New-York tribune. [volume], October 23, 1921, Page 6, Image 58

About New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
BY-PRODUCTS IN THE LIFE OF AN INTERVIEWER
By ARTHUR JAMES PEGLER (SECOND CROP) Illustrations by CAMILLUS KESSLER
-y NTERV?EW?NG famous folk for publ?
I cation is a wasteful department of news
paper enterprise. It take? no account
of the by-product
Conditions and circumstances under which
Interviews are had?tribulations of the inter?
viewer, odd characteristics of the interviewed,
may be interesting but are not important All
that is "back stage" stuff?not for publication,
"Get news," says the editor?nobody cares
how you get it.
The interviewer, however, reviewing his ad?
ventures in high life, recalls circumstances
under which he met important personages
rather than the words they uttered or topics
they discussed. For instance, the late J. Pier
pont Morgan, his private, car invaded by news?
paper emissaries at Chicago, remarked that
Anno must have admitted us. Anne had. Miss
Morgan is a friend of the press gang always.
Mr. Morgan dismissed with a lordly ges?
ture the "absurd" declaration that Wall
Street?1. e., Morgan?had tried to scrap his
railway, but commented with undisguised in?
terest on a morning paper story anent the
theft of a famous painting from an Italian gal?
lery, and with that incident as his basis talked
twenty minutes on Italian art, a topic conccrn
* ing which his guests were ignorant. No won?
der, therefore, that a hard-boiled city editor
later snorted disdain when informed that Mr.
Morgan talked three columns about fifteenth
century Italian painting under the influence
of the Renaissance?of Leonardo da Vinci,
Raphael and Correggio, with perhaps half a
column more about Hals, Rembrandt, Van
Dyck and other famous Dutchmen, but not a
line about Wall Street.
pLINOR GLYN, scintillating Elinor, writer
of "Three Weeks" and other tales, touring
America with several youthful scions of Brit?
ish nobility, exclaimed in dismay over a hotel
telephone that she positively could not, and
would not talk about love at 8 a. m., and, in
fact, didn't comprehend how any sane editor
could expect her to do such?provided he knew
anything about love, which, being an editor, he
most likely did not.
When reminded that afternoon newspapers
must needs emulate early birds she hopped on
that unfortunate simile like a hen robin with a
hungry brood, retorting that she refused ab?
solutely to be anybody's worm, and, anyhow,
would not discuss love until after dinner. She
never did, on principle. It was positively in?
decent to propose a topic like that in the pale
gray of a Chicago dawn, but if the press gang
would inform her where she might obtain a
rasher of real Irish bacon fit for a regular
woman's breakfast to replace those "little
crinkly curl papera" served in American ho?
tels she would be everlastingly grateful and
later on might be induced to deliver a homily
on love.
What the lady really talked about when at
last she consented to receive newspaper com?
pany was Belgian hare breeding, at that period
a popular craze. Every poor family, she said,
could become independent of Swift and
Armour by having a Belgian hare hutch in the
back yard, because so amazing was the fecun?
dity of those admirable creatures that a few
pairs would keep the average household busy
devising new ways to cook hare.
?HIEF JUSTICE WILLIAM HOWARD
TAFT, visiting Chicago shortly before the
Presidential election in 1908, had to make an
early start one morning because of an ap?
pointment to speak at Indianapolis the same
?day. He denied himself to interviewers over?
night, so the afternoon newspaper men, in
duty bound, albeit somewhat dubious of re?
sults, approached the distinguished states?
man's bedroom door at 7:45 a. m. The tran?
som was atilt, and through it billowed a basso
SwathetSi m a wo?ly bathrobe, he sat on the edgt^^f his bed, genially chatting
\ *?
With a startled gesture the singer half rose, opened her mouth wide and emitted an am azing note
profundo rendition of "The Warrior Bold."
"In days of o-o-o-ld
W hen-he-he-hen knights were bo-o~o-ld
And barons he-eld their swa-a-a-ay"
Came pauses, gasps with exclamations of
"Whoof!" and "Whoosh I" also sundry flap?
pings, following which the song proceeded?
and slappings.
"A waiTior bo-o-o-ld
With spu-hurs of go-o-old
Sang merrily his lay-ay-ay?
Sang me-er-ri-lee his lay."
Somebody knocked at the door.
"Come in!" roared the basso profundo.
When the reporters entered Mr. Taft was no?
where visible, but he remained audible The
next President of the United States was hav?
ing his bath. Two minutes later, swathed in a
woolly bathrobe, he sat on the edge of his
bed chatting genially, meanwhile sticking
studs in a shirt?all of which shows how
thoroughly democratic a distinguished Re?
publican may be on occasion.
W/T?EN F. D. Underwood, president of the
Erie, was general manager of the Minne?
apolis, St. Paul & Sault Ste. Marie, otherwise
the Soo, which is a long time ago, by the
way, a newspaper editor assigned me to ask
Mr. Underwood certain questions relating to
a switchmen's strike, which I am quite sure,
since he knew Underwood intimately, he would
not personally have propounded to the gentle?
man, except perhaps from the driver's seat of
a motor car, with the engine running pre?
pared for emergencies.
Being young and inexperienced, I did as I
had been told to do. The big, two-fisted rail?
roader sat behind a spacious chsk high up in
the Guaranty Loan Building in Minneapolis.
It was easy enough to see he was a busy man.
With eager directness I propounded question
No. 1. The general manager looked over the
top of a letter he had been reading, scowled
ferociously, and exclaimed: "Get out!"
Baffled but by no means defeated, I rapped
out question No. 2. It was moro provocative
than the other.
Underwood straightened his huge frame in
the swivel chair and pointed to the door.
"Get out," he repeated, adding, "unless you
want me to drop you out of a window."
It was an eight-story drop, but I was imbued
with the bravery of the young enthusiast. I
talked back to the general manager of the Soo,
and few people ever do that. I dared him to
drop me eight Btories, and, as Kipling he s
phrased it, made "a further ass of myself."
Some of the roughest, toughest railroaders
in the roughest, toughest railroad yards of this
country held the unanimous opinion in those
Elinor Glyn could not and would not talk about love at 8 a. m.
days that F. D. Underwood was a "fightin*
divil." Also he strongly approved of other
"fightin' divils." Perhaps he sized me up as
"the makin's," so to speak, because he grinned
and invited me back next day, when perhaps he
might have something of interest to tell me.
Since then I have interviewed Mr. Underwood
many times, often, I feel sure, at some per?
sonal inconvenience to him.
WfHEN Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst toured the
United States some years ago Chicago
editors learned that the train by which she
was to arrive would not reach La Salle Street
before 2 p. m.? so a flock of interviewers hied
themselves to Indianapolis, bent on meeting
the train there, pumping Mrs. Pankhurst soon
after breakfast and preparing their copy on
the way in.
The first section of the Twentieth Century
rolled into Indianapolis and was met by the
touring scribes, who demanded of the conduc?
tor whether Mrs. Pankhurst was aboard.
"Well," opined that gorgeous olficial, "there's
some important woman in Stateroom C, Car
22. Guess she must be the one you're after."
We piled aboard and waited a decent inter?
val before sending cards to Stateroom C. Word
was returned that the lady would receive us
immediately, and back we went, prepared to
question the world's champion suffragette
about things in general.
A placid-faced woman of dignified and state?
ly mien sat by a window looking out. She
turned suddenly and confronted us in evident
astonishment that we were so many.
"Gentlemen," she said smilingly. "I'm glad
to see you all, but what in the world has hap?
pened?"
The dignified lady in Stateroom C was our
own Jane Addams. The conductor had mixed
his celebrities. Mrs. Pankhurst, we learned,
was in Section 2?the train behind.
Miss Addams, most charming of women,
albeit one who loves a joke, laughed until
tears ran down her cheeks. Having duly in?
terviewed our famous Jane, who was always
good copy, but who had been merely spending
a night in Toledo, we dropped off at La Porte
and grabbed the second section. Mrs. Pank
hurst talked fast and cleverly and?well, it's
only an hour from La Porte, and every man
had his story to write after arriving in town,
but the reason did not leak out for some timo
afterward. No use telling editors everything.
HPHE late Henry Clay Frick was not easy to
interview. He did not believe in talking
for publication. Essentially a man of action
was Frick.
Following an attempt on his life by Anar?
chist Berkman, which nearly succeeded, the
"Coke King" became more inaccessible than
before. When traveling he was guarded by
private detectives. When "in" he was invari?
ably "out," and vice versa.
All sorts of stories were afloat about Frick.
It v/as said he had shaved off his famous
beard to fool anarchists and was masquerad?
ing in different whiskers daily.
"I want ten words from Henry Clay Frick
?something to this effect," snapped my man?
aging editor. "I want 'em to-night."
He slammed a typewritten slip on the desk
with accustomed emphasis.
Mr. and Mrs. Frick were staying at the
Congress Hotel. Mr. Frick had refused to
receive interviewers. The hotel people said
the f ricks had gone out. It was about 9 p. m.
Frank Repetto, house detective, a friendly
soul, said they might have gone to the theater.
There was a good play just around the cor?
ner. Of course, he didn't know?he was just
guessing. It was a good guess.
The doorman at the theater informed me
most respectfully that Mr. Frick had left my
ticket with him. It was a center aisle seat,
he said. So down the ais'e I sauntered with
some millionaire's ticket in my hand, looking
for a man with spade whiskers. A moment
later I was in the seat reserved for Mr.
Frick's friend. The "Coke King" viewed me
"Pardon," he said. "You have the wrong
seat. This is reserved for a friend of mine."
"Mr. Frick," I explained, "I borrowed your
friend's seat for five minutes. My newspaper
wants you to say ten words for publication.
Here they are?read 'em."
The paper was indignantly thrust aside.
"This is an outrage!" began Frick. "]?I?
there's nothing I want to say?nothing I will
say."
Next to the magnate sat Mrs. Frick. She
was laughing?just bubbling over like a girl.
Of course I expected s> be thrown out, but Mrs.
Frick's demeanor encouraged me. I persisted
in my effort to get the big man's O. K. on those
ten words. Just then Mrs. Frick leaned for?
ward and placed a white-gloved hand on the
steel magnate's arm.
"Henry," she said, "you lose."
The lady's good nature was infectious.
Frick relaxed, still, however, refusing to be
quoted, but he took the typewritten slip and
read it.
"Well," he shrugged irritably, "I've said
this very thing a thousand times."
"Then there's no objection to saying it
again."
"Certainly not?expresses my sentiment ex?
actly."
Aa I emerged Mr. Frick's friend was de?
manding his ticket of the doorman. I sur?
rendered it with apologies. The gentleman's
name, as I afterward learned, was Gary.
"Black face, two column box, page one," or?
dered the managing editor, as he received his
typewritten slip?adding, sotto voce: "That'll
knock 'em dead!"
?"PHE late Sir William Van Home, builder
and president of the Canadian Pacific
Railwav und one of the most astounding gen?
iuses this continent ever produced?of whom
it was once said that he knew every Siwash
and Chinese among the ten thousand who
helped him build the road and could call each
one by name?once considered the possibility
of developing a Hudson Bay tobacco industry.
The magnate had several boxes of cigars made
from Hudson Bay tobacco in his Montreal
library. He used to give them to reporter?
when he did not wish to be interviewed.
Those cigars were rank beyond descrip?
tion. Sir Thomas Shaughnessy, then plain
Tom Shaughnessy, superintendent of the
Western Division, was said to have sponsored
the tobacco project. Van Home and Shaugh?
nessy, their intimates declared, were always
at war in a playful way.
Sir Edwin Arnold, author of "The Light of
Asia," en route from Japan to England, was
visiting the Van Homes at the period re?
ferred to, and reporters had called to inter?
view the poet. The railroad magnate had
already provided his guest with a Hudson
Bay cigar something less than eight inches
long and black as a crow's wing. Upon this
the distinguished Britisher was puffing assid?
uously, albeit with an astounded expression of
countenance. The library reeked with acrid
fumes even before Van Home handed the
box to four newspaper men, all of whom felt
in duty bound to light up. Less than a ..iin
ute later the apartment became uninhabita?
ble by any one save a Siwash or an Esqui?
mau.
Sir Edwin after some deliberation removed
the cigar from his lips, rolled it gingerly be?
tween his fingers a moment and inquired:
"Where did you say this tobacco is grown?"
"Hudson Bay," chuckled Van Home.
"Greatest country in the world?grow any?
thing."
Arnold contemplated the nauseous stump,
from which dense blue smoke rose ceiling
ward.
"Want my honest verdict?" he asfeed. ?
"Give it to us straight," said the rntap?*
"Well," went on Arnold, "I've smoked ha.
anese tobacco?It's vile. Vf smoked q*
neso tobacco?it's worse. Then there*! C
rean tobacco and Saghalin tobacco ^
Mancho twist and Siberian blackjack, p
sampled the lot, off and on, but, my dear V
Home, if you don't mind my saying so
?er?infant industry in the Hudson Bw
country should be strangled before it get? <Ji
of hand. This cigar, my dear sir, is the rank,
est, reekingest, deadliest, most odorifero?
and -enerally outrageous cigar 1 ever encoua.
tered in all my travels."
Tho further the poet proceeded with fck
excoriating arraignment of that terrible cim
the broader became Van Home's grin, g;.
massive shoulders were shaking with enjo?.
ment of the joke.
"Couldn't be worse, eh?" he demanded.
"I hardly believe it could, on my honor"
said Sir Edwin.
"Well!" roared the head of the C. P. R
"I might have known it. Tom Shaughnesaj
likes 'em!"
J^UISA TETRAZZIM, famous coloratura
soprano, who sang in Verdi's "La Tra
viata" at Chicago in 1918. permitted it to be
known through her enthusiastic impresario
that she would receive reporters at the Coa.
gress Hotel during the afternoon.
The blond and chubby songstress, who?
extraordinary high notes had not then per
meated the musical consciousness of Americas
opera lovers as later they did, uas, neverth?.
less, considered good newspaper copy by Chi?
cago editors. One of them wondered, gam*,
what irritably, if it wasn't possible to
get something from Mme. Tetrazzini that
would be different from the ordinary star i?
terview.
A man from another newspaper on a life?
mission accompanied me to the signora't
apartment. We were admitted by the urban?
impresario with a gesture bespeaking caution
"Hoosh!" he whispered, fingers on lips. "Z*
signora she slip."
"Not hurt, I hope," ventured my companion.
"No hort," explained the friend of Tetra*
zini. "Eet is not to hort?she slip. Ze signora
is vat you say?rest. Vait," he went on, "I
show you ze mos' won'erful Bing in ze wsrld
Zees lady, ven I toch her, so?she vake fro?
her slip?she sing high C, straight out from
her slip. She alvis do zees," he confided.
Catlike, he crossed the apartment and threw
wide a foMing door. Within, clad in a pale
blue peignoir, her yellow mane becomingly
disarranged, lay the prima donna. Still or
tiptoe, the impresario approached her. Paus?
ing to smile confidentially at his visitors, bt
gave the diva a sudden poke.
"Signora!" he snappe 1. "Signoral Alerte!"
With a startled gesture the singer half rose,
opened her mouth wide and emitted an ama*
ing note. It was a regular Metropolitan
Opera high C, delivered with all the tre?
mendous vocal power of which the signora
was capable.
Introductions followed. Mme. Tetrazzini
was embarrassed. She admitted it. That bad
man was always playing tricks. To cover her
embarrassment she seated herself at a Stein
way grand piano. This was the prelude to a
further display of madame's versatility. She
began playing an overture with her left hand,
doing bass drum on the piano case with the
heel of her right. When the kettledrums came
in she produced the effect with agile finger tip?
in the same way. Nearly every .sort of instru?
ment in the orchestra she simulated with her
lips. Luisa was all over the piano in a serie?
of really startling musical effect?!.
"Zees lady," resumed the impresario, "she i*
zee mos' voner-ful vornan vat is in opera. She
know every part in every opera. If some tune
she sing no more opera, zen she become w?
great artiste in vaudeville. She can do every
sing vat is."
When Ben Atwell, director of publicity for
the Chicago Opera Company, saw the story of
Mme. Tetrazzini's performance, he hunted the
lady up and protested.
"Wiiere did you pick up that press apent?'
Ben demanded. "First thing you know hell
have you walking a slack wire."
"Zai, guy?" laughed the prima donna. "Ee
corn's to me vees highes' recommen's from my
friend Signor Reengaleeng/'
Mr. Morgan dismissed Wall Street, but talked twenty minutes on itaUan m