In view of Sir Max Bccrbohm's 77th birthday, which he
celebrated (or refrained from celebrating) on Wednesday, a News Chronicle reporter bearded him at his Rapallo home to which he returned with a sigh of satisfaction some three years ago, to see whether he was intervicwabk. Whether he could be said to be or not is a moot question. Certainly the article on the venerable satirist is described as an interview ; certainly out of a total of rather over 36 inches fully 2 inches arc devoted to verbatim observations by the 'victim. But I know Max well enough to be satisfied that his well- known mastery of evasive action (which I regret to say he has practised more than once on me in the past) has lost none of its signal efficacy. " He hates to talk about himself," remarks the inter- viewer a little plaintively. That would matter little if only he would write about himself. For who but himself could write with adequate knowledge about a personality that began its notable impress on the literary world more than half a century ago ? However that may be, let Max be assured that though he may be out of sight away there at Rapallo he is very far from being out of mind, and that many of us hope they will be sending him birthday wishes (to be shared judiciously with Lady Beerbohm) for many years to come.
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