years ago, laughed at me, sat on me. That's my telegram to you, dear Cloverites, with my love.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER IV.

IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICAN HOTELS.

_Boston, January 6._

Arrived here this afternoon, and resumed acquaintance with American hotels.

American hotels are all alike.

Some are worse.