OUIDA WILL NOT BE INTERVIEWED.
When Ouida returned from her drive through Central Park, she found in
waiting, Olivia Winters, special writer for the Daily Tattler. Now,
Miss Winters was one of the most brilliant women of the New York press.
She it was whom the World had sent to be knocked down by a moving car,
so that the new style fenders might be properly described. The girl
had also taken a balloon ascension, and written it up for her paper.
She at one time spent three months as an inmate of a mad house, and as
a result, had written such an exposure of the methods of the place,
that the State Legislature had passed a new law for the government of
such institutions. One of the girl’s crowning achievements, however,
had been to interview the President of the United States at a time and
upon a subject upon which other writers had tried, in vain, to get an
expression of opinion. The only thing she had ever failed in, was in
getting Ouida to talk, nor did she ever press the great artist, for
she really liked her. Ouida had told her many things, but had always
requested her to refrain from using them in the paper, and Olivia had
always respected the confidence reposed in her, by keeping her word. No
true writer will ever break faith under similar circumstances.
Ouida did not keep her visitor long in waiting. A rap at the door was
heard, and upon being bid, Olivia Winters entered the apartments of
Ouida.
“Ah,” said the sculptress, “I am indeed glad to see you.”
“That gives me hope,” said the writer.
“Of what?” exclaimed Ouida.
“That you will break the silence you have maintained for years.”
“Ah, dear girl, there you, no matter how delicately, have approached
forbidden ground.”
“Have I offended you?” said Miss Winters.
“No,” replied Ouida, “if any one could have probed the mystery of my
life, it would have been you.”
“I thank you at least for that slight evidence of your confidence and
esteem--”
“But,” said Ouida, interrupting, “I have taken Disraeli’s advice.”
“And pray, what was that?” inquired Olivia.
“A young man, ambitious to succeed in public life, approached the great
English statesman, and said: ‘Mr. Disraeli, to what one great thing do
you attribute your success in public life?’ The wonderful Englishman
grew thoughtful for a moment, and said: ‘Well, sir, when I started out
in public life, I resolved never to reply to what the newspapers might
say about me.’ ‘Good,’ said the young man, ‘I will follow your advice,’
and he started to depart. ‘Hold! young man,’ cried Mr. Disraeli, ‘let
me finish my story.’ Continuing, he said: ‘But on one occasion the
London Telegraph came out with an accusation against me of so monstrous
a character, that I felt constrained to deny it. And what do you
suppose the damned rascally newspaper editor did? Why, he proved it.’”
Both women laughed merrily over the tale, which the Winters woman
declared was in Ouida’s usually happy and clever vein.
“But, my dear Ouida, I came to see what you had to say about Nugent’s
sermon.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing, my dear girl. If Mr. Nugent preaches against me,
my art, it is because texts are scarce and he wants to draw a crowd.”
“But, my dear Ouida, his personal, direct attack on you--you owe it to
yourself to speak.”
“No, I shan’t help him advertise himself.”
But even as she said it a cloud of vexation passed over her stately
brow.
“Then,” said Winters, appealingly, “nothing I can say will urge you to
speak?”
“No, Winters, don’t try to make me deviate from that silent course I
have from the very beginning mapped out for myself.”
“Well, then, I must go. But rest assured, our columns are yours at any
time you desire to speak.”
“Thanks! By the way, call at my box tonight at the opera. There will
be a lot of fools in attendance, and I will need the exhilaration of a
chat with one like you.”
“Au revoir.”
“Until tonight.”
And as Olivia Winters departed, her heart was filled with sympathy for
the big-souled, independent creature she had just left, and she felt
for her a deeper love and affection than for any other woman breathing
the breath of life.