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diff --git a/11504-h/11504-h.htm b/11504-h/11504-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..345ee37 --- /dev/null +++ b/11504-h/11504-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7866 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <title> + Further Foolishness, by Stephen Leacock + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11504 ***</div> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + FURTHER FOOLISHNESS + </h1> + <h3> + Sketches and Satires on The Follies of The Day + </h3> + <h2> + By Stephen Leacock + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> + <p> + Many years ago when I was a boy at school, we had over our class an + ancient and spectacled schoolmaster who was as kind at heart as he was + ferocious in appearance, and whose memory has suggested to me the title of + this book. + </p> + <p> + It was his practice, on any outburst of gaiety in the class-room, to chase + us to our seats with a bamboo cane and to shout at us in defiance: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Now, then, any further foolishness?</i> +</pre> + <p> + I find by experience that there are quite a number of indulgent readers + who are good enough to adopt the same expectant attitude towards me now. + </p> + <h3> + STEPHEN LEACOCK + </h3> + <p> + McGILL UNIVERSITY MONTREAL + </p> + <p> + November 1, 1916 + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> FOLLIES IN FICTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> I. Stories Shorter Still </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER ONE AND ONLY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> II. Snoopopaths; or, Fifty Stories in One </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> III. Foreign Fiction in Imported Instalments. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> Movies and Motors, Men and Women </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> (II) THE MINISTER WHOSE CHURCH HE ATTENDS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> (III) HIS PARTNER AT BRIDGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> (IV) HIS HOSTESS AT DINNER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> (III) </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> X. A Study in Still Life—My Tailor </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> Peace, War, and Politics </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XI. Germany from Within Out </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XIII. In Merry Mexico </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XIV. Over the Grape Juice; or, The Peacemakers + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XV. The White House from Without In </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> Timid Thoughts on Timely Topics </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XVI. Are the Rich Happy? </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XVII. Humour as I See It </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Follies in Fiction + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I. Stories Shorter Still + </h2> + <p> + Among the latest follies in fiction is the perpetual demand for stories + shorter and shorter still. The only thing to do is to meet this demand at + the source and check it. Any of the stories below, if left to soak + overnight in a barrel of rainwater, will swell to the dimensions of a + dollar-fifty novel. + </p> + <h3> + (I) AN IRREDUCIBLE DETECTIVE STORY + </h3> + <p> + HANGED BY A HAIR OR A MURDER MYSTERY MINIMISED + </p> + <p> + The mystery had now reached its climax. First, the man had been + undoubtedly murdered. Secondly, it was absolutely certain that no + conceivable person had done it. + </p> + <p> + It was therefore time to call in the great detective. + </p> + <p> + He gave one searching glance at the corpse. In a moment he whipped out a + microscope. + </p> + <p> + "Ha! ha!" he said, as he picked a hair off the lapel of the dead man's + coat. "The mystery is now solved." + </p> + <p> + He held up the hair. + </p> + <p> + "Listen," he said, "we have only to find the man who lost this hair and + the criminal is in our hands." + </p> + <p> + The inexorable chain of logic was complete. + </p> + <p> + The detective set himself to the search. + </p> + <p> + For four days and nights he moved, unobserved, through the streets of New + York scanning closely every face he passed, looking for a man who had lost + a hair. + </p> + <p> + On the fifth day he discovered a man, disguised as a tourist, his head + enveloped in a steamer cap that reached below his ears. The man was about + to go on board the <i>Gloritania</i>. + </p> + <p> + The detective followed him on board. + </p> + <p> + "Arrest him!" he said, and then drawing himself to his full height, he + brandished aloft the hair. + </p> + <p> + "This is his," said the great detective. "It proves his guilt." + </p> + <p> + "Remove his hat," said the ship's captain sternly. + </p> + <p> + They did so. + </p> + <p> + The man was entirely bald. + </p> + <p> + "Ha!" said the great detective without a moment of hesitation. "He has + committed not one murder but about a million." + </p> + <h3> + (II) A COMPRESSED OLD ENGLISH NOVEL + </h3> + <h3> + SWEARWORD THE UNPRONOUNCEABLE + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER ONE AND ONLY + </h2> + <p> + "Ods bodikins!" exclaimed Swearword the Saxon, wiping his mailed brow with + his iron hand, "a fair morn withal! Methinks twert lithlier to rest me in + yon glade than to foray me forth in yon fray! Twert it not?" + </p> + <p> + But there happened to be a real Anglo-Saxon standing by. + </p> + <p> + "Where in heaven's name," he said in sudden passion, "did you get that + line of English?" + </p> + <p> + "Churl!" said Swearword, "it is Anglo-Saxon." + </p> + <p> + "You're a liar!" shouted the Saxon, "it is not. It is Harvard College, + Sophomore Year, Option No. 6." + </p> + <p> + Swearword, now in like fury, threw aside his hauberk, his baldrick, and + his needlework on the grass. + </p> + <p> + "Lay on!" said Swearword. + </p> + <p> + "Have at you!" cried the Saxon. + </p> + <p> + They laid on and had at one another. + </p> + <p> + Swearword was killed. + </p> + <p> + Thus luckily the whole story was cut off on the first page and ended. + </p> + <h3> + (III) A CONDENSED INTERMINABLE NOVEL + </h3> + <p> + FROM THE CRADLE TO THE GRAVE OR A THOUSAND PAGES FOR A DOLLAR + </p> + <p> + NOTE.-This story originally contained two hundred and fifty thousand + words. But by a marvellous feat of condensation it is reduced, without the + slightest loss, to a hundred and six words. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (I) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Edward Endless lived during his youth + in Maine, + in New Hampshire, + in Vermont, + in Massachusetts, + in Rhode Island, + in Connecticut. + + (II) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Then the lure of the city lured him. His fate took him to + New York, to Chicago, and to Philadelphia. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +In Chicago he lived, + in a boarding-house on Lasalle Avenue, + then he boarded— + in a living-house on Michigan Avenue. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +In New York he + had a room in an eating-house on Forty-first Street, + and then— + ate in a rooming-house on Forty-second Street. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +In Philadelphia he + used to sleep on Chestnut Street, + and then— + slept on Maple Street. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +During all this time women were calling to him. He knew + and came to be friends with— + Margaret Jones, + Elizabeth Smith, + Arabella Thompson, + Jane Williams, + Maud Taylor. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +And he also got to know pretty well, + Louise Quelquechose, + Antoinette Alphabetic, + Estelle Etcetera. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +And during this same time Art began to call him— + Pictures began to appeal to him. + Statues beckoned to him. + Music maddened him, + and any form of Recitation or Elocution drove + him beside himself. + + (III) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Then, one day, he married Margaret Jones. + As soon as he had married her + He was disillusioned. + He now hated her. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Then he lived with Elizabeth Smith— + He had no sooner sat down with her than— + He hated her. +</pre> + <p> + Half mad, he took his things over to Arabella Thompson's flat to live with + her. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The moment she opened the door of the apartment, he loathed +her. + He saw her as she was. +</pre> + <p> + Driven sane with despair, he then— + </p> + <p> + (Our staff here cut the story off. There are hundreds and hundreds of + pages after this. They show Edward Endless grappling in the fight for + clean politics. The last hundred pages deal with religion. Edward finds it + after a big fight. But no one reads these pages. There are no women in + them. Our staff cut them out and merely show at the end— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Edward Purified— + Uplifted— + Transluted. +</pre> + <p> + The whole story is perhaps the biggest thing ever done on this continent. + Perhaps!) + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. Snoopopaths; or, Fifty Stories in One + </h2> + <p> + This particular study in the follies of literature is not so much a story + as a sort of essay. The average reader will therefore turn from it with a + shudder. The condition of the average reader's mind is such that he can + take in nothing but fiction. And it must be thin fiction at that—thin + as gruel. Nothing else will "sit on his stomach." + </p> + <p> + Everything must come to the present-day reader in this form. If you wish + to talk to him about religion, you must dress it up as a story and label + it <i>Beth-sheba</i>, or <i>The Curse of David</i>; if you want to improve + the reader's morals, you must write him a little thing in dialogue called + <i>Mrs. Potiphar Dines Out</i>. If you wish to expostulate with him about + drink, you must do so through a narrative called <i>Red Rum</i>—short + enough and easy enough for him to read it, without overstraining his mind, + while he drinks cocktails. + </p> + <p> + But whatever the story is about it has got to deal—in order to be + read by the average reader—with A MAN and A WOMAN, I put these words + in capitals to indicate that they have got to stick out of the story with + the crudity of a drawing done by a child with a burnt stick. In other + words, the story has got to be snoopopathic. This is a word derived from + the Greek—"snoopo"—or if there never was a Greek verb snoopo, + at least there ought to have been one—and it means just what it + seems to mean. Nine out of ten short stories written in America are + snoopopathic. + </p> + <p> + In snoopopathic literature, in order to get its full effect, the writer + generally introduces his characters simply as "the man" and "the woman." + He hates to admit that they have no names. He opens out with them + something after this fashion: "The Man lifted his head. He looked about + him at the gaily bedizzled crowd that besplotched the midnight cabaret + with riotous patches of colour. He crushed his cigar against the brass of + an Egyptian tray. 'Bah!' he murmured, 'Is it worth it?' Then he let his + head sink again." + </p> + <p> + You notice it? He lifted his head all the way up and let it sink all the + way down, and you still don't know who he is. For The Woman the beginning + is done like this: "The Woman clenched her white hands till the diamonds + that glittered upon her fingers were buried in the soft flesh. 'The shame + of it,' she murmured. Then she took from the table the telegram that lay + crumpled upon it and tore it into a hundred pieces. 'He dare not!' she + muttered through her closed teeth. She looked about the hotel room with + its garish furniture. 'He has no right to follow me here,' she gasped." + </p> + <p> + All of which the reader has to take in without knowing who the woman is, + or which hotel she is staying at, or who dare not follow her or why. But + the modern reader loves to get this sort of shadowy incomplete effect. If + he were told straight out that the woman's name was Mrs. Edward + Dangerfield of Brick City, Montana, and that she had left her husband + three days ago and that the telegram told her that he had discovered her + address and was following her, the reader would refuse to go on. + </p> + <p> + This method of introducing the characters is bad enough. But the new + snoopopathic way of describing them is still worse. The Man is always + detailed as if he were a horse. He is said to be "tall, well set up, with + straight legs." + </p> + <p> + Great stress is always laid on his straight legs. No magazine story is + acceptable now unless The Man's legs are absolutely straight. Why this is, + I don't know. All my friends have straight legs—and yet I never hear + them make it a subject of comment or boasting. I don't believe I have, at + present, a single friend with crooked legs. + </p> + <p> + But this is not the only requirement. Not only must The Man's legs be + straight but he must be "clean-limbed," whatever that is; and of course he + must have a "well-tubbed look about him." How this look is acquired, and + whether it can be got with an ordinary bath and water are things on which + I have no opinion. + </p> + <p> + The Man is of course "clean-shaven." This allows him to do such necessary + things as "turning his clean-shaven face towards the speaker," "laying his + clean-shaven cheek in his hand," and so on. But every one is familiar with + the face of the up-to-date clean-shaven snoopopathic man. There are + pictures of him by the million on magazine covers and book jackets, + looking into the eyes of The Woman—he does it from a distance of + about six inches—with that snoopy earnest expression of + brainlessness that he always wears. How one would enjoy seeing a man—a + real one with Nevada whiskers and long boots—land him one solid kick + from behind. + </p> + <p> + Then comes The Woman of the snoopopathic story. She is always "beautifully + groomed" (who these grooms are that do it, and where they can be hired, I + don't know), and she is said to be "exquisitely gowned." + </p> + <p> + It is peculiar about The Woman that she never seems to wear a <i>dress</i>—always + a "gown." Why this is, I cannot tell. In the good old stories that I used + to read, when I could still read for the pleasure of it, the heroines + —that was what they used to be called—always wore dresses. But + now there is no heroine, only a woman in a gown. I wear a gown myself—at + night. It is made of flannel and reaches to my feet, and when I take my + candle and go out to the balcony where I sleep, the effect of it on the + whole is not bad. But as to its "revealing every line of my figure"—as + The Woman's gown is always said to—and as to its "suggesting even + more than it reveals"—well, it simply does <i>not</i>. So when I + talk of "gowns" I speak of something that I know all about. + </p> + <p> + Yet, whatever The Woman does, her "gown" is said to "cling" to her. + Whether in the street or in a <i>cabaret</i> or in the drawing-room, it + "clings." If by any happy chance she throws a lace wrap about her, then it + clings; and if she lifts her gown—as she is apt to—it shows, + not what I should have expected, but a <i>jupon</i>, and even that clings. + What a <i>jupon</i> is I don't know. With my gown, I never wear one. These + people I have described, The Man and The Woman—The Snoopopaths—are, + of course, not husband and wife, or brother and sister, or anything so + simple and old-fashioned as that. She is some one else's wife. She is <i>The + Wife of the Other Man</i>. Just what there is, for the reader, about other + men's wives, I don't understand. I know tons of them that I wouldn't walk + round a block for. But the reading public goes wild over them. The + old-fashioned heroine was unmarried. That spoiled the whole story. You + could see the end from the beginning. But with Another Man's Wife, the way + is blocked. Something has got to happen that would seem almost obvious to + anyone. + </p> + <p> + The writer, therefore, at once puts the two snoopos—The Man and The + Woman—into a frightfully indelicate position. The more indelicate it + is, the better. Sometimes she gets into his motor by accident after the + theatre, or they both engage the drawing-room of a Pullman car by mistake, + or else, best of all, he is brought accidentally into her room at an hotel + at night. There is something about an hotel room at night, apparently, + which throws the modern reader into convulsions. It is always easy to + arrange a scene of this sort. For example, taking the sample beginning + that I gave above, The Man, whom I left sitting at the <i>cabaret</i> + table, above, rises unsteadily —it is the recognised way of rising + in a <i>cabaret</i>—and, settling the reckoning with the waiter, + staggers into the street. For myself I never do a reckoning with the + waiter. I just pay the bill as he adds it, and take a chance on it. + </p> + <p> + As The Man staggers into the "night air," the writer has time—just a + little time, for the modern reader is impatient—to explain who he is + and why he staggers. He is rich. That goes without saying. All + clean-limbed men with straight legs are rich. He owns copper mines in + Montana. All well-tubbed millionaires do. But he has left them, left + everything, because of the Other Man's Wife. It was that or madness—or + worse. He had told himself so a thousand times. (This little touch about + "worse" is used in all the stories. I don't just understand what the + "worse" means. But snoopopathic readers reach for it with great + readiness.) So The Man had come to New York (the only place where stories + are allowed to be laid) under an assumed name, to forget, to drive her + from his mind. He had plunged into the mad round of—I never could + find it myself, but it must be there, and as they all plunge into it, it + must be as full of them as a sheet of Tanglefoot is of flies. + </p> + <p> + "As The Man walked home to his hotel, the cool night air steadied him, but + his brain is still filled with the fumes of the wine he had drunk." Notice + these "fumes." It must be great to float round with them in one's brain, + where they apparently lodge. I have often tried to find them, but I never + can. Again and again I have said, "Waiter, bring me a Scotch whisky and + soda with fumes." But I can never get them. + </p> + <p> + Thus goes The Man to his hotel. Now it is in a room in this same hotel + that The Woman is sitting, and in which she has crumpled up the telegram. + It is to this hotel that she has come when she left her husband, a week + ago. The readers know, without even being told, that she left him "to work + out her own salvation"—driven, by his cold brutality, beyond the + breaking-point. And there is laid upon her soul, as she sits there with + clenched hands, the dust and ashes of a broken marriage and a loveless + life, and the knowledge, too late, of all that might have been. + </p> + <p> + And it is to this hotel that The Woman's Husband is following her. + </p> + <p> + But The Man does not know that she is in the hotel, nor that she has left + her husband; it is only accident that brings them together. And it is only + by accident that he has come into her room, at night, and stands there—rooted + to the threshold. Now as a matter of fact, in real life, there is nothing + at all in the simple fact of walking into the wrong room of an hotel by + accident. You merely apologise and go out. I had this experience myself + only a few days ago. I walked right into a lady's room—next door to + my own. But I simply said, "Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought this was No. + 343." + </p> + <p> + "No," she said, "this is 341." + </p> + <p> + She did not rise and "confront" me, as they always do in the snoopopathic + stories. Neither did her eyes flash, nor her gown cling to her as she + rose. Nor was her gown made of "rich old stuff." No, she merely went on + reading her newspaper. + </p> + <p> + "I must apologise," I said. "I am a little short-sighted, and very often a + <i>one</i> and a <i>three</i> look so alike that I can't tell them apart. + I'm afraid—" + </p> + <p> + "Not at all," said the lady. "Good evening." + </p> + <p> + "You see," I added, "this room and my own being so alike, and mine being + 343 and this being 341, I walked in before I realised that instead of + walking into 343 I was walking into 341." + </p> + <p> + She bowed in silence, without speaking, and I felt that it was now the + part of exquisite tact to retire quietly without further explanation, or + at least with only a few murmured words about the possibility of to-morrow + being even colder than to-day. I did so, and the affair ended with + complete <i>savoir faire</i> on both sides. + </p> + <p> + But the Snoopopaths, Man and Woman, can't do this sort of thing, or, at + any rate, the snoopopathic writer won't let them. The opportunity is too + good to miss. As soon as The Man comes into The Woman's room—before + he knows who she is, for she has her back to him—he gets into a + condition dear to all snoopopathic readers. + </p> + <p> + His veins simply "surged." His brain beat against his temples in mad + pulsation. His breath "came and went in quick, short pants." (This last + might perhaps be done by one of the hotel bellboys, but otherwise it is + hard to imagine.) + </p> + <p> + And The Woman—"Noiseless as his step had been, she seemed to <i>sense</i> + his presence. A wave seemed to sweep over her —She turned and rose + fronting him full." This doesn't mean that he was full when she fronted + him. Her gown—but we know about that already. "It was a coward's + trick," she panted. + </p> + <p> + Now if The Man had had the kind of <i>savoir faire</i> that I have, he + would have said: "Oh, pardon me! I see this room is 341. My own room is + 343, and to me a <i>one</i> and a <i>three</i> often look so alike that I + seem to have walked into 341 while looking for 343." And he could have + explained in two words that he had no idea that she was in New York, was + not following her, and not proposing to interfere with her in any way. And + she would have explained also in two sentences why and how she came to be + there. But this wouldn't do. Instead of it, The Man and The Woman go + through the grand snoopopathic scene which is so intense that it needs + what is really a new kind of language to convey it. + </p> + <p> + "Helene," he croaked, reaching out his arms—his voice tensed with + the infinity of his desire. + </p> + <p> + "Back," she iced. And then, "Why have you come here?" she hoarsed. "What + business have you here?" + </p> + <p> + "None," he glooped, "none. I have no business." They stood sensing one + another. + </p> + <p> + "I thought you were in Philadelphia," she said—her gown clinging to + every fibre of her as she spoke. + </p> + <p> + "I was," he wheezed. + </p> + <p> + "And you left it?" she sharped, her voice tense. + </p> + <p> + "I left it," he said, his voice glumping as he spoke. "Need I tell you + why?" He had come nearer to her. She could hear his pants as he moved. + </p> + <p> + "No, no," she gurgled. "You left it. It is enough. I can understand"—she + looked bravely up at him—"I can understand any man leaving it." + </p> + <p> + Then as he moved still nearer her, there was the sound of a sudden swift + step in the corridor. The door opened and there stood before them The + Other Man, the Husband of The Woman—Edward Dangerfield. + </p> + <p> + This, of course, is the grand snoopopathic climax, when the author gets + all three of them—The Man, The Woman, and The Woman's Husband—in + an hotel room at night. But notice what happens. + </p> + <p> + He stood in the opening of the doorway looking at them, a slight smile + upon his lips. + </p> + <p> + "Well?" he said. Then he entered the room and stood for a moment quietly + looking into The Man's face. + </p> + <p> + "So," he said, "it was you." He walked into the room and laid the light + coat that he had been carrying over his arm upon the table. He drew a + cigar-case from his waistcoat pocket. + </p> + <p> + "Try one of these Havanas," he said. + </p> + <p> + Observe the <i>calm</i> of it. This is what the snoopopath loves—no + rage, no blustering—calmness, cynicism. He walked over towards the + mantelpiece and laid his hat upon it. He set his boot upon the fender. + </p> + <p> + "It was cold this evening," he said. He walked over to the window and + gazed a moment into the dark. + </p> + <p> + "This is a nice hotel," he said. (This scene is what the author and the + reader love; they hate to let it go. They'd willingly keep the man walking + up and down for hours saying "Well!") + </p> + <p> + The Man raised his head! "Yes, it's a good hotel," he said. Then he let + his head fall again. + </p> + <p> + This kind of thing goes on until, if possible, the reader is persuaded + into thinking that there is nothing going to happen. Then: + </p> + <p> + "He turned to The Woman. 'Go in there,' he said, pointing to the bedroom + door. Mechanically she obeyed." This, by the way, is the first intimation + that the reader has that the room in which they were sitting was not a + bedroom. The two men were alone. Dangerfield walked over to the chair + where he had thrown his coat. + </p> + <p> + "I bought this coat in St. Louis last fall," he said. His voice was quiet, + even passionless. Then from the pocket of the coat he took a revolver and + laid it on the table. Marsden watched him without a word. + </p> + <p> + "Do you see this pistol?" said Dangerfield. + </p> + <p> + Marsden raised his head a moment and let it sink. + </p> + <p> + Of course the ignorant reader keeps wondering why he doesn't explain. But + how can he? What is there to say? He has been found out of his own room at + night. The penalty for this in all the snoopopathic stories is death. It + is understood that in all the New York hotels the night porters shoot a + certain number of men in the corridors every night. + </p> + <p> + "When we married," said Dangerfield, glancing at the closed door as he + spoke, "I bought this and the mate to it—for her—just the + same, with the monogram on the butt—see! And I said to her, 'If + things ever go wrong between you and me, there is always this way out.'" + </p> + <p> + He lifted the pistol from the table, examining its mechanism. He rose and + walked across the room till he stood with his back against the door, the + pistol in his hand, its barrel pointing straight at Marsden's heart. + Marsden never moved. Then as the two men faced one another thus, looking + into one another's eyes, their ears caught a sound from behind the closed + door of the inner room—a sharp, hard, metallic sound as if some one + in the room within had raised the hammer of a pistol—a jewelled + pistol like the one in Dangerfield's hand. + </p> + <p> + And then— + </p> + <p> + A loud report, and with a cry, the cry of a woman, one shrill despairing + cry— + </p> + <p> + Or no, hang it—I can't consent to end up a story in that fashion, + with the dead woman prone across the bed, the smoking pistol, with a jewel + on the hilt, still clasped in her hand—the red blood welling over + the white laces of her gown—while the two men gaze down upon her + cold face with horror in their eyes. Not a bit. Let's end it like this: + </p> + <p> + "A shrill despairing cry—'Ed! Charlie! Come in here quick! Hurry! + The steam coil has blown out a plug! You two boys quit talking and come in + here, for heaven's sake, and fix it.'" And, indeed, if the reader will + look back he will see there is nothing in the dialogue to preclude it. He + was misled, that's all. I merely said that Mrs. Dangerfield had left her + husband a few days before. So she had—to do some shopping in New + York. She thought it mean of him to follow her. And I never said that Mrs. + Dangerfield had any connection whatever with The Woman with whom Marsden + was in love. Not at all. He knew her, of course, because he came from + Brick City. But she had thought he was in Philadelphia, and naturally she + was surprised to see him back in New York. That's why she exclaimed + "Back!" And as a matter of plain fact, you can't pick up a revolver + without its pointing somewhere. No one said he meant to fire it. + </p> + <p> + In fact, if the reader will glance back at the dialogue—I know he + has no time to, but if he does—he will see that, being something of + a snoopopath himself, he has invented the whole story. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III. Foreign Fiction in Imported Instalments. + </h2> + <h3> + Serge the Superman: A Russian Novel + </h3> + <p> + (Translated, with a hand pump, out of the original Russian) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SPECIAL EDITORIAL NOTE, OR, FIT OF CONVULSIONS INTO + WHICH AN EDITOR FALLS IN INTRODUCING THIS SORT OF + STORY TO HIS READERS. We need offer no apology to + our readers in presenting to them a Russian novel. + There is no doubt that the future in literature lies + with Russia. The names of Tolstoi, of Turgan-something, + and Dostoi-what-is-it are household words in America. + We may say with certainty that Serge the Superman is + the most distinctly Russian thing produced in years. + The Russian view of life is melancholy and fatalistic. + It is dark with the gloom of the great forests of the + Volga, and saddened with the infinite silence of the + Siberian plain. Hence the Russian speech, like the + Russian thought, is direct, terse and almost crude in + its elemental power. All this appears in Serge the + Superman. It is the directest, tersest, crudest thing + we have ever seen. We showed the manuscript to a friend + of ours, a critic, a man who has a greater Command of + the language of criticism than perhaps any two men in + New York to-day. He said at once, "This is big. It is + a big thing, done by a big man, a man with big ideas, + writing at his very biggest. The whole thing has a + bigness about it that is—" and here he paused and + thought a moment and added—"big." After this he sat + back in his chair and said, "big, big, big," till we + left him. We next showed the story to an English critic + and he said without hesitation, or with very little, + "This is really not half bad." Last of all we read + the story ourselves and we rose after its perusal—itself + not an easy thing to do—and said, "Wonderful but + terrible." All through our (free) lunch that day we + shuddered. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + As a child. Serge lived with his father—Ivan Ivanovitch —and + his mother—Katrina Katerinavitch. In the house, too were Nitska, the + serving maid. Itch, the serving man, and Yump, the cook, his wife. + </p> + <p> + The house stood on the borders of a Russian town. It was in the heart of + Russia. All about it was the great plain with the river running between + low banks and over it the dull sky. + </p> + <p> + Across the plain ran the post road, naked and bare. In the distance one + could see a moujik driving a three-horse tarantula, or perhaps Swill, the + swine-herd, herding the swine. Far away the road dipped over the horizon + and was lost. + </p> + <p> + "Where does it go to?" asked Serge. But no one could tell him. + </p> + <p> + In the winter there came the great snows and the river was frozen and + Serge could walk on it. + </p> + <p> + On such days Yob, the postman, would come to the door, stamping his feet + with the cold as he gave the letters to Itch. + </p> + <p> + "It is a cold day," Yob would say. + </p> + <p> + "It is God's will," said Itch. Then he would fetch a glass of Kwas + steaming hot from the great stove, built of wood, that stood in the + kitchen. + </p> + <p> + "Drink, little brother," he would say to Yob, and Yob would answer, + "Little Uncle, I drink your health," and he would go down the road again, + stamping his feet with the cold. + </p> + <p> + Then later the spring would come and all the plain was bright with flowers + and Serge could pick them. Then the rain came and Serge could catch it in + a cup. Then the summer came and the great heat and the storms, and Serge + could watch the lightning. + </p> + <p> + "What is lightning for?" he would ask of Yump, the cook, as she stood + kneading the <i>mush</i>, or dough, to make <i>slab</i>, or pancake, for + the morrow. Yump shook her <i>knob</i>, or head, with a look of perplexity + on her big <i>mugg</i>, or face. + </p> + <p> + "It is God's will," she said. + </p> + <p> + Thus Serge grew up a thoughtful child. + </p> + <p> + At times he would say to his mother, "Matrinska (little mother), why is + the sky blue?" And she couldn't tell him. + </p> + <p> + Or at times he would say to his father, "Boob (Russian for father), what + is three times six?" But his father didn't know. + </p> + <p> + Each year Serge grew. + </p> + <p> + Life began to perplex the boy. He couldn't understand it. No one could + tell him anything. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he would talk with Itch, the serving man. + </p> + <p> + "Itch," he asked, "what is morality?" But Itch didn't know. In his simple + life he had never heard of it. + </p> + <p> + At times people came to the house—Snip, the schoolmaster, who could + read and write, and Cinch, the harness maker, who made harness. + </p> + <p> + Once there came Popoff, the inspector of police, in his blue coat with fur + on it. He stood in front of the fire writing down the names of all the + people in the house. And when he came to Itch, Serge noticed how Itch + trembled and cowered before Popoff, cringing as he brought a three-legged + stool and saying, "Sit near the fire, little father; it is cold." Popoff + laughed and said, "Cold as Siberia, is it not, little brother?" Then he + said, "Bare me your arm to the elbow, and let me see if our mark is on it + still." And Itch raised his sleeve to the elbow and Serge saw that there + was a mark upon it burnt deep and black. + </p> + <p> + "I thought so," said Popoff, and he laughed. But Yump, the cook, beat the + fire with a stick so that the sparks flew into Popoff's face. "You are too + near the fire, little inspector," she said. "It burns." + </p> + <p> + All that evening Itch sat in the corner of the kitchen, and Serge saw that + there were tears on his face. + </p> + <p> + "Why does he cry?" asked Serge. + </p> + <p> + "He has been in Siberia," said Yump as she poured water into the great + iron pot to make soup for the week after the next. + </p> + <p> + Serge grew more thoughtful each year. + </p> + <p> + All sorts of things, occurrences of daily life, set him thinking. One day + he saw some peasants drowning a tax collector in the river. It made a deep + impression on him. He couldn't understand it. There seemed something wrong + about it. + </p> + <p> + "Why did they drown him?" he asked of Yump, the cook. + </p> + <p> + "He was collecting taxes," said Yump, and she threw a handful of cups into + the cupboard. + </p> + <p> + Then one day there was great excitement in the town, and men in uniform + went to and fro and all the people stood at the doors talking. + </p> + <p> + "What has happened?" asked Serge. + </p> + <p> + "It is Popoff, inspector of police," answered Itch. "They have found him + beside the river." + </p> + <p> + "Is he dead?" questioned Serge. + </p> + <p> + Itch pointed reverently to the ground—"He is there!" he said. + </p> + <p> + All that day Serge asked questions. But no one would tell him anything. + "Popoff is dead," they said. "They have found him beside the river with + his ribs driven in on his heart." + </p> + <p> + "Why did they kill him?" asked Serge. + </p> + <p> + But no one would say. + </p> + <p> + So after this Serge was more perplexed than ever. + </p> + <p> + Every one noticed how thoughtful Serge was. + </p> + <p> + "He is a wise boy," they said. "Some day he will be a learned man. He will + read and write." + </p> + <p> + "Defend us!" exclaimed Itch. "It is a dangerous thing." + </p> + <p> + One day Liddoff, the priest, came to the house with a great roll of paper + in his hand. + </p> + <p> + "What is it?" asked Serge. + </p> + <p> + "It is the alphabet," said Liddoff. + </p> + <p> + "Give it to me," said Serge with eagerness. + </p> + <p> + "Not all of it," said Liddoff gently. "Here is part of it," and he tore + off a piece and gave it to the boy. + </p> + <p> + "Defend us!" said Yump, the cook. "It is not a wise thing," and she shook + her head as she put a new lump of clay in the wooden stove to make it burn + more brightly. + </p> + <p> + Then everybody knew that Serge was learning the alphabet, and that when he + had learned it he was to go to Moscow, to the Teknik, and learn what else + there was. + </p> + <p> + So the days passed and the months. Presently Ivan Ivanovitch said, "Now he + is ready," and he took down a bag of rubles that was concealed on a shelf + beside the wooden stove in the kitchen and counted them out after the + Russian fashion, "Ten, ten, and yet ten, and still ten, and ten," till he + could count no further. + </p> + <p> + "Protect us!" said Yump. "Now he is rich!" and she poured oil and fat + mixed with sand into the bread and beat it with a stick. + </p> + <p> + "He must get ready," they said. "He must buy clothes. Soon he will go to + Moscow to the Teknik and become a wise man." + </p> + <p> + Now it so happened that there came one day to the door a drosky, or + one-horse carriage, and in it was a man and beside him a girl. The man + stopped to ask the way from Itch, who pointed down the post road over the + plain. But his hand trembled and his knees shook as he showed the way. For + the eyes of the man who asked the way were dark with hate and cruel with + power. And he wore a uniform and there was brass upon his cap. But Serge + looked only at the girl. And there was no hate in her eyes, but only a + great burning, and a look that went far beyond the plain, Serge knew not + where. And as Serge looked, the girl turned her face and their eyes met, + and he knew that he would never forget her. And he saw in her face that + she would never forget him. For that is love. + </p> + <p> + "Who is that?" he asked, as he went back again with Itch into the house. + </p> + <p> + "It is Kwartz, chief of police," said Itch, and his knees still trembled + as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + "Where is he taking her?" said Serge. + </p> + <p> + "To Moscow, to the prison," answered Itch. "There they will hang her and + she will die." + </p> + <p> + "Who is she?" asked Serge. "What has she done?" and as he spoke he could + still see the girl's face, and the look upon it, and a great fire went + sweeping through his veins. + </p> + <p> + "She is Olga Ileyitch," answered Itch, "She made the bomb that killed + Popoff, the inspector, and now they will hang her and she will die." + </p> + <p> + "Defend us!" murmured Yump, as she heaped more clay upon the stove. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + Serge went to Moscow. He entered the Teknik. He became a student. He + learned geography from Stoj, the professor, astrography from Fudj, the + assistant, together with giliodesy, orgastrophy and other native Russian + studies. + </p> + <p> + All day he worked. His industry was unflagging. His instructors were + enthusiastic. "If he goes on like this," they said, "he will some day know + something." + </p> + <p> + "It is marvellous," said one. "If he continues thus, he will be a + professor." + </p> + <p> + "He is too young," said Stoj, shaking his head. "He has too much hair." + </p> + <p> + "He sees too well," said Fudj. "Let him wait till his eyes are weaker." + </p> + <p> + But all day as Serge worked he thought. And his thoughts were of Olga + Ileyitch, the girl that he had seen with Kwartz, inspector of police. He + wondered why she had killed Popoff, the inspector. He wondered if she was + dead. There seemed no justice in it. + </p> + <p> + One day he questioned his professor. + </p> + <p> + "Is the law just?" he said. "Is it right to kill?" + </p> + <p> + But Stoj shook his head, and would not answer. + </p> + <p> + "Let us go on with our orgastrophy," he said. And he trembled so that the + chalk shook in his hand. + </p> + <p> + So Serge questioned no further, but he thought more deeply still. All the + way from the Teknik to the house where he lodged he was thinking. As he + climbed the stair to his attic room he was still thinking. + </p> + <p> + The house in which Serge lived was the house of Madame Vasselitch. It was + a tall dark house in a sombre street. There were no trees upon the street + and no children played there. And opposite to the house of Madame + Vasselitch was a building of stone, with windows barred, that was always + silent. In it were no lights, and no one went in or out. + </p> + <p> + "What is it?" Serge asked. + </p> + <p> + "It is the house of the dead," answered Madame Vasselitch, and she shook + her head and would say no more. + </p> + <p> + The husband of Madame Vasselitch was dead. No one spoke of him. In the + house were only students, Most of them were wild fellows, as students are. + At night they would sit about the table in the great room drinking Kwas + made from sawdust fermented in syrup, or golgol, the Russian absinth, made + by dipping a gooseberry in a bucket of soda water. Then they would play + cards, laying matches on the table and betting, "Ten, ten, and yet ten," + till all the matches were gone. Then they would say, "There are no more + matches; let us dance," and they would dance upon the floor, till Madame + Vasselitch would come to the room, a candle in her hand, and say, "Little + brothers, it is ten o'clock. Go to bed." Then they went to bed. They were + wild fellows, as all students are. + </p> + <p> + But there were two students in the house of Madame Vasselitch who were not + wild. They were brothers. They lived in a long room in the basement. It + was so low that it was below the street. + </p> + <p> + The brothers were pale, with long hair. They had deep-set eyes. They had + but little money. Madame Vasselitch gave them food. "Eat, little sons," + she would say. "You must not die." + </p> + <p> + The brothers worked all day. They were real students. One brother was + Halfoff. He was taller than the other and stronger. The other brother was + Kwitoff. He was not so tall as Halfoff and not so strong. + </p> + <p> + One day Serge went to the room of the brothers. The brothers were at work. + Halfoff sat at a table. There was a book in front of him. + </p> + <p> + "What is it?" asked Serge. + </p> + <p> + "It is solid geometry," said Halfoff, and there was a gleam in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + "Why do you study it?" said Serge. + </p> + <p> + "To free Russia," said Halfoff. + </p> + <p> + "And what book have you?" said Serge to Kwitoff. + </p> + <p> + "Hamblin Smith's <i>Elementary Trigonometry</i>," said Kwitoff, and he + quivered like a leaf. + </p> + <p> + "What does it teach?" asked Serge. + </p> + <p> + "Freedom!" said Kwitoff. + </p> + <p> + The two brothers looked at one another. + </p> + <p> + "Shall we tell him everything?" said Halfoff. + </p> + <p> + "Not yet," said Kwitoff. "Let him learn first. Later he shall know." + </p> + <p> + After that Serge often came to the room of the two brothers. + </p> + <p> + The two brothers gave him books. "Read them," they said. + </p> + <p> + "What are they?" asked Serge. + </p> + <p> + "They are in English," said Kwitoff. "They are forbidden books. They are + not allowed in Russia. But in them is truth and freedom." + </p> + <p> + "Give me one," said Serge. + </p> + <p> + "Take this," said Kwitoff. "Carry it under your cloak. Let no one see it." + </p> + <p> + "What is it?" asked Serge, trembling in spite of himself. + </p> + <p> + "It is Caldwell's <i>Pragmatism</i>," said the brothers. + </p> + <p> + "Is it forbidden?" asked Serge. + </p> + <p> + The brothers looked at him. + </p> + <p> + "It is death to read it," they said. + </p> + <p> + After that Serge came each day and got books from Halfoff and Kwitoff. At + night he read them. They fired his brain. All of them were forbidden + books. No one in Russia might read them. Serge read Hamblin Smith's <i>Algebra</i>. + He read it all through from cover to cover feverishly. He read Murray's <i>Calculus</i>. + It set his brain on fire. "Can this be true?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + The books opened a new world to Serge. + </p> + <p> + The brothers often watched him as he read. + </p> + <p> + "Shall we tell him everything?" said Halfoff. + </p> + <p> + "Not yet." said Kwitoff. "He is not ready." + </p> + <p> + One night Serge went to the room of the two brothers. They were not + working at their books. Littered about the room were blacksmith's tools + and wires, and pieces of metal lying on the floor. There was a crucible + and underneath it a blue fire that burned fiercely. Beside it the brothers + worked. Serge could see their faces in the light of the flame. + </p> + <p> + "Shall we tell him now?" said Kwitoff. The other brother nodded. + </p> + <p> + "Tell him now," he said. + </p> + <p> + "Little brother," said Kwitoff, and he rose from beside the flame and + stood erect, for he was tall, "will you give your life?" + </p> + <p> + "What for?" asked Serge. + </p> + <p> + The brothers shook their heads. + </p> + <p> + "We cannot tell you that," they said. "That would be too much. Will you + join us?" + </p> + <p> + "In what?" asked Serge. + </p> + <p> + "We must not say," said the brothers. "We can only ask are you willing to + help our enterprise with all your power and with your life if need be?" + </p> + <p> + "What is your enterprise?" asked Serge. + </p> + <p> + "We must not divulge it," they said. "Only this: will you give your life + to save another life, to save Russia?" + </p> + <p> + Serge paused. He thought of Olga Ileyitch. Only to save her life would he + have given his. + </p> + <p> + "I cannot," he answered. + </p> + <p> + "Good night, little brother," said Kwitoff gently, and he turned back to + his work. + </p> + <p> + Thus the months passed. + </p> + <p> + Serge studied without ceasing. "If there is truth," he thought, "I shall + find it." All the time he Thought of Olga Ileyitch. His face grew pale. + "Justice, Justice," he thought, "what is justice and truth?" + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + Now when Serge had been six months in the house of Madame Vasselitch, Ivan + Ivanovitch, his father, sent Itch, the serving man, and Yump, the cook, + his wife, to Moscow to see how Serge fared. And Ivan first counted out + rubles into a bag, "ten, and ten and still ten," till Itch said, "It is + enough. I will carry that." + </p> + <p> + Then they made ready to go. Itch took a duck from the pond and put a fish + in his pocket, together with a fragrant cheese and a bundle of sweet + garlic. And Yump took oil and dough and mixed it with tar and beat it with + an iron bar so as to shape it into a pudding. + </p> + <p> + So they went forth on foot, walking till they came to Moscow. + </p> + <p> + "It is a large place," said Itch, and he looked about him at the lights + and the people. + </p> + <p> + "Defend us," said Yump. "It is no place for a woman." + </p> + <p> + "Fear nothing," said Itch, looking at her. + </p> + <p> + So they went on, looking for the house of Madame Vasselitch. + </p> + <p> + "How bright the lights are!" said Itch, and he stood still and looked + about him. Then he pointed at a burleski, or theatre. "Let us go in there + and rest," he said. + </p> + <p> + "No," said Yump, "let us hurry on." + </p> + <p> + "You are tired," said Itch. "Give me the pudding and hurry forward, so + that you may sleep. I will come later, bringing the pudding and the fish." + </p> + <p> + "I am not tired," said Yump. + </p> + <p> + So they came at last to the house of Madame Vasselitch. And when they saw + Serge they said, "How tall he is and how well grown!" But they thought, + "He is pale. Ivan Ivanoviteh must know." + </p> + <p> + And Itch said, "Here are the rubles sent by Ivan Ivanovitch. Count them, + little son, and see that they are right." + </p> + <p> + "How many should there be?" said Serge. + </p> + <p> + "I know not," said Itch. "You must count them and see." + </p> + <p> + Then Yump said, "Here is a pudding, little son, and a fish, and a duck and + a cheese and garlic." + </p> + <p> + So that night Itch and Yump stayed in the house of Madame Vasselitch. + </p> + <p> + "You are tired," said Itch. "You must sleep." + </p> + <p> + "I am not tired," said Yump. "It is only that my head aches and my face + burns from the wind and the sun." + </p> + <p> + "I will go forth," said Itch, "and find a fisski, or drug-store, and get + something for your face." + </p> + <p> + "Stay where you are," said Yump. And Itch stayed. + </p> + <p> + Meantime Serge had gone upstairs with the fish and the duck and the cheese + and the pudding. As he went up he thought. "It is selfish to eat alone. I + will give part of the fish to the others." And when he got a little + further up the steps he thought, "I will give them all of the fish." And + when he got higher still he thought, "They shall have everything." + </p> + <p> + Then he opened the door and came into the big room where the students were + playing with matches at the big table and drinking golgol out of cups. + "Here is food, brothers," he said. "Take it. I need none." + </p> + <p> + The students took the food and they cried, "Rah, Rah," and beat the fish + against the table. But the pudding they would not take. "We have no axe," + they said. "Keep it." + </p> + <p> + Then they poured out golgol for Serge and said, "Drink it." + </p> + <p> + But Serge would not. + </p> + <p> + "I must work," he said, and all the students laughed. "He wants to work!" + they cried. "Rah, Rah." + </p> + <p> + But Serge went up to his room and lighted his taper, made of string dipped + in fat, and set himself to study. "I must work," he repeated. + </p> + <p> + So Serge sat at his books. It got later and the house grew still. The + noise of the students below ceased and then everything was quiet. + </p> + <p> + Serge sat working through the night. Then presently it grew morning and + the dark changed to twilight and Serge could see from his window the great + building with the barred windows across the street standing out in the + grey mist of the morning. + </p> + <p> + Serge had often studied thus through the night and when it was morning he + would say, "It is morning," and would go down and help Madame Vasselitch + unbar the iron shutters and unchain the door, and remove the bolts from + the window casement. + </p> + <p> + But on this morning as Serge looked from his window his eyes saw a figure + behind the barred window opposite to him. It was the figure of a girl, and + she was kneeling on the floor and she was in prayer, for Serge could see + that her hands were before her face. And as he looked all his blood ran + warm to his head, and his limbs trembled even though he could not see the + girl's face. Then the girl rose from her knees and turned her face towards + the bars, and Serge knew that it was Olga Ileyitch and that she had seen + and known him. + </p> + <p> + Then he came down the stairs and Madame Vasselitch was there undoing the + shutters and removing the nails from the window casing. + </p> + <p> + "What have you seen, little son?" she asked, and her voice was gentle, for + the face of Serge was pale and his eyes were wide. + </p> + <p> + But Serge did not answer the question. + </p> + <p> + "What is that house?" he said. "The great building with the bars that you + call the house of the dead?" + </p> + <p> + "Shall I tell you, little son," said Madame Vasselitch, and she looked at + him, still thinking. "Yes," she said, "he shall know. + </p> + <p> + "It is the prison of the condemned, and from there they go forth only to + die. Listen, little son," she went on, and she gripped Serge by the wrist + till he could feel the bones of her fingers against his flesh. "There lay + my husband, Vangorod Vasselitch, waiting for his death. Months long he was + there behind the bars and no one might see him or know when he was to die. + I took this tall house that I might at least be near him till the end. But + to those who lie there waiting for their death it is allowed once and once + only that they may look out upon the world. And this is allowed to them + the day before they die. So I took this house and waited, and each day I + looked forth at dawn across the street and he was not there. Then at last + he came. I saw him at the window and his face was pale and set and I could + see the marks of the iron on his wrists as he held them to the bars. But I + could see that his spirit was unbroken. There was no power in them to + break that. Then he saw me at the window, and thus across the narrow + street we said good-bye. It was only a moment. 'Sonia Vasselitch,' he + said, 'do not forget,' and he was gone. I have not forgotten. I have lived + on here in this dark house, and I have not forgotten. My sons—yes, + little brother, my sons, I say—have not forgotten. Now tell me, + Sergius Ivanovitch, what you have seen." + </p> + <p> + "I have seen the woman that I love," said Serge, "kneeling behind the bars + in prayer. I have seen Olga Ileyitch." + </p> + <p> + "Her name," said Madame Vasselitch, and there were no tears in her eyes + and her voice was calm, "her name is Olga Vasselitch. She is my daughter, + and to-morrow she is to die." + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <h3> + Madame Vasselitch took Serge by the hand. + </h3> + <p> + "Come," she said, "you shall speak to my sons," and she led him down the + stairs towards the room of Halfoff and Kwitoff. + </p> + <p> + "They are my sons," she said. "Olga is their sister. They are working to + save her." + </p> + <p> + Then she opened the door. Halfoff and Kwitoff were working as Serge had + seen them before, beside the crucible with the blue flame on their faces. + </p> + <p> + They had not slept. + </p> + <p> + Madame Vasselitch spoke. + </p> + <p> + "He has seen Olga," she said. "It is to-day." + </p> + <p> + "We are too late," said Halfoff, and he groaned. + </p> + <p> + "Courage, brother," said Kwitoff. "She will not die till sunrise. It is + twilight now. We have still an hour. Let us to work." + </p> + <p> + Serge looked at the brothers. + </p> + <p> + "Tell me," he said. "I do not understand." + </p> + <p> + Halfoff turned a moment from his work and looked at Serge. + </p> + <p> + "Brother," he said, "will you give your life?" + </p> + <p> + "Is it for Olga?" asked Serge. + </p> + <p> + "It is for her." + </p> + <p> + "I give it gladly," said Serge. + </p> + <p> + "Listen then," said Halfoff. "Our sister is condemned for the killing of + Popoff, inspector of police. She is in the prison of the condemned, the + house of the dead, across the street. Her cell is there beside us. There + is only a wall between. Look—" + </p> + <p> + Halfoff as he spoke threw aside a curtain that hung across the end of the + room. Serge looked into blackness. It was a tunnel. + </p> + <p> + "It leads to the wall of her cell," said Halfoff. "We are close against + the wall but we cannot shatter it. We are working to make a bomb. No bomb + that we can make is hard enough. We can only try once. If it fails the + noise would ruin us. There is no second chance. We try our bombs in the + crucible. They crumble. They have no strength. We are ignorant. We are + only learning. We studied it in the books, the forbidden books. It took a + month to learn to set the wires to fire the bomb. The tunnel was there. We + did not have to dig it. It was for my father, Vangorod Vasselitch. He + would not let them use it. He tapped a message through the wall, 'Keep it + for a greater need.' Now it is his daughter that is there." + </p> + <p> + Halfoff paused. He was panting and his chest heaved. There was + perspiration on his face and his black hair was wet. + </p> + <p> + "Courage, little brother," said Kwitoff. "She shall not die." + </p> + <p> + "Listen," went on Halfoff. "The bomb is made. It is there beside the + crucible. It has power in it to shatter the prison. But the wires are + wrong. They do not work. There is no current in them. Something is wrong. + We cannot explode the bomb." + </p> + <p> + "Courage, courage," said Kwitoff, and his hands were busy among the wires + before him. "I am working still." + </p> + <p> + Serge looked at the brothers. + </p> + <p> + "Is that the bomb?" he said, pointing at a great ball of metal that lay + beside the crucible. + </p> + <p> + "It is," said Halfoff. + </p> + <p> + "And the little fuse that is in the side of it fires it? And the current + from the wires lights the fuse?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes," said Halfoff. + </p> + <p> + The two brothers looked at Serge, for there was a meaning in his voice and + a strange look upon his face. + </p> + <p> + "If the bomb is placed against the wall and if the fuse is lighted it + would explode." + </p> + <p> + "Yes," said Halfoff despairingly, "but how? The fuse is instantaneous. + Without the wires we cannot light it. It would be death." + </p> + <p> + Serge took the bomb in his hand. His face was pale. + </p> + <p> + "Let it be so!" he said. "I will give my life for hers." + </p> + <p> + He lifted the bomb in his hand. "I will go through the tunnel and hold the + bomb against the wall and fire it," he said. "Halfoff, light me the candle + in the flame. Be ready when the wall falls." + </p> + <p> + "No, no," said Halfoff, grasping Serge by the arm. "You must not die!" + </p> + <p> + "My brother," said Kwitoff quietly, "let it be as he says. It is for + Russia!" + </p> + <p> + But as Halfoff turned to light the candle in the flame there came a great + knocking at the door above and the sound of many voices in the street. + </p> + <p> + All paused. + </p> + <p> + Madame Vasselitch laid her hand upon her lips. + </p> + <p> + Then there came the sound as of grounded muskets on the pavement of the + street and a sharp word of command. + </p> + <p> + "Soldiers!" said Madame Vasselitch. + </p> + <p> + Kwitoff turned to his brother. + </p> + <p> + "This is the end," he said. "Explode the bomb here and let us die + together." + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Madame Vasselitch gave a cry. + </p> + <p> + "It is Olga's voice!" she said. + </p> + <p> + She ran to the door and opened it, and a glad voice was heard crying. + </p> + <p> + "It is I, Olga, and I am free!" + </p> + <p> + "Free," exclaimed the brothers. + </p> + <p> + All hastened up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Olga was standing before them in the hall and beside her were the officers + of the police, and in the street were the soldiers. The students from + above had crowded down the stairs and with them were Itch, the serving + man, and Yump, the cook. + </p> + <p> + "I am free," cried Olga, "liberated by the bounty of the Czar—Russia + has declared war to fight for the freedom of the world and all the + political prisoners are free." + </p> + <p> + "Rah, rah!" cried the students. "War, war, war!" + </p> + <p> + "She is set free," said the officer who stood beside Olga. "The charge of + killing Popoff is withdrawn. No one will be punished for it now." + </p> + <p> + "I never killed him," said Olga. "I swear it," and she raised her hand. + </p> + <p> + "You never killed him!" exclaimed Serge with joy in his heart. "You did + not kill Popoff? But who did?" + </p> + <p> + "Defend us," said Yump, the cook. "Since there is to be no punishment for + it, I killed him myself." + </p> + <p> + "You!" they cried. + </p> + <p> + "It is so," said Yump. "I killed him beside the river. It was to defend my + honour." + </p> + <p> + "It was to defend her honour," cried the brothers. "She has done well." + </p> + <p> + They clasped her hand. + </p> + <p> + "You destroyed him with a bomb?" they said. + </p> + <p> + "No," said Yump, "I sat down on him." + </p> + <p> + "Rah, rah, rah," said the students. + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a moment. Then Kwitoff spoke. + </p> + <p> + "Friends," he said, "the new day is coming. The dawn is breaking. The moon + is rising. The stars are setting. It is the birth of freedom. See! we need + it not!"—and as he spoke he grasped in his hands the bomb with its + still unlighted fuse—"Russia is free. We are all brothers now. Let + us cast it at our enemies. Forward! To the frontier! Live the Czar." + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Movies and Motors, Men and Women + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +IV. Madeline of the Movies: A Photoplay done + back into Words +</pre> + <h3> + EXPLANATORY NOTE. + </h3> + <p> + In writing this I ought to explain that I am a tottering old man of + forty-six. I was born too soon to understand moving pictures. They go too + fast. I can't keep up. In my young days we used a magic lantern. It showed + Robinson Crusoe in six scenes. It took all evening to show them. When it + was done the hall was filled full with black smoke and the audience quite + unstrung with excitement. What I set down here represents my thoughts as I + sit in front of a moving picture photoplay and interpret it as best I can. + </p> + <p> + Flick, flick, flick! I guess it must be going to begin now, but it's queer + the people don't stop talking: how can they expect to hear the pictures if + they go on talking? Now it's off. PASSED BY THE BOARD OF—. Ah, this + looks interesting—passed by the board of—wait till I adjust my + spectacles and read what it— + </p> + <p> + It's gone. Never mind, here's something else, let me see—CAST OF + CHARACTERS—Oh, yes—let's see who they are—MADELINE + MEADOWLARK, a young something—EDWARD DANGERFIELD, a—a what? + Ah, yes, a roo—at least, it's spelt r-o-u-e, that must be roo all + right—but wait till I see what that is that's written across the top—MADELINE + MEADOWLARK; OR, ALONE IN A GREAT CITY. I see, that's the title of it. I + wonder which of the characters is alone. I guess not Madeline: she'd + hardly be alone in a place like that. I imagine it's more likely Edward + Dangerous the Roo. A roo would probably be alone a great deal, I should + think. Let's see what the other characters are—JOHN HOLDFAST, a + something. FARMER MEADOWLARK, MRS. MEADOWLARK, his Something— + </p> + <p> + Pshaw, I missed the others, but never mind; flick, flick, it's beginning—What's + this? A bedroom, eh? Looks like a girl's bedroom—pretty poor sort of + place. I wish the picture would keep still a minute—in Robinson + Crusoe it all stayed still and one could sit and look at it, the blue sea + and the green palm trees and the black footprints in the yellow sand—but + this blamed thing keeps rippling and flickering all the time—Ha! + there's the girl herself—come into her bedroom. My! I hope she + doesn't start to undress in it—that would be fearfully uncomfortable + with all these people here. No, she's not undressing—she's gone and + opened the cupboard. What's that she's doing—taking out a milk jug + and a glass—empty, eh? I guess it must be, because she seemed to + hold it upside down. Now she's picked up a sugar bowl—empty, too, + eh?—and a cake tin, and that's empty—What on earth does she + take them all out for if they're empty? Why can't she speak? I think—hullo—who's + this coming in? Pretty hard-looking sort of woman—what's she got in + her hand?—some sort of paper, I guess—she looks like a + landlady, I shouldn't wonder if— + </p> + <p> + Flick, flick! Say! Look there on the screen: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "YOU OWE ME + THREE WEEKS' RENT." +</pre> + <p> + Oh, I catch on! that's what the landlady says, eh? Say! That's a mighty + smart way to indicate it isn't it? I was on to that in a minute—flick, + flick—hullo, the landlady's vanished—what's the girl doing now—say, + she's praying! Look at her face! Doesn't she look religious, eh? + </p> + <p> + Flick, flick! + </p> + <p> + Oh, look, they've put her face, all by itself, on the screen. My! what a + big face she's got when you see it like that. + </p> + <p> + She's in her room again—she's taking off her jacket—by Gee! + She <i>is</i> going to bed! Here, stop the machine; it doesn't seem—Flick, + flick! + </p> + <p> + Well, look at that! She's in bed, all in one flick, and fast asleep! + Something must have broken in the machine and missed out a chunk. There! + she's asleep all right—looks as if she was dreaming. Now it's sort + of fading. I wonder how they make it do that? I guess they turn the wick + of the lamp down low: that was the way in Robinson Crusoe—Flick, + flick! + </p> + <p> + Hullo! where on earth is this—farmhouse, I guess—must be away + upstate somewhere—who on earth are these people? Old man—white + whiskers—old lady at a spinning-wheel—see it go, eh? Just like + real! And a young man—that must be John Holdfast—and a girl + with her hand in his. Why! Say! it's the girl, the same girl, Madeline—only + what's she doing away off here at this farm—how did she get clean + back from the bedroom to this farm? Flick, flick! what's this? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "NO, JOHN, I CANNOT MARRY YOU. + I MUST DEVOTE MY LIFE + TO MY MUSIC." +</pre> + <p> + Who says that? What music? Here, stop— + </p> + <p> + It's all gone. What's this new place? Flick, flick, looks like a street. + Say! see the street car coming along—well! say! isn't that great? A + street car! And here's Madeline! How on earth did she get back from the + old farm all in a second? Got her street things on—that must be + music under her arm—I wonder where—hullo—who's this man + in a silk hat and swell coat? Gee! he's well dressed. See him roll his + eyes at Madeline! He's lifting his hat—I guess he must be Edward + Something, the Roo—only a roo would dress as well as he does—he's + going to speak to her— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "SIR, I DO NOT KNOW YOU. + LET ME PASS." +</pre> + <p> + Oh, I see! The Roo mistook her; he thought she was somebody that he knew! + And she wasn't! I catch on! It gets easy to understand these pictures once + you're on. + </p> + <p> + Flick, flick—Oh, say, stop! I missed a piece—where is she? + Outside a street door—she's pausing a moment outside—that was + lucky her pausing like that—it just gave me time to read EMPLOYMENT + BUREAU on the door. Gee! I read it quick. + </p> + <p> + Flick, flick! Where is it now?—oh, I see, she's gone in—she's + in there—this must be the Bureau, eh? There's Madeline going up to + the desk. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "NO, WE HAVE TOLD YOU BEFORE, + WE HAVE NOTHING ..." +</pre> + <p> + Pshaw! I read too slow—she's on the street again. Flick, flick! + </p> + <p> + No, she isn't—she's back in her room—cupboard still empty—no + milk—no sugar—Flick, flick! + </p> + <p> + Kneeling down to pray—my! but she's religious—flick, flick—now + she's on the street—got a letter in her hand—what's the + address—Flick, flick! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mr. Meadowlark + Meadow Farm + Meadow County + New York +</pre> + <p> + Gee! They've put it right on the screen! The whole letter! Flick, flick—here's + Madeline again on the street with the letter still in her hand—she's + gone to a letter-box with it—why doesn't she post it? What's + stopping her? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I CANNOT TELL THEM + OF MY FAILURE. + IT WOULD BREAK THEIR ..." +</pre> + <p> + Break their what? They slide these things along altogether too quick—anyway, + she won't post it—I see—she's torn it up—Flick, flick! + </p> + <p> + Where is it now? Another street—seems like everything —that's + a restaurant, I guess—say, it looks a swell place—see the + people getting out of the motor and going in—and another lot right + after them—there's Madeline —she's stopped outside the window—she's + looking in—it's starting to snow! Hullo! here's a man coming along! + Why, it's the Roo; he's stopping to talk to her, and pointing in at the + restaurant—Flick, flick! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "LET ME TAKE YOU IN HERE + TO DINNER." +</pre> + <p> + Oh, I see! The Roo says that! My! I'm getting on to the scheme of these + things—the Roo is going to buy her some dinner! That's decent of + him. He must have heard about her being hungry up in her room—say, + I'm glad he came along. Look, there's a waiter come out to the door to + show them in—what! she won't go! Say! I don't understand! Didn't it + say he offered to take her in? Flick, flick! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I WOULD RATHER DIE + THAN EAT IT." +</pre> + <p> + Gee! Why's that? What are all the audience applauding for? I must have + missed something! Flick, flick! + </p> + <p> + Oh, blazes! I'm getting lost! Where is she now? Back in her room—flick, + flick—praying—flick, flick! She's out on the street!—flick, + flick!—in the employment bureau —flick, flick!—out of it—flick—darn + the thing! It changes too much—where is it all? What is it all—? + Flick, flick! + </p> + <p> + Now it's back at the old farm—I understand that all right, anyway! + Same kitchen—same old man—same old woman—she's crying—who's + this?—man in a sort of uniform—oh, I see, rural postal + delivery—oh, yes, he brings them their letters—I see— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "NO, MR. MEADOWLARK, + I AM SORRY, + I HAVE STILL NO LETTER + FOR YOU..." +</pre> + <p> + Flick! It's gone! Flick, flick—it's Madeline's room again—what's + she doing?—writing a letter?—no, she's quit writing—she's + tearing it up— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I CANNOT WRITE. + IT WOULD BREAK THEIR ..." +</pre> + <p> + Flick—missed it again! Break their something or other —Flick, + flick! + </p> + <p> + Now it's the farm again—oh, yes, that's the young man John Holdfast—he's + got a valise in his hand—he must be going away—they're shaking + hands with him—he's saying something— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I WILL FIND HER FOR YOU + IF I HAVE TO SEARCH + ALL NEW YORK." +</pre> + <p> + He's off—there he goes through the gate—they're waving + good-bye—flick—it's a railway depot—flick—it's New + York—say! That's the Grand Central Depot! See the people buying + tickets! My! isn't it lifelike?—and there's John—he's got here + all right—I hope he finds her room— + </p> + <p> + The picture changed—where is it now? Oh, yes, I see —Madeline + and the Roo—outside a street entrance to some place—he's + trying to get her to come in—what's that on the door? Oh, yes, DANCE + HALL—Flick, flick! + </p> + <p> + Well, say, that must be the inside of the dance hall —they're + dancing—see, look, look, there's one of the girls going to get up + and dance on the table. + </p> + <p> + Flick! Darn it!—they've cut it off—it's outside again —it's + Madeline and the Roo—she's saying something to him—my! doesn't + she look proud—? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I WILL DIE RATHER THAN DANCE." +</pre> + <p> + Isn't she splendid! Hear the audience applaud! Flick—it's changed—it's + Madeline's room again—that's the landlady —doesn't she look + hard, eh? What's this—Flick! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "IF YOU CANNOT PAY, YOU MUST + LEAVE TO-NIGHT." +</pre> + <p> + Flick, flick—it's Madeline—she's out in the street—it's + snowing—she's sat down on a doorstep—say, see her face, isn't + it pathetic? There! They've put her face all by itself on the screen. See + her eyes move! Flick, flick! + </p> + <p> + Who's this? Where is it? Oh, yes, I get it—it's John—at a + police station—he's questioning them—how grave they look, eh? + Flick, flick! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "HAVE YOU SEEN A GIRL + IN NEW YORK?" +</pre> + <p> + I guess that's what he asks them, eh? Flick, flick— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "NO, WE HAVE NOT." +</pre> + <p> + Too bad—flick—it's changed again—it's Madeline on the + doorstep—she's fallen asleep—oh, say, look at that man coming + near to her on tiptoes, and peeking at her—why, it's Edward, it's + the Roo—but he doesn't waken her—what does it mean? What's he + after? Flick, flick— + </p> + <p> + Hullo—what's this?—it's night—what's this huge dark + thing all steel, with great ropes against the sky—it's Brooklyn + Bridge—at midnight—there's a woman on it! It's Madeline—see! + see! She's going to jump—stop her! Stop her! Flick, flick— + </p> + <p> + Hullo! she didn't jump after all—there she is again on the doorstep—asleep—how + could she jump over Brooklyn Bridge and still be asleep? I don't catch on—or, + oh, yes, I do—she <i>dreamed</i> it—I see now, that's a great + scheme, eh?—shows her <i>dream</i>— + </p> + <p> + The picture's changed—what's this place—a saloon, I guess—yes, + there's the bartender, mixing drinks—men talking at little tables—aren't + they a tough-looking lot?—see, that one's got a revolver—why, + it's Edward the Roo—talking with two men—he's giving them + money—what's this?— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "GIVE US A HUNDRED APIECE + AND WE'LL DO IT." +</pre> + <p> + It's in the street again—Edward and one of the two toughs —they've + got little black masks on—they're sneaking up to Madeline where she + sleeps—they've got a big motor drawn up beside them—look, + they've grabbed hold of Madeline—they're lifting her into the motor—help! + Stop! Aren't there any police?—yes, yes, there's a man who sees it—by + Gee! It's John, John Holdfast—grab them, John—pshaw! they've + jumped into the motor, they're off! + </p> + <p> + Where is it now?—oh, yes—it's the police station again —that's + John, he's telling them about it—he's all out of breath—look, + that head man, the big fellow, he's giving orders— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "INSPECTOR FORDYCE, TAKE YOUR + BIGGEST CAR AND TEN MEN. + IF YOU OVERTAKE THEM, + SHOOT AND SHOOT + TO KILL." +</pre> + <p> + Hoorah! Isn't it great—hurry! don't lose a minute—see them all + buckling on revolvers—get at it, boys, get at it! Don't lose a + second— + </p> + <p> + Look, look—it's a motor—full speed down the street—look + at the houses fly past—it's the motor with the thugs—there it + goes round the corner—it's getting smaller, it's getting smaller, + but look, here comes another—my! it's just flying—it's full of + police—there's John in front—Flick! + </p> + <p> + Now it's the first motor—it's going over a bridge—it's heading + for the country—say, isn't that car just flying —Flick, flick! + </p> + <p> + It's the second motor—it's crossing the bridge too—hurry, + boys, make it go!—Flick, flick! + </p> + <p> + Out in the country—a country road—early daylight—see the + wind in the trees! Notice the branches waving? Isn't it natural?—whiz! + Biff! There goes the motor—biff! There goes the other one—right + after it—hoorah! + </p> + <p> + The open road again—the first motor flying along! Hullo, what's + wrong? It's slackened, it stops—hoorah! it's broken down—there's + Madeline inside—there's Edward the Roo! Say! isn't he pale and + desperate! + </p> + <p> + Hoorah! the police! the police! all ten of them in their big car—see + them jumping out—see them pile into the thugs! Down with them! paste + their heads off! Shoot them! Kill them! isn't it great—isn't it + educative—that's the Roo—Edward—with John at his throat! + Choke him, John! Throttle him! Hullo, it's changed—they're in the + big motor—that's the Roo with the handcuffs on him. + </p> + <p> + That's Madeline—she's unbound and she's talking; say, isn't she just + real pretty when she smiles? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "YES, JOHN, I HAVE LEARNED THAT + I WAS WRONG TO PUT MY ART + BEFORE YOUR LOVE. I WILL + MARRY YOU AS SOON AS + YOU LIKE." +</pre> + <p> + Flick, flick! + </p> + <p> + What pretty music! Ding! Dong! Ding! Dong! Isn't it soft and sweet!—like + wedding bells. Oh, I see, the man in the orchestra's doing it with a + little triangle and a stick—it's a little church up in the country—see + all the people lined up—oh! there's Madeline! in a long white veil—isn't + she just sweet!—and John— + </p> + <p> + Flick, flack, flick, flack. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "BULGARIAN TROOPS ON THE + MARCH." +</pre> + <p> + What! Isn't it over? Do they all go to Bulgaria? I don't seem to + understand. Anyway, I guess it's all right to go now. Other people are + going. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +V. The Call of the Carburettor, or, + Mr. Blinks and his Friends +</pre> + <p> + "First get a motor in your own eye and then you will overlook more easily + the motor in your brother's eye."—Somewhere in the Bible. + </p> + <p> + "By all means let's have a reception," said Mrs. Blinks. "It's the + quickest and nicest way to meet our old friends again after all these + years. And goodness knows this house is big enough for it"—she gave + a glance as she spoke round the big reception-room of the Blinkses' + residence—"and these servants seem to understand things so perfectly + it's no trouble to us to give anything. Only don't let's ask a whole lot + of chattering young people that we don't know; let's have the older + people, the ones that can talk about something really worth while." + </p> + <p> + "That's just what I say," answered Mr. Blinks—he was a small man + with insignificance written all over him—"let me listen to people + talk; that's what <i>I</i> like. I'm not much on the social side myself, + but I do enjoy hearing good talk. That's what I liked so much over in + England. All them—all those people that we used to meet talked so + well. And in France those ladies that run saloons on Sunday afternoons—" + </p> + <p> + "Sallongs," corrected Mrs. Blinks. "It's sounded like it was a G." She + picked up a pencil and paper. "Well, then," she said, as she began to + write down names, "we'll ask Judge Ponderus—" + </p> + <p> + "Sure!" assented Mr. Blinks, rubbing his hands. "He's a fine talker, if + he'll come!" + </p> + <p> + "They'll all come," said his wife, "to a house as big as this; and we'll + ask the Rev. Dr. Domb and his wife—or, no, he's Archdeacon Domb now, + I hear—and he'll invite Bishop Sollem, so they can talk together." + </p> + <p> + "That'll be good," said Mr. Blinks. "I remember years and years ago + hearing them two—those two, talking about religion, all about the + soul and the body. Man! It was deep. It was clean beyond me. That's what I + like to listen to." + </p> + <p> + "And Professor Potofax from the college," went on Mrs. Blinks. "You + remember, the big stout one." + </p> + <p> + "I know," said her husband. + </p> + <p> + "And his daughter, she's musical, and Mrs. Buncomtalk, she's a great light + on woman suffrage, and Miss Scragg and Mr. Underdone—they both write + poetry, so they can talk about that." + </p> + <p> + "It'll be a great treat to listen to them all," said Mr. Blinks. + </p> + <p> + A week later, on the day of the Blinkses' reception, there was a string of + motors three deep along a line of a hundred yards in front of the house. + </p> + <p> + Inside the reception rooms were filled. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Blinks, insignificant even in his own house, moved to and fro among + his guests. + </p> + <p> + Archdeacon Domb and Dean Sollem were standing side by side with their + heads gravely lowered, as they talked, over the cups of tea that they held + in their hands. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Blinks edged towards them. + </p> + <p> + "This'll be something pretty good," he murmured to himself as he got + within reach of their conversation. + </p> + <p> + "What do you do about your body?" the Archdeacon was asking in his deep, + solemn tones. + </p> + <p> + "Practically nothing," said the Bishop. "A little rub of shellac now and + then, but practically nothing." + </p> + <p> + "You wash it, of course?" asked Dr. Domb. + </p> + <p> + "Only now and again, but far less than you would think. I really take very + little thought for my body." + </p> + <p> + "Ah," said Dr. Domb reflectively, "I went all over mine last summer with + linseed oil." + </p> + <p> + "But didn't you find," said the Bishop, "that it got into your pipes and + choked your feed?" + </p> + <p> + "It did," said Dr. Domb, munching a bit of toast as he spoke. "In fact, I + have had a lot of trouble with my feed ever since." + </p> + <p> + "Try flushing your pipes out with hot steam," said the Bishop. Mr. Blinks + had listened in something like dismay. + </p> + <p> + "Motor-cars!" he murmured. "Who'd have thought it?" + </p> + <p> + But at this moment a genial, hearty-looking person came pushing towards + him with a cheery greeting. + </p> + <p> + "I'm afraid I'm rather late, Blinks," he said. + </p> + <p> + "Delayed in court, eh, Judge?" said Blinks as he shook hands. + </p> + <p> + "No, blew out a plug!" said the Judge. "Stalled me right up." + </p> + <p> + "Blew out a plug!" exclaimed Dr. Domb and the Bishop, deeply interested at + once. + </p> + <p> + "A cracked insulator, I think," said the Judge. + </p> + <p> + "Possibly," said the Archdeacon very gravely, "the terminal nuts of your + dry battery were loose." + </p> + <p> + Mr. Blinks moved slowly away. + </p> + <p> + "Dear me!" he mused, "how changed they are." + </p> + <p> + It was a relief to him to edge his way quietly into another group of + guests where he felt certain that the talk would be of quite another kind. + </p> + <p> + Professor Potofax and Miss Scragg and a number of others were evidently + talking about books. + </p> + <p> + "A beautiful book," the professor was saying. "One of the best things, to + my mind at any rate, that has appeared for years. There's a chapter on the + silencing of exhaust gas which is simply marvellous." + </p> + <p> + "Is it illustrated?" questioned one of the ladies. + </p> + <p> + "Splendidly," said the professor. "Among other things there are sectional + views of check valves and flexible roller bearings—" + </p> + <p> + "Ah, do tell me about the flexible bearings," murmured Miss Scragg. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Blinks moved on. + </p> + <p> + Wherever he went among his guests, they all seemed stricken with the same + mania. He caught their conversation in little scraps. + </p> + <p> + "I ran her up to forty with the greatest of ease, then threw in my high + speed and got seventy out of her without any trouble."—"No, I simply + used a socket wrench, it answers perfectly."—"Yes, a solution of + calcium chloride is very good, but of course the hydrochloric acid in it + has a powerful effect on the metal." + </p> + <p> + "Dear me," mused Mr. Blinks, "are they all mad?" + </p> + <p> + Meantime, around his wife, who stood receiving in state at one end of the + room, the guests surged to and fro. + </p> + <p> + "So charmed to see you again," exclaimed one. "You've been in Europe a + long time, haven't you? Oh, mostly in the south of England? Are the roads + good? Last year my husband and I went all through Shakespeare's country. + It's just delightful. They sprinkle it so thoroughly. And + Stratford-on-Avon itself is just a treat. It's all oiled, every bit of it, + except the little road by Shakespeare's house; but we didn't go along + that. Then later we went up to the lake district: but it's not so good: + they don't oil it." + </p> + <p> + She floated away, to give place to another lady. + </p> + <p> + "In France every summer?" she exclaimed. "Oh, how perfectly lovely. Don't + you think the French cars simply divine? My husband thinks the French body + is far better modelled than ours. He saw ever so many of them. He thought + of bringing one over with him, but it costs such a lot to keep them in + good order." + </p> + <p> + "The theatres?" said another lady. "How you must have enjoyed them. I just + love the theatres. Last week my husband and I were at the <i>Palatial</i>—it's + moving pictures—where they have that film with the motor collision + running. It's just wonderful. You see the motors going at full speed, and + then smash right into one another—and all the people killed—it's + really fine." + </p> + <p> + "Have they all gone insane?" said Mr. Blinks to his wife after the guests + had gone. + </p> + <p> + "Dreadful, isn't it?" she assented. "I never was so bored in my life." + </p> + <p> + "Why, they talk of nothing else but their motor-cars!" said Blinks. "We've + got to get a car, I suppose, living at this distance from the town, but + I'm hanged if I intend to go clean crazy over it like these people." + </p> + <p> + And the guests as they went home talked of the Blinkses. + </p> + <p> + "I fear," said Dr. Domb to Judge Ponderus, "that Blinks has hardly + profited by his time in Europe as much as he ought to have. He seems to + have observed <i>nothing</i>. I was asking him about the new Italian + touring car that they are using so much in Rome. He said he had never + noticed it. And he was there a month!" + </p> + <p> + "Is it possible?" said the Judge. "Where were his eyes?" + </p> + <p> + All of which showed that Mr. and Mrs. Blinks were in danger of losing + their friends for ever. + </p> + <p> + But it so happened that about three weeks later Blinks came home to his + residence in an obvious state of excitement. His face was flushed and he + had on a silly little round cap with a glazed peak. + </p> + <p> + "Why, Clarence," cried his wife, "whatever is the matter?" + </p> + <p> + "Matter!" he exclaimed. "There isn't anything the matter! I bought a car + this morning, that's all. Say, it's a beauty, a regular peach, four + thousand with ten off. I ran it clean round the shed alone first time. The + chauffeur says he never saw anybody get on to the hang of it so quick. Get + on your hat and come right down to the garage. I've got a man waiting + there to teach you to run it. Hurry up!" + </p> + <p> + Within a week or two after that one might see the Blinkses any morning, in + fact every morning, out in their car! + </p> + <p> + "Good morning, Judge!" calls Blinks gaily as he passes, "how's that + carburettor acting?—Good morning. Archdeacon, is that plug trouble + of yours all right again?—Hullo, Professor, let me pick you up and + ride you up to the college; oh, it's no trouble. What do you think of the + bearings of this car? Aren't they just dandy?" + </p> + <p> + And so Mr. Blinks has got all his friends back again. + </p> + <p> + After all, the great thing about being crazy is to be all crazy together. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +VI. The Two Sexes in Fives or Sixes. + A Dinner-party Study +</pre> + <p> + "But, surely," exclaimed the Hostess, looking defiantly and searchingly + through the cut flowers of the centre-piece, so that her eye could + intimidate in turn all the five men at the table, "one must admit that + women are men's equals in every way?" + </p> + <p> + The Lady-with-the-Bust tossed her head a little and echoed, "Oh, surely!" + </p> + <p> + The Debutante lifted her big blue eyes a little towards the ceiling, with + the upward glance that stands for innocence. She said nothing, waiting for + a cue as to what to appear to be. + </p> + <p> + Meantime the Chief Lady Guest, known to be in suffrage work, was pinching + up her lips and getting her phrases ready, like a harpooner waiting to + strike. She knew that the Hostess meant this as an opening for her. + </p> + <p> + But the Soft Lady Whom Men Like toyed with a bit of bread on the + tablecloth (she had a beautiful hand) and smiled gently. The other women + would have called it a simper. To the men it stood for profound + intelligence. + </p> + <p> + The five men that sat amongst and between the ladies received the + challenge of the Hostess's speech and answered it each in his own way. + </p> + <p> + From the Heavy Host at the head of the table there came a kind of deep + grunt, nothing more. He had heard this same talk at each of his dinners + that season. + </p> + <p> + There was a similar grunt from the Heavy Business Friend of the Host, + almost as broad and thick as the Host himself. He knew too what was + coming. He proposed to stand by his friend, man for man. He could + sympathise. The Lady-with-the-Bust was his wife. + </p> + <p> + But the Half Man with the Moon Face, who was known to work side by side + with women on committees and who called them "Comrades," echoed: + </p> + <p> + "Oh, surely!" with deep emphasis. + </p> + <p> + The Smooth Gentleman, there for business reasons, exclaimed with great + alacrity, "Women equal! Oh, rather!" + </p> + <p> + Last of all the Interesting Man with Long Hair, known to write for the + magazines—all of them—began at once: + </p> + <p> + "I remember once saying to Mrs. Pankhurst—" but was overwhelmed in + the general conversation before he could say what it was he remembered + saying to Mrs. Pankhurst. + </p> + <p> + In other words, the dinner-party, at about course number seven, had + reached the inevitable moment of the discussion of the two sexes. + </p> + <p> + It had begun as dinner-parties do. + </p> + <p> + Everybody had talked gloomily to his neighbour, over the oysters, on one + drink of white wine; more or less brightly to two people, over the fish, + on two drinks; quite brilliantly to three people on three drinks; and then + the conversation had become general and the European war had been fought + through three courses with champagne. Everybody had taken an extremely + broad point of view. The Heavy Business Friend had declared himself + absolutely impartial and had at once got wet with rage over cotton. The + Chief Lady Guest had explained that she herself was half English on her + mother's side, and the Lady-with- the-Bust had told how a lady friend of + hers had a cousin who had travelled in Hungary. She admitted that it was + some years ago. Things might have changed since. Then the Interesting Man, + having got the table where he wanted it, had said: "I remember when I was + last in Sofia—by the way it is pronounced Say-ah-fee-ah—talking + with Radovitch—or Radee-ah-vitch, as it should be sounded—the + foreign secretary, on what the Sobranje—it is pronounced Soophrangee—would + be likely to do"—and by the time he had done with the Sobranje no + one dared speak of the war any more. + </p> + <p> + But the Hostess had got out of it the opening she wanted, and she said: + </p> + <p> + "At any rate, it is wonderful what women have done in the war—" + </p> + <p> + "And are doing," echoed the Half Man with the Moon Face. + </p> + <p> + And then it was that the Hostess had said that surely every one must admit + women are equal to men and the topic of the sexes was started. All the + women had been waiting for it, anyway. It is the only topic that women + care about. Even men can stand it provided that fifty per cent or more of + the women present are handsome enough to justify it. + </p> + <p> + "I hardly see how, after all that has happened, any rational person could + deny for a moment," continued the Hostess, looking straight at her husband + and his Heavy Business Friend, "that women are equal and even superior to + men. Surely our brains are just as good?" and she gave an almost bitter + laugh. + </p> + <p> + "Don't you think perhaps—?" began the Smooth Gentleman. + </p> + <p> + "No, I don't," said the Hostess. "You're going to say that we are inferior + in things like mathematics or in logical reasoning. We are not. But, after + all, the only reason why we are is because of training. Think of the + thousands of years that men have been trained. Answer me that?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, might it not be—?" began the Smooth Gentleman. + </p> + <p> + "I don't think so for a moment," said the Hostess. "I think if we'd only + been trained as men have for the last two or three thousand years our + brains would be just as well trained for the things they were trained for + as they would have been now for the things we have been trained for and in + that case wouldn't have. Don't you agree with me," she said, turning to + the Chief Lady Guest, whom she suddenly remembered, "that, after all, we + think more clearly?" + </p> + <p> + Here the Interesting Man, who had been silent longer than an Interesting + Man can, without apoplexy, began: + </p> + <p> + "I remember once saying in London to Sir Charles Doosey—" + </p> + <p> + But the Chief Lady Guest refused to be checked. + </p> + <p> + "We've been gathering some rather interesting statistics," she said, + speaking very firmly, syllable by syllable, "on that point at our + Settlement. We have measured the heads of five hundred factory girls, + making a chart of them, you know, and the feet of five hundred domestic + servants—" + </p> + <p> + "And don't you find—" began the Smooth Gentleman. + </p> + <p> + "No," said the Chief Lady Guest firmly, "we do not. But I was going to say + that when we take our measurements and reduce them to a scale of a hundred—I + think you understand me—" + </p> + <p> + "Ah, but come, now," interrupted the Interesting man, "there's nothing + really more deceitful than anthropometric measures. I remember once saying + (in London) to Sir Robert Bittell—<i>the</i> Sir Robert Bittell, you + know—" + </p> + <p> + Here everybody murmured, "Oh, yes," except the Heavy Host and his Heavy + Friend, who with all their sins were honest men. + </p> + <p> + "I said, 'Sir Robert, I want your frank opinion, your very frank opinion—'" + </p> + <p> + But here there was a slight interruption. The Soft Lady accidentally + dropped a bangle from her wrist on to the floor. Now all through the + dinner she had hardly said anything, but she had listened for twenty + minutes (from the grapefruit to the fish) while the Interesting Man had + told her about his life in Honduras (it is pronounced Hondooras), and for + another twenty while the Smooth Gentleman, who was a barrister, had + discussed himself as a pleader. And when each of the men had begun to + speak in the general conversation, she had looked deep into their faces as + if hanging on to their words. So when she dropped her bangle two of the + men leaped from their chairs to get it, and the other three made a sort of + struggle as they sat. By the time it was recovered and replaced upon her + arm (a very beautiful arm), the Interesting Man was side-tracked and the + Chief Lady Guest, who had gone on talking during the bangle hunt, was + heard saying: + </p> + <p> + "Entirely so. That seems to me the greatest difficulty before us. So few + men are willing to deal with the question with perfect sincerity." + </p> + <p> + She laid emphasis on the word and the Half Man with the Moon Face took his + cue from it and threw a pose of almost painful sincerity. + </p> + <p> + "Why is it," continued the Chief Lady Guest, "that men always insist on + dealing with us just as if we were playthings, just so many dressed-up + dolls?" + </p> + <p> + Here the Debutante immediately did a doll. + </p> + <p> + "If a woman is attractive and beautiful," the lady went on, "so much the + better." (She had no intention of letting go of the doll business + entirely.) "But surely you men ought to value us as something more than + mere dolls?" + </p> + <p> + She might have pursued the topic, but at this moment the Smooth Gentleman, + who made a rule of standing in all round, and had broken into a side + conversation with the Silent Host, was overheard to say something about + women's sense of humour. + </p> + <p> + The table was in a turmoil in a moment, three of the ladies speaking at + once. To deny a woman's sense of humour is the last form of social insult. + </p> + <p> + "I entirely disagree with you," said the Chief Lady Guest, speaking very + severely. "I know it from my own case, from my own sense of humour and + from observation. Last week, for example, we measured no less than + seventy-five factory girls—" + </p> + <p> + "Well, I'm sure," said the Lady-with-the-Bust, "I don't know what men mean + by our not having a sense of humour. I'm sure I have. I know I went last + week to a vaudeville, and I just laughed all through. Of course I can't + read Mark Twain, or anything like that, but then I don't call that funny, + do you?" she concluded, turning to the Hostess. + </p> + <p> + But the Hostess, feeling somehow that the ground was dangerous, had + already risen, and in a moment more the ladies had floated out of the room + and upstairs to the drawing-room, where they spread themselves about in + easy chairs in billows of pretty coloured silk. + </p> + <p> + "How charming it is," the Chief Lady Guest began, "to find men coming so + entirely to our point of view! Do you know it was so delightful to-night: + I hardly heard a word of dissent or contradiction." + </p> + <p> + Thus they talked; except the Soft Lady, who had slipped into a seat by + herself with an album over her knees, and with an empty chair on either + side of her. There she waited. + </p> + <p> + Meantime, down below, the men had shifted into chairs to one end of the + table and the Heavy Host was shoving cigars at them, thick as ropes, and + passing the port wine, with his big fist round the neck of the decanter. + But for his success in life he could have had a place as a bar tender + anywhere. + </p> + <p> + None of them spoke till the cigars were well alight. + </p> + <p> + Then the Host said very deliberately, taking each word at his leisure, + with smoke in between: + </p> + <p> + "Of course—this—suffrage business—" + </p> + <p> + "Tommyrot!" exclaimed the Smooth Gentleman, with great alacrity, his mask + entirely laid aside. + </p> + <p> + "Damn foolishness," gurgled the Heavy Business Friend, sipping his port. + </p> + <p> + "Of course you can't really discuss it with women," murmured the Host. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, no," assented all the others. Even the Half Man sipped his wine and + turned traitor, there being no one to see. + </p> + <p> + "You see," said the Host, "if my wife likes to go to meetings and be on + committees, why, I don't stop her." + </p> + <p> + "Neither do I mine," said the Heavy Friend. "It amuses her, so I let her + do it." His wife, the Lady-with-the-Bust, was safely out of hearing. + </p> + <p> + "I remember once," began the Interesting Man, "saying to"—he paused + a moment, for the others were looking at him—"another man that if + women did get the vote they'd never use it, anyway. All they like is being + talked about for not getting it." + </p> + <p> + After which, having exhausted the Woman Question, the five men turned to + such bigger subjects as the fall in sterling exchange and the President's + seventeenth note to Germany. + </p> + <p> + Then presently they went upstairs. And when they reached the door of the + drawing-room a keen observer, or, indeed, any kind of observer, might have + seen that all five of them made an obvious advance towards the two empty + seats beside the Soft Lady. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +VII. The Grass Bachelor's Guide. + With sincere Apologies to the Ladies' Periodicals +</pre> + <p> + There are periods in the life of every married man when he is turned for + the time being into a grass bachelor. + </p> + <p> + This happens, for instance, in the summer time when his wife is summering + by the sea, and he himself is simmering in the city. It happens also in + the autumn when his wife is in Virginia playing golf in order to restore + her shattered nerves after the fatigues of the seaside. It occurs again in + November when his wife is in the Adirondacks to get the benefit of the + altitude, and later on through the winter when she is down in Florida to + get the benefit of the latitude. The breaking up of the winter being, + notoriously, a trying time on the system, any reasonable man is apt to + consent to his wife's going to California. In the later spring, the season + of the bursting flowers and the young buds, every woman likes to be with + her mother in the country. It is not fair to stop her. + </p> + <p> + It thus happens that at various times of the year a great number of men, + unable to leave their business, are left to their own resources as + housekeepers in their deserted houses and apartments. It is for their + benefit that I have put together these hints on housekeeping for men. It + may be that in composing them I owe something to the current number of the + leading women's magazines. If so, I need not apologise. I am sure that in + these days We Men all feel that We Men and We Women are so much alike, or + at least those of us who call ourselves so, that we need feel no jealousy + when We Men and We Women are striving each, or both, in the same direction + if in opposite ways. I hope that I make myself clear. I am sure I do. + </p> + <p> + So I feel that if We Men, who are left alone in our houses and apartments + in the summer-time, would only set ourselves to it, we could make life not + only a little brighter for ourselves but also a little less bright for + those about us. + </p> + <p> + Nothing contributes to this end so much as good housekeeping. The first + thing for the housekeeper to realise is that it is impossible for him to + attend to his housekeeping in the stiff and unbecoming garments of his + business hours. When he begins his day he must therefore carefully + consider— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WHAT TO WEAR BEFORE DRESSING +</pre> + <p> + The simplest and best thing will be found to be a plain sacque or kimono, + cut very full so as to allow of the freest movement, and buttoned either + down the front or back or both. If the sleeve is cut short at the elbow + and ruffled above the bare arm, the effect is both serviceable and + becoming. It will be better, especially for such work as lighting the gas + range and boiling water, to girdle the kimono with a simple yet effective + rope or tasselled silk, which may be drawn in or let out according to the + amount of water one wishes to boil. A simple kimono of this sort can be + bought almost anywhere for $2.50, or can be supplied by Messrs. Einstein + & Fickelbrot (see advertising pages) for twenty-five dollars. + </p> + <p> + Having a kimono such as this, our housekeeper can either button himself + into it with a button-hook (very good ones are supplied by Messrs. + Einstein & Fickelbrot [see ad.] at a very reasonable price or even + higher), or better still, he can summon the janitor of the apartment, who + can button him up quite securely in a few minutes' time —a quarter + of an hour at the most. We Men cannot impress upon ourselves too strongly + that, for efficient housekeeping, time is everything, and that much + depends on quiet, effective movement from place to place, or from any one + place to any number of other places. We are now ready to consider the + all-important question— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WHAT TO SELECT FOR BREAKFAST +</pre> + <p> + Our housekeeper will naturally desire something that is simple and easily + cooked, yet at the same time sustaining and invigorating and containing a + maximum of food value with a minimum of cost. If he is wise he will + realise that the food ought to contain a proper quantity of both proteids + and amygdaloids, and, while avoiding a nitrogenous breakfast, should see + to it that he obtains sufficient of what is albuminous and exogamous to + prevent his breakfast from becoming monotonous. Careful thought must + therefore be given to the breakfast menu. + </p> + <p> + For the purpose of thinking, a simple but very effective costume may be + devised by throwing over the kimono itself a thin lace shawl, with a fichu + carried high above the waistline and terminating in a plain insertion. A + bit of old lace thrown over the housekeeper's head is at once serviceable + and becoming and will help to keep the dust out of his brain while + thinking what to eat for breakfast. + </p> + <p> + Very naturally our housekeeper's first choice will be some kind of cereal. + The simplest and most economical breakfast of this kind can be secured by + selecting some cereal or grain food—such as oats, flax, split peas + that have been carefully strained in the colander, or beans that have been + fired off in a gun. Any of these cereals may be bought for ten cents a + pound at a grocer's—or obtained from Messrs. Einstein & + Fickelbrot for a dollar a pound, or more. Supposing then that we have + decided upon a pound of split peas as our breakfast, the next task that + devolves upon our housekeeper is to— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + GO OUT AND BUY IT +</pre> + <p> + Here our advice is simple but positive. Shopping should never be done over + the telephone or by telegraph. The good housekeeper instead of + telegraphing for his food will insist on seeing his food himself, and will + eat nothing that he does not first see before eating. This is a cardinal + rule. For the moment, then, the range must be turned low while our + housekeeper sallies forth to devote himself to his breakfast shopping. The + best costume for shopping is a simple but effective suit, cut in plain + lines, either square or crosswise, and buttoned wherever there are + button-holes. A simple hat of some dark material may be worn together with + plain boots drawn up well over the socks and either laced or left unlaced. + No harm is done if a touch of colour is added by carrying a geranium in + the hand. We are now ready for the street. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TEST OF EFFECTIVE SHOPPING +</pre> + <p> + Here we may say at once that the crucial test is that we must know what we + want, why we want it, where we want it, and what it is. Time, as We Men + are only too apt to forget, is everything, and since our aim is now a + pound of split peas we must, as we sally forth, think of a pound of split + peas and only a pound. A cheery salutation may be exchanged with other + morning shoppers as we pass along, but only exchanged. Split peas being + for the moment our prime business, we must, as rapidly and unobtrusively + as possible, visit those shops and only those shops where split peas are + to be had. + </p> + <p> + Having found the split peas, our housekeeper's next task is to <i>pay</i> + for them. This he does with money that may be either carried in the hand + or, better, tucked into a simple <i>etui</i>, or <i>dodu</i>, that can be + carried at the wrist or tied to the ankle. The order duly given, our + housekeeper gives his address for the delivery of the peas, and then, as + quietly and harmlessly as possible, returns to his apartment. His next + office, and a most important one it is, is now ready to be performed. This + new but necessary duty is— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WAITING FOR THE DELIVERY VAN +</pre> + <p> + A good costume for waiting for the delivery van in, is a simple brown + suit, slashed with yellow and purple, and sliced or gored from the hip to + the feet. As time is everything, the housekeeper, after having put on his + slashed costume for waiting for the delivery van, may set himself to the + performance of a number of light household tasks, at the same time looking + occasionally from the window so as to detect the arrival of the van as + soon as possible after it has arrived. Among other things, he may now feed + his canary by opening its mouth with a button-hook and dropping in coffee + beans till the little songster shows by its gratified air that it is full. + A little time may be well spent among the flowers and bulbs of the + apartment, clipping here a leaf and here a stem, and removing the young + buds and bugs. For work among the flowers, a light pair of rather long + scissors, say a foot long, can be carried at the girdle, or attached to + the <i>etui</i> and passed over the shoulder with a looped cord so as to + fall in an easy and graceful fold across the back. The moment is now + approaching when we may expect— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE ARRIVAL OF THE VAN +</pre> + <p> + The housekeeper will presently discover the van, drawn up in the front of + the apartment, and its driver curled up on the seat. Now is the moment of + activity. Hastily throwing on a <i>peignoir</i>, the housekeeper descends + and, receiving his parcel, reascends to his apartment. The whole descent + and reascent is made quickly, quietly, and, if possible, only once. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PUTTING THE PEAS TO SOAK +</pre> + <p> + Remember that unsoaked peas are hard, forcible, and surcharged with a + nitrogenous amygdaloid that is in reality what chemical science calls + putrate of lead. On the other hand, peas that are soaked become large, + voluble, textile, and, while extremely palatable, are none the less rich + in glycerine, starch, and other lacteroids and bactifera. To contain the + required elements of nutrition split peas must be soaked for two hours in + fresh water and afterwards boiled for an hour and a quarter (eighty-five + minutes). + </p> + <p> + It is now but the work of a moment to lift the saucepan of peas from the + fire, strain them through a colander, pass them thence into a net or bag, + rinse them in cold water and then spread the whole appetising mass on a + platter and carry it on a fireshovel to the dining-room. As it is now + about six o'clock in the evening, our housekeeper can either— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TELEPHONE TO HIS CLUB + AND ORDER A THIN SOUP + WITH A BITE OF FISH, + TWO LAMB CHOPS WITH ASPARAGUS, + AND SEND WORD ALSO + FOR A PINT OF MOSELLE + TO BE LAID ON ICE +</pre> + <p> + <i>Or he can sit down and eat those d—n peas</i>. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WE KNOW WHICH HE WILL DO +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +VIII. Every Man and his Friends. Mr. Crunch's + Portrait Gallery (as Edited from his Private Thoughts) +</pre> + <h3> + (I) HIS VIEWS ON HIS EMPLOYER + </h3> + <p> + A mean man. I say it, of course, without any prejudice, and without the + slightest malice. But the man is mean. Small, I think, is the word. I am + not thinking, of course, of my own salary. It is not a matter that I would + care to refer to; though, as a matter of fact, one would think that after + fifteen years of work an application for an increase of five hundred + dollars is the kind of thing that any man ought to be glad to meet + half-way. Not that I bear the man any malice for it. None. If he died + to-morrow, no one would regret his death as genuinely as I would: if he + fell into the river and got drowned, or if he fell into a sewer and + suffocated, or if he got burned to death in a gas explosion (there are a + lot of things that might happen to him), I should feel genuinely sorry to + see him cut off. + </p> + <p> + But what strikes me more than the man's smallness is his incompetence. The + man is absolutely no good. It's not a thing that I would say outside: as a + matter of fact I deny it every time I hear it, though every man in town + knows it. How that man ever got the position he has is more than I can + tell. And, as for holding it, he couldn't hold it half a day if it weren't + that the rest of us in the office do practically everything for him. + </p> + <p> + Why, I've seen him send out letters (I wouldn't say this to anyone + outside, of course, and I wouldn't like to have it repeated)—letters + with, actually, mistakes in English. Think of it, in English! Ask his + stenographer. + </p> + <p> + I often wonder why I go on working for him. There are dozens of other + companies that would give anything to get me. Only the other day—it's + not ten years ago—I had an offer, or practically an offer, to go to + Japan selling Bibles. I often wish now I had taken it. I believe I'd like + the Japanese. They're gentlemen, the Japanese. They wouldn't turn a man + down after slaving away for fifteen years. + </p> + <p> + I often think I'll quit him. I say to my wife that that man had better not + provoke me too far; or some day I'll just step into his office and tell + him exactly what I think of him. I'd like to. I often say it over to + myself in the street car coming home. + </p> + <p> + He'd better be careful, that's all. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + (II) THE MINISTER WHOSE CHURCH HE ATTENDS + </h2> + <p> + A dull man. Dull is the only word I can think of that exactly describes + him—dull and prosy. I don't say that he is not a good man. He may + be. I don't say that he is not. I have never seen any sign of it, if he + is. But I make it a rule never to say anything to take away a man's + character. + </p> + <p> + And his sermons! Really that sermon he gave last Sunday on Esau seemed to + me the absolute limit. I wish you could have heard it. I mean to say—drivel. + I said to my wife and some friends, as we walked away from the church, + that a sermon like that seemed to me to come from the dregs of the human + intellect. Mind you, I don't believe in criticising a sermon. I always + feel it a sacred obligation never to offer a word of criticism. When I say + that the sermon was <i>punk</i>, I don't say it as criticism. I merely + state it as a fact. And to think that we pay that man eighteen hundred + dollars a year! And he's in debt all the time at that. What does he do + with it? He can't spend it. It's not as if he had a large family (they've + only four children). It's just a case of sheer extravagance. He runs about + all the time. Last year it was a trip to a Synod Meeting at New York—away + four whole days; and two years before that, dashing off to a Scripture + Conference at Boston, and away nearly a whole week, and his wife with him! + </p> + <p> + What I say is that if a man's going to spend his time gadding about the + country like that—here to-day and there to-morrow—how on earth + can he attend to his parochial duties? + </p> + <p> + I'm a religious man. At least I trust I am. I believe —and more and + more as I get older—in eternal punishment. I see the need of it when + I look about me. As I say, I trust I am a religious man, but when it comes + to subscribing fifty dollars as they want us to, to get the man out of + debt, I say "No." + </p> + <p> + True religion, as I see it, is not connected with money. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + (III) HIS PARTNER AT BRIDGE + </h2> + <p> + The man is a complete ass. How a man like that has the nerve to sit down + at a bridge table, I don't know. I wouldn't mind if the man had any idea—even + the faintest idea—of how to play. But he hasn't any. Three times I + signalled to him to throw the lead into my hand and he wouldn't: I knew + that our only ghost of a chance was to let me do all the playing. But the + ass couldn't see it. He even had the supreme nerve to ask me what I meant + by leading diamonds when he had signalled that he had none. I couldn't + help asking him, as politely as I could, why he had disregarded my signal + for spades. He had the gall to ask in reply why I had overlooked his + signal for clubs in the second hand round; the very time, mind you, when I + had led a three spot as a sign to him to let me play the whole game. I + couldn't help saying to him, at the end of the evening, in a tone of such + evident satire that anyone but an ass would have recognised it, that I had + seldom had as keen an evening at cards. + </p> + <p> + But he didn't see it. The irony of it was lost on him. The jackass merely + said—quite amiably and unconsciously —that he thought I'd play + a good game presently. Me! Play a good game presently! + </p> + <p> + I gave him a look, just one look as I went out! But I don't think he saw + it. He was talking to some one else. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + (IV) HIS HOSTESS AT DINNER + </h2> + <p> + On what principle that woman makes up her dinner parties is more than + human brain can devise. Mind you, I like going out to dinner. To my mind + it's the very best form of social entertainment. But I like to find myself + among people that can talk, not among a pack of numbskulls. What I like is + good general conversation, about things worth talking about. But among a + crowd of idiots like that what can you expect? You'd think that even + society people would be interested, or pretend to be, in real things. But + not a bit. I had hardly started to talk about the rate of exchange on the + German mark in relation to the fall of sterling bills—a thing that + you would think a whole table full of people would be glad to listen to—when + first thing I knew the whole lot of them had ceased paying any attention + and were listening to an insufferable ass of an Englishman—I forget + his name. You'd hardly suppose that just because a man has been in + Flanders and has his arm in a sling and has to have his food cut up by the + butler, that's any reason for having a whole table full of people + listening to him. And especially the women: they have a way of listening + to a fool like that with their elbows on the table that is positively + sickening. + </p> + <p> + I felt that the whole thing was out of taste and tried in vain, in one of + the pauses, to give a lead to my hostess by referring to the prospect of a + shipping subsidy bill going through to offset the register of alien ships. + But she was too utterly dense to take it up. She never even turned her + head. All through dinner that ass talked —he and that silly young + actor they're always asking there that is perpetually doing imitations of + the vaudeville people. That kind of thing may be all right, for those who + care for it—I frankly don't—outside a theatre. But to my mind + the idea of trying to throw people into fits of laughter at a dinner-table + is simply execrable taste. I cannot see the sense of people shrieking with + laughter at dinner. I have, I suppose, a better sense of humour than most + people. But to my mind a humourous story should be told quietly and slowly + in a way to bring out the point of the humour and to make it quite clear + by preparing for it with proper explanations. But with people like that I + find I no sooner get well started with a story than some fool or other + breaks in. I had a most amusing experience the other day—that is, + about fifteen years ago—at a summer hotel in the Adirondacks, that + one would think would have amused even a shallow lot of people like those, + but I had no sooner started to tell it—or had hardly done more than + to describe the Adirondacks in a general way—than, first thing I + know, my hostess, stupid woman, had risen and all the ladies were trooping + out. + </p> + <p> + As to getting in a word edgeways with the men over the cigars—perfectly + impossible! They're worse than the women. They were all buzzing round the + infernal Englishman with questions about Flanders and the army at the + front. I tried in vain to get their attention for a minute to give them my + impressions of the Belgian peasantry (during my visit there in 1885), but + my host simply turned to me for a second and said, "Have some more port?" + and was back again listening to the asinine Englishman. + </p> + <p> + And when we went upstairs to the drawing-room I found myself, to my + disgust, side-tracked in a corner of the room with that supreme old + jackass of a professor—their uncle, I think, or something of the + sort. In all my life I never met a prosier man. He bored me blue with long + accounts of his visit to Serbia and his impressions of the Serbian + peasantry in 1875. + </p> + <p> + I should have left early, but it would have been too noticeable. + </p> + <p> + The trouble with a woman like that is that she asks the wrong people to + her parties. + </p> + <h3> + BUT, + </h3> + <h3> + (V) HIS LITTLE SON + </h3> + <p> + You haven't seen him? Why, that's incredible. You must have. He goes past + your house every day on his way to his kindergarten. You must have seen + him a thousand times. And he's a boy you couldn't help noticing. You'd + pick that boy out among a hundred, right away. "There's a remarkable boy," + you'd say. I notice people always turn and look at him on the street. He's + just the image of me. Everybody notices it at once. + </p> + <p> + How old? He's twelve. Twelve and two weeks yesterday. But he's so bright + you'd think he was fifteen. And the things he says! You'd laugh! I've + written a lot of them down in a book for fear of losing them. Some day + when you come up to the house I'll read them to you. Come some evening. + Come early so that we'll have lots of time. He said to me one day, "Dad" + (he always calls me Dad), "what makes the sky blue?" Pretty thoughtful, + eh, for a little fellow of twelve? He's always asking questions like that. + I wish I could remember half of them. + </p> + <p> + And I'm bringing him up right, I tell you. I got him a little savings box + a while ago, and have got him taught to put all his money in it, and not + give any of it away, so that when he grows up he'll be all right. + </p> + <p> + On his last birthday I put a five dollar gold piece into it for him and + explained to him what five dollars meant, and what a lot you could do with + it if you hung on to it. You ought to have seen him listen. + </p> + <p> + "Dad," he says, "I guess you're the kindest man in the world, aren't you?" + </p> + <p> + Come up some time and see him. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +IX. More than Twice-told Tales; or, + Every Man his Own Hero +</pre> + <h3> + (I) + </h3> + <p> + The familiar story told about himself by the Commercial Traveller who sold + goods to the man who was regarded as impossible. + </p> + <p> + "What," they said, "you're getting off at Midgeville? You're going to give + the Jones Hardware Company a try, eh?"—and then they all started + laughing and giving me the merry ha! ha! Well, I just got my grip packed + and didn't say a thing and when the train slowed up for Midgeville, out I + slid. "Give my love to old man Jones," one of the boys called after me, + "and get yourself a couple of porous plasters and a pair of splints before + you tackle him!"—and then they all gave me the ha! ha! again, out of + the window as the train pulled out. + </p> + <p> + Well, I walked uptown from the station to the Jones Hardware Company. "Is + Mr. Jones in the office?" I asked of one of the young fellers behind the + counter. "He's in the office," he says, "all right, but I guess you can't + see him," he says—and he looked at my grip. "What name shall I say?" + says he. "Don't say any name at all," I says. "Just open the door and let + me in." + </p> + <p> + Well, there was old man Jones sitting scowling over his desk, biting his + pen in that way he has. He looked up when I came in. "See here, young + man," he says, "you can't sell me any hardware," he says. "Mr. Jones," I + says, "I don't <i>want</i> to sell you any hardware. I'm not <i>here</i> + to sell you any hardware. I know," I says, "as well as you do," I says, + "that I couldn't sell any hardware if I tried to. But," I says, "I guess + it don't do any harm to open up this sample case, and show you some + hardware," I says. "Young man," says he, "if you start opening up that + sample case in here, you'll lose your time, that's all"—and he + turned off sort of sideways and began looking over some letters. + </p> + <p> + "That's <i>all right</i>, Mr. Jones," I says. "That's <i>all right</i>. + I'm <i>here</i> to lose my time. But I'm not going out of this room till + you take a look anyway at some of this new cutlery I'm carrying." + </p> + <p> + So open I throws my sample case right across the end of his desk. "Look at + that knife," I says, "Mr. Jones. Just look at it: clear Sheffield at + three-thirty the dozen and they're a knife that will last till you wear + the haft off it." "Oh, pshaw," he growled, "I don't want no knives; + there's nothing in knives—" + </p> + <p> + Well I <i>knew</i> he didn't want knives, see? I <i>knew</i> it. But the + way I opened up the sample case it showed up, just by accident so to + speak, a box of those new electric burners—adjustable, you know—they'll + take heat off any size of socket you like and use it for any mortal thing + in the house. I saw old Jones had his eyes on them in a minute. "What's + those things you got there?" he growls, "those in the box?" "Oh," I said, + "that's just a new line," I said, "the boss wanted me to take along: some + sort of electric rig for heating," I said, "but I don't think there's + anything to it. But here, now, Mr. Jones, is a spoon I've got on this trip—it's + the new Delphide —you can't tell that, sir, from silver. No, sir," I + says, "I defy any man, money down, to tell that there Delphide from + genuine refined silver, and they're a spoon that'll last—" + </p> + <p> + "Let me see one of those burners," says old man Jones, breaking in. + </p> + <p> + Well, sir, in about two minutes more, I had one of the burners fixed on to + the light socket, and old Jones, with his coat off, boiling water in a tin + cup (out of the store) and timing it with his watch. + </p> + <p> + The next day I pulled into Toledo and went and joined the other boys up to + the Jefferson House. "Well," they says, "have you got that plaster on?" + and started in to give me the ha! ha! again. "Oh, I don't know," I says. + "I guess <i>this</i> is some plaster, isn't it?" and I took out of my + pocket an order from old man Jones for two thousand adjustable burners, at + four-twenty with two off. "Some plaster, eh?" I says. + </p> + <p> + Well, sir, the boys looked sick. + </p> + <p> + Old man Jones gets all his stuff from our house now. Oh, he ain't bad at + all when you get to know him. + </p> + <h3> + (II) + </h3> + <p> + The well-known story told by the man who has once had a strange psychic + experience. + </p> + <p> + ...What you say about presentiments reminds me of a strange experience + that I had myself. + </p> + <p> + I was sitting by myself one night very late, reading. I don't remember + just what it was that I was reading. I think it was—or no, I don't + remember <i>what</i> it was. Well, anyway, I was sitting up late reading + quietly till it got pretty late on in the night. I don't remember just how + late it was—half-past two, I think, or perhaps three—or, no, I + don't remember. But, anyway, I was sitting up by myself very late reading. + As I say, it was late, and, after all the noises in the street had + stopped, the house somehow seemed to get awfully still and quiet. Well, + all of a sudden I became aware of a sort of strange feeling—I hardly + know how to describe it—I seemed to become aware of something, as if + something were near me. I put down my book and looked around, but could + see nothing. I started to read again, but I hadn't read more than a page, + or say a page and a half—or no, not more than a page, when again all + of a sudden I felt an overwhelming sense of—something. I can't + explain just what the feeling was, but a queer sense as if there was + something somewhere. + </p> + <p> + Well, I'm not of a timorous disposition naturally—at least I don't + think I am—but absolutely I felt as if I couldn't stay in the room. + I got up out of my chair and walked down the stairs, in the dark, to the + dining-room. I felt all the way as if some one were following me. Do you + know, I was absolutely trembling when I got into the dining-room and got + the lights turned on. I walked over to the sideboard and poured myself out + a drink of whisky and soda. As you know, I never take anything as a rule + —or, at any rate, only when I am sitting round talking as we are now—but + I always like to keep a decanter of whisky in the house, and a little + soda, in case of my wife or one of the children being taken ill in the + night. + </p> + <p> + Well, I took a drink and then I said to myself, I said, "See here, I'm + going to see this thing through." So I turned back and walked straight + upstairs again to my room. I fully expected something queer was going to + happen and was prepared for it. But do you know when I walked into the + room again the feeling, or presentiment, or whatever it was I had had, was + absolutely gone. There was my book lying just where I had left it and the + reading lamp still burning on the table, just as it had been, and my chair + just where I had pushed it back. But I felt nothing, absolutely nothing. I + sat and waited awhile, but I still felt <i>nothing</i>. + </p> + <p> + I went downstairs again to put out the lights in the dining-room. I + noticed as I passed the sideboard that I was still shaking a little. So I + took a small drink of whisky—though as a rule I never care to take + more than one drink—unless when I am sitting talking as we are here. + </p> + <p> + Well, I had hardly taken it when I felt an odd sort of psychic feeling—a + sort of drowsiness. I remember, in a dim way, going to bed, and then I + remember nothing till I woke up next morning. + </p> + <p> + And here's the strange part of it. I had hardly got down to the office + after breakfast when I got a wire to tell me that my mother-in-law had + broken her arm in Cincinnati. Strange, wasn't it? No, <i>not</i> at + half-past two during that night—that's the inexplicable part of it. + She had broken it at half-past eleven the morning before. But you notice + it was <i>half-past</i> in each case. That's the queer way these things + go. + </p> + <p> + Of course, I don't pretend to <i>explain it</i>. I suppose it simply means + that I am telepathic—that's all. I imagine that, if I wanted to, I + could talk with the dead and all that kind of thing. But I feel somehow + that I don't want to. + </p> + <p> + Eh? Thank you, I will—though I seldom take more than— thanks, + thanks, that's plenty of soda in it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + (III) + </h2> + <p> + The familiar narrative in which the Successful Business Man recounts the + early struggles by which he made good. + </p> + <p> + ...No, sir, I had no early advantages whatever. I was brought up plain and + hard—try one of these cigars; they cost me fifty cents each. In + fact, I practically had no schooling at all. When I left school I didn't + know how to read, not to read good. It's only since I've been in business + that I've learned to write English, that is so as to use it right. But + I'll guarantee to say there isn't a man in the shoe business to-day can + write a better letter than I can. But all that I know is what I've learned + myself. Why, I can't do fractions even now. I don't see that a man need. + And I never learned no geography, except what I got for myself off + railroad folders. I don't believe a man <i>needs</i> more than that + anyway. I've got my boy at Harvard now. His mother was set on it. But I + don't see that he learns anything, or nothing that will help him any in + business. They say they learn them character and manners in the colleges, + but, as I see it, a man can get all that just as well in business—is + that wine all right? If not, tell me and I'll give the head waiter hell; + they charge enough for it; what you're drinking costs me four-fifty a + bottle. + </p> + <p> + But I was starting to tell you about my early start in business. I had it + good and hard all right. Why when I struck New York—I was sixteen + then—I had just eighty cents to my name. I lived on it for nearly a + week while I was walking round hunting for a job. I used to get soup for + three cents, and roast beef with potatoes, all you could eat, for eight + cents, that tasted better than anything I can ever get in this damn club. + It was down somewhere on Sixth Avenue, but I've forgotten the way to it. + </p> + <p> + Well, about the sixth day I got a job, down in a shoe factory, working on + a machine. I guess you've never seen shoe-machinery, have you? No, you + wouldn't likely. It's complicated. Even in those days there were + thirty-five machines went to the making of a shoe, and now we use as many + as fifty-four. I'd never seen the machines before, but the foreman took me + on. "You look strong," he said "I'll give you a try anyway." + </p> + <p> + So I started in. I didn't know anything. But I made good from the first + day. I got four a week at the start, and after two months I got a raise to + four-twenty-five. + </p> + <p> + Well, after I'd worked there about three months, I went up to the floor + manager of the flat I worked on, and I said, "Say, Mr. Jones, do you want + to save ten dollars a week on expenses?" "How?" says he. "Why," I said, + "that foreman I'm working under on the machine, I've watched him, and I + can do his job; dismiss him and I'll take over his work at half what you + pay him." "Can you do the work?" he says. "Try me out," I said. "Fire him + and give me a chance." "Well," he said, "I like your spirit anyway; you've + got the right sort of stuff in you." + </p> + <p> + So he fired the foreman and I took over the job and held it down. It was + hard at first, but I worked twelve hours a day, and studied up a book on + factory machinery at night. Well, after I'd been on that work for about a + year, I went in one day to the general manager downstairs, and I said, + "Mr. Thompson, do you want to save about a hundred dollars a month on your + overhead costs?" "How can I do that?" says he. "Sit down." "Why," I said, + "you dismiss Mr. Jones and give me his place as manager of the floor, and + I'll undertake to do his work, and mine with it, at a hundred less than + you're paying now." He turned and went into the inner office, and I could + hear him talking to Mr. Evans, the managing director. "The young fellow + certainly has character," I heard him say. Then he came out and he said, + "Well, we're going to give you a try anyway: we like to help out our + employes all we can, you know; and you've got the sort of stuff in you + that we're looking for." + </p> + <p> + So they dismissed Jones next day and I took over his job and did it easy. + It was nothing anyway. The higher up you get in business, the easier it is + if you know how. I held that job two years, and I saved all my salary + except twenty-five dollars a month, and I lived on that. I never spent any + money anyway. I went once to see Irving do this Macbeth for twenty-five + cents, and once I went to a concert and saw a man play the violin for + fifteen cents in the gallery. But I don't believe you get much out of the + theatre anyway; as I see it, there's nothing to it. + </p> + <p> + Well, after a while I went one day to Mr. Evans's office and I said, "Mr. + Evans, I want you to dismiss Mr. Thompson, the general manager." "Why, + what's he done?" he says. "Nothing," I said, "but I can take over his job + on top of mine and you can pay me the salary you give him and save what + you're paying me now." "Sounds good to me," he says. + </p> + <p> + So they let Thompson go and I took his place. That, of course, is where I + got my real start, because, you see, I could control the output and run + the costs up and down just where I liked. I suppose you don't know + anything about costs and all that—they don't teach that sort of + thing in colleges—but even you would understand something about + dividends and would see that an energetic man with lots of character and + business in him, If he's general manager can just do what he likes with + the costs, especially the overhead, and the shareholders have just got to + take what he gives them and be glad to. You see they can't fire him—not + when he's got it all in his own hands—for fear it will all go to + pieces. + </p> + <p> + Why would I want to run it that way for? Well, I'll tell you. I had a + notion by that time that the business was getting so big that Mr. Evans, + the managing director, and most of the board had pretty well lost track of + the details and didn't understand it. There's an awful lot, you know, in + the shoe business. It's not like ordinary things. It's complicated. And so + I'd got an idea that I would shove them clean out of it—or most of + them. + </p> + <p> + So I went one night to see the president, old Guggenbaum, up at his + residence. He didn't only have this business, but he was in a lot of other + things as well, and he was a mighty hard man to see. He wouldn't let any + man see him unless he knew first what he was going to say. But I went up + to his residence at night, and I saw him there. I talked first with his + daughter, and I said I just had to see him. I said it so she didn't dare + refuse. There's a way in talking to women that they won't say no. + </p> + <p> + So I showed Mr. Guggenbaum what I could do with the stock. "I can put that + dividend," I says, "clean down to zero—and they'll none of them know + why. You can buy the lot of them out at your own price, and after that + I'll put the dividend back to fifteen, or twenty, in two years." + </p> + <p> + "And where do <i>you</i> come in?" says the old man, with a sort of hard + look. He had a fine business head, the old man, at least in those days. + </p> + <p> + So I explained to him where I came in. "All right," he said. "Go ahead. + But I'll put nothing in writing." "Mr. Guggenbaum, you don't need to," I + said. "You're as fair and square as I am and that's enough for me." + </p> + <p> + His daughter let me out of the house door when I went. I guess she'd been + pretty scared that she'd done wrong about letting me in. But I said to her + it was all right, and after that when I wanted to see the old man I'd + always ask for her and she'd see that I got in all right. + </p> + <p> + Got them squeezed out? Oh, yes, easy. There wasn't any trouble about that. + You see the old man worked up a sort of jolt in wholesale leather on one + side, and I fixed up a strike of the hands on the other. We passed the + dividend two quarters running, and within a year we had them all scared + out and the bulk of the little shareholders, of course, trooped out after + them. They always do. The old man picked up the stock when they dropped + it, and one-half of it he handed over to me. + </p> + <p> + That's what put me where I am now, do you see, with the whole control of + the industry in two states and more than that now, because we have the + Amalgamated Tanneries in with us, so it's practically all one concern. + </p> + <p> + Guggenbaum? Did I squeeze him out? No, I didn't because, you see, I didn't + have to. The way it was—well, I tell you—I used to go up to + the house, see, to arrange things with him—and the way it was—why, + you see, I married his daughter, see, so I didn't exactly <i>need</i> to + squeeze him out. He lives up with us now, but he's pretty old and past + business. In fact, I do it all for him now, and pretty well everything he + has is signed over to my wife. She has no head for it, and she's sort of + timid anyway —always was—so I manage it all. Of course, if + anything happens to the old man, then we get it all. I don't think he'll + last long. I notice him each day, how weak he's getting. + </p> + <p> + My son in the business? Well, I'd like him to be. But he don't seem to + take to it somehow—I'm afraid he takes more after his mother; or + else it's the college that's doing it. Somehow, I don't think the colleges + bring out business character, do you? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X. A Study in Still Life—My Tailor + </h2> + <p> + He always stands there—and has stood these thirty years—in the + back part of his shop, his tape woven about his neck, a smile of welcome + on his face, waiting to greet me. + </p> + <p> + "Something in a serge," he says, "or perhaps in a tweed?" + </p> + <p> + There are only these two choices open to us. We have had no others for + thirty years. It is too late to alter now. + </p> + <p> + "A serge, yes," continues my tailor, "something in a dark blue, perhaps." + He says it with all the gusto of a new idea, as if the thought of dark + blue had sprung up as an inspiration. "Mr. Jennings" (this is his + assistant), "kindly take down some of those dark blues. + </p> + <p> + "Ah," he exclaims, "now here is an excellent thing." His manner as he says + this is such as to suggest that by sheer good fortune and blind chance he + has stumbled upon a thing among a million. + </p> + <p> + He lifts one knee and drapes the cloth over it, standing upon one leg. He + knows that in this attitude it is hard to resist him. Cloth to be + appreciated as cloth must be viewed over the bended knee of a tailor with + one leg in the air. + </p> + <p> + My tailor can stand in this way indefinitely, on one leg in a sort of + ecstasy, a kind of local paralysis. + </p> + <p> + "Would that make up well?" I ask him. + </p> + <p> + "Admirably," he answers. + </p> + <p> + I have no real reason to doubt it. I have never seen any reason why cloth + should not make up well. But I always ask the question as I know that he + expects it and it pleases him. There ought to be a fair give and take in + such things. + </p> + <p> + "You don't think it at all loud?" I say. He always likes to be asked this. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, no, very quiet indeed. In fact we always recommend serge as extremely + quiet." + </p> + <p> + I have never had a wild suit in my life. But it is well to ask. + </p> + <p> + Then he measures me—round the chest, nowhere else. All the other + measures were taken years ago. Even the chest measure is only done—and + I know it—to please me. I do not really grow. + </p> + <p> + "A <i>little</i> fuller in the chest," my tailor muses. Then he turns to + his assistant. "Mr. Jennings, a little fuller in the chest—half an + inch on to the chest, please." + </p> + <p> + It is a kind fiction. Growth around the chest is flattering even to the + humblest of us. + </p> + <p> + "Yes," my tailor goes on—he uses "yes" without any special meaning—"and + shall we say a week from Tuesday? Mr. Jennings, a week from Tuesday, + please." + </p> + <p> + "And will you please," I say, "send the bill to—?" but my tailor + waves this aside. He does not care to talk about the bill. It would only + give pain to both of us to speak of it. + </p> + <p> + The bill is a matter we deal with solely by correspondence, and that only + in a decorous and refined style never calculated to hurt. + </p> + <p> + I am sure from the tone of my tailor's letters that he would never send + the bill, or ask for the amount, were it not that from time to time he is + himself, unfortunately, "pressed" owing to "large consignments from + Europe." But for these heavy consignments, I am sure I should never need + to pay him. It is true that I have sometimes thought to observe that these + consignments are apt to arrive when I pass the limit of owing for two + suits and order a third. But this can only be a mere coincidence. + </p> + <p> + Yet the bill, as I say, is a thing that we never speak of. Instead of it + my tailor passes to the weather. Ordinary people always begin with this + topic. Tailors, I notice, end with it. It is only broached after the suit + is ordered, never before. + </p> + <p> + "Pleasant weather we are having," he says. It is never other, so I notice, + with him. Perhaps the order of a suit itself is a little beam of sunshine. + </p> + <p> + Then we move together towards the front of the store on the way to the + outer door. + </p> + <p> + "Nothing to-day, I suppose," says my tailor, "in shirtings?" + </p> + <p> + "No, thank you." + </p> + <p> + This is again a mere form. In thirty years I have never bought any + shirtings from him. Yet he asks the question with the same winsomeness as + he did thirty years ago. + </p> + <p> + "And nothing, I suppose, in collaring or in hosiery?" + </p> + <p> + This is again futile. Collars I buy elsewhere and hosiery I have never + worn. + </p> + <p> + Thus we walk to the door, in friendly colloquy. Somehow if he failed to + speak of shirtings and hosiery, I should feel as if a familiar cord had + broken; + </p> + <p> + At the door we part. + </p> + <p> + "Good afternoon," he says. "A week from Tuesday—yes —good + afternoon." + </p> + <p> + Such is—or was—our calm unsullied intercourse, unvaried or at + least broken only by consignments from Europe. + </p> + <p> + I say it <i>was</i>, that is until just the other day. + </p> + <p> + And then, coming to the familiar door, for my customary summer suit, I + found that he was there no more. There were people in the store, unloading + shelves and piling cloth and taking stock. And they told me that he was + dead. It came to me with a strange shock. I had not thought it possible. + He seemed—he should have been —immortal. + </p> + <p> + They said the worry of his business had helped to kill him. I could not + have believed it. It always seemed so still and tranquil—weaving his + tape about his neck and marking measures and holding cloth against his leg + beside the sunlight of the window in the back part of the shop. Can a man + die of that? Yet he had been "going behind," they said (however that is + done), for years. His wife, they told me, would be left badly off. I had + never conceived him as having a wife. But it seemed that he had, and a + daughter, too, at a conservatory of music —yet he never spoke of her—and + that he himself was musical and played the flute, and was the sidesman of + a church—yet he never referred to it to me. In fact, in thirty years + we never spoke of religion. It was hard to connect him with the idea of + it. + </p> + <p> + As I went out I seemed to hear his voice still saying, "And nothing to-day + in shirtings?" + </p> + <p> + I was sorry I had never bought any. + </p> + <p> + There is, I am certain, a deep moral in this. But I will not try to draw + it. It might appear too obvious. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Peace, War, and Politics + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI. Germany from Within Out + </h2> + <p> + The adventure which I here narrate resulted out of a strange psychological + experience of a kind that (outside of Germany) would pass the bounds of + comprehension. + </p> + <p> + To begin with, I had fallen asleep. + </p> + <p> + Of the reason for my falling asleep I have no doubt. I had remained awake + nearly the whole of the preceding night, absorbed in the perusal of a + number of recent magazine articles and books dealing with Germany as seen + from within. I had read from cover to cover that charming book, just + written by Lady de Washaway, under the title <i>Ten Years as a Toady, or + The Per-Hapsburgs as I Didn't Know Them</i>. Her account of the life of + the Imperial Family of Austria, simple, unaffected, home-like; her picture + of the good old Emperor, dining quietly off a cold potato and sitting + after dinner playing softly to himself on the flute, while his attendants + gently withdrew one by one from his presence; her description of merry, + boisterous, large-hearted Prince Stefan Karl, who kept the whole court in + a perpetual roar all the time by asking such riddles as "When is a sailor + not a sailor?" (the answer being, of course, when he is a German Prince)—in + fact, the whole book had thrilled me to the verge of spiritual exhaustion. + </p> + <p> + From Lady de Washaway's work I turned to peruse Hugo von Halbwitz's + admirable book, <i>Easy Marks, or How the German Government Borrows its + Funds</i>; and after that I had read Karl von Wiggleround's <i>Despatches</i> + and Barnstuff's <i>Confidential Letters to Criminals</i>. + </p> + <p> + As a consequence I fell asleep as if poisoned. + </p> + <p> + But the amazing thing is that, whenever it was or was not that I fell + asleep, I woke up to find myself in Germany. + </p> + <p> + I cannot offer any explanation as to how this came about. I merely state + the fact. + </p> + <p> + There I was, seated on the grassy bank of a country road. + </p> + <p> + I knew it was Germany at once. There was no mistaking it. The whole + landscape had an orderliness, a method about it that is, alas, never seen + in British countries. The trees stood in neat lines, with the name of each + nailed to it on a board. The birds sat in regular rows, four to a branch, + and sang in harmony, very simply, but with the true German feeling. + </p> + <p> + There were two peasants working beside the road. One was picking up fallen + leaves, and putting them into neat packets of fifty. The other was cutting + off the tops of the late thistles that still stood unwithered in the chill + winter air, and arranging them according to size and colour. In Germany + nothing is lost; nothing is wasted. It is perhaps not generally known that + from the top of the thistle the Germans obtain picrate of ammonia, the + most deadly explosive known to modern chemistry, while from the bulb + below, butter, crude rubber and sweet cider are extracted in large + quantities. + </p> + <p> + The two peasants paused in their work a moment as they saw me glance + towards them, and each, with the simple gentility of the German working + man, quietly stood on his head until I had finished looking at him. + </p> + <p> + I felt quite certain, of course, that it must only be a matter of a short + time before I would inevitably be arrested. + </p> + <p> + I felt doubly certain of it when I saw a motor speeding towards me with a + stout man, in military uniform and a Prussian helmet, seated behind the + chauffeur. + </p> + <p> + The motor stopped, but to my surprise the military man, whom I perceived + to be wearing the uniform of a general, jumped out and advanced towards me + with a genial cry of: + </p> + <p> + "Well, Herr Professor!" + </p> + <p> + I looked at him again. + </p> + <p> + "Why, Fritz!" I cried. + </p> + <p> + "You recognize me?" he said. + </p> + <p> + "Certainly," I answered, "you used to be one of the six German waiters at + McCluskey's restaurant in Toronto." + </p> + <p> + The General laughed. + </p> + <p> + "You really took us for waiters!" he said. "Well, well. My dear professor! + How odd! We were all generals in the German army. My own name is not Fritz + Schmidt, as you knew it, but Count von Boobenstein. The Boobs of + Boobenstein," he added proudly, "are connected with the Hohenzollerns. + When I am commanded to dine with the Emperor, I have the hereditary right + to eat anything that he leaves." + </p> + <p> + "But I don't understand!" I said. "Why were you in Toronto?" + </p> + <p> + "Perfectly simple. Special military service. We were there to make a + report. Each day we kept a record of the velocity and direction of the + wind, the humidity of the air, the distance across King Street and the + height of the C.P.R. Building. All this we wired to Germany every day." + </p> + <p> + "For what purpose?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "Pardon me!" said the General, and then, turning the subject with + exquisite tact: "Do you remember Max?" he said. + </p> + <p> + "Do you mean the tall melancholy looking waiter, who used to eat the spare + oysters and drink up what was left in the glasses, behind the screen?" + </p> + <p> + "Ha!" exclaimed my friend. "But <i>why</i> did he drink them? <i>Why?</i> + Do you know that that man—his real name is not Max but Ernst + Niedelfein—is one of the greatest chemists in Germany? Do you + realise that he was making a report to our War Office on the percentage of + alcohol obtainable in Toronto after closing time?" + </p> + <p> + "And Karl?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "Karl was a topographist in the service of his High Serenity the King + Regnant of Bavaria"—here my friend saluted himself with both hands + and blinked his eyes four times—"He made maps of all the breweries + of Canada. We know now to a bottle how many German soldiers could be used + in invading Canada without danger of death from drought." + </p> + <p> + "How many was it?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + Boobenstein shook his head. + </p> + <p> + "Very disappointing," he said. "In fact your country is not yet ripe for + German occupation. Our experts say that the invasion of Canada is an + impossibility unless we use Milwaukee as a base—But step into my + motor," said the Count, interrupting himself, "and come along with me. + Stop, you are cold. This morning air is very keen. Take this," he added, + picking off the fur cap from the chauffeur's head. "It will be better than + that hat you are wearing—or, here, wait a moment—" + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, the Count unwound a woollen muffler from the chauffeur's + neck, and placed it round mine. + </p> + <p> + "Now then," he added, "this sheepskin coat—" + </p> + <p> + "My dear Count," I protested. + </p> + <p> + "Not a bit, not a bit," he cried, as he pulled off the chauffeur's coat + and shoved me into it. His face beamed with true German generosity. + </p> + <p> + "Now," he said as we settled back into the motor and started along the + road, "I am entirely at your service. Try one of these cigars! Got it + alight? Right! You notice, no doubt, the exquisite flavour. It is a <i>Tannhauser</i>. + Our chemists are making these cigars now out of the refuse of the + tanneries and glue factories." + </p> + <p> + I sighed involuntarily. Imagine trying to "blockade" a people who could + make cigars out of refuse; imagine trying to get near them at all! + </p> + <p> + "Strong, aren't they?" said von Boobenstein, blowing a big puff of smoke. + "In fact, it is these cigars that have given rise to the legend (a pure + fiction, I need hardly say) that our armies are using asphyxiating gas. + The truth is they are merely smoking German-made tobacco in their + trenches." + </p> + <p> + "But come now," he continued, "your meeting me is most fortunate. Let me + explain. I am at present on the Intelligence Branch of the General Staff. + My particular employment is dealing with foreign visitors—the branch + of our service called, for short, the Eingewanderte Fremden Verfullungs + Bureau. How would you call that?" + </p> + <p> + "It sounds," I said, "like the Bureau for Stuffing Up Incidental + Foreigners." + </p> + <p> + "Precisely," said the Count, "though your language lacks the music of + ours. It is my business to escort visitors round Germany and help them + with their despatches. I took the Ford party through—in a closed + cattle-car, with the lights out. They were greatly impressed. They said + that, though they saw nothing, they got an excellent idea of the + atmosphere of Germany. It was I who introduced Lady de Washaway to the + Court of Franz Joseph. I write the despatches from Karl von Wiggleround, + and send the necessary material to Ambassador von Barnstuff. In fact I can + take you everywhere, show you everything, and" —here my companion's + military manner suddenly seemed to change into something obsequiously and + strangely familiar—"it won't cost you a cent; not a cent, unless you + care—" + </p> + <p> + I understood. + </p> + <p> + I handed him ten cents. + </p> + <p> + "Thank you, sir," he said. Then with an abrupt change back to his military + manner, "Now, then, what would you like to see? The army? The breweries? + The Royal court? Berlin? What shall it be? My time is limited, but I shall + be delighted to put myself at your service for the rest of the day." + </p> + <p> + "I think," I said, "I should like more than anything to see Berlin, if it + is possible." + </p> + <p> + "Possible?" answered my companion. "Nothing easier." + </p> + <p> + The motor flew ahead and in a few moments later we were making our + arrangements with a local station-master for a special train to Berlin. + </p> + <p> + I got here my first glimpse of the wonderful perfection of the German + railway system. + </p> + <p> + "I am afraid," said the station-master, with deep apologies, "that I must + ask you to wait half an hour. I am moving a quarter of a million troops + from the east to the west front, and this always holds up the traffic for + fifteen or twenty minutes." + </p> + <p> + I stood on the platform watching the troops trains go by and admiring the + marvellous ingenuity of the German system. + </p> + <p> + As each train went past at full speed, a postal train + (Feld-Post-Eisenbahn-Zug) moved on the other track in the opposite + direction, from which a shower of letters were thrown in to the soldiers + through the window. Immediately after the postal train, a soup train + (Soup-Zug) was drawn along, from the windows of which soup was squirted + out of a hose. + </p> + <p> + Following this there came at full speed a beer train (Bier-Zug) from which + beer bombs were exploded in all directions. + </p> + <p> + I watched till all had passed. + </p> + <p> + "Now," said the station-master, "your train is ready. Here you are." + </p> + <p> + Away we sped through the meadows and fields, hills and valleys, forests + and plains. + </p> + <p> + And nowhere—I am forced, like all other travellers, to admit it—did + we see any signs of the existence of war. Everything was quiet, orderly, + usual. We saw peasants digging—in an orderly way—for acorns in + the frozen ground. We saw little groups of soldiers drilling in the open + squares of villages—in their quiet German fashion —each man + chained by the leg to the man next to him; here and there great Zeppelins + sailed overhead dropping bombs, for practice, on the less important towns; + at times in the village squares we saw clusters of haggard women (quite + quiet and orderly) waving little red flags and calling: "Bread, bread!" + </p> + <p> + But nowhere any signs of war. Certainly not. + </p> + <p> + We reached Berlin just at nightfall. I had expected to find it changed. To + my surprise it appeared just as usual. The streets were brilliantly + lighted. Music burst in waves from the restaurants. From the theatre signs + I saw, to my surprise, that they were playing <i>Hamlet</i>, <i>East Lynne</i> + and <i>Potash and Perlmutter</i>. Everywhere was brightness, gaiety and + light-heartedness. + </p> + <p> + Here and there a merry-looking fellow, with a brush and a pail of paste + and a roll of papers over his arm, would swab up a casualty list of two or + three thousand names, amid roars of good-natured laughter. + </p> + <p> + What perplexed me most was the sight of thousands of men, not in uniform, + but in ordinary civilian dress. + </p> + <p> + "Boobenstein," I said, as we walked down the Linden Avenue, "I don't + understand it." + </p> + <p> + "The men?" he answered. "It's a perfectly simple matter. I see you don't + understand our army statistics. At the beginning of the war we had an army + of three million. Very good. Of these, one million were in the reserve. We + called them to the colours, that made four million. Then of these all who + wished were allowed to volunteer for special services. Half a million did + so. That made four and a half million. In the first year of the war we + suffered two million casualties, but of these seventy-five per cent, or + one and a half million, returned later on to the colours, bringing our + grand total up to six million. This six million we use on each of six + fronts, giving a grand total of thirty six million. + </p> + <p> + "I see," I said. "In fact, I have seen these figures before. In other + words, your men are inexhaustible." + </p> + <p> + "Precisely," said the Count, "and mark you, behind these we still have the + Landsturm, made up of men between fifty-five and sixty, and the Landslide, + reputed to be the most terrible of all the German levies, made up by + withdrawing the men from the breweries. That is the last final act of + national fury. But come," he said, "you must be hungry. Is it not so?" + </p> + <p> + "I am," I admitted, "but I had hesitated to acknowledge it. I feared that + the food supply—" + </p> + <p> + Boobenstein broke into hearty laughter. + </p> + <p> + "Food supply!" he roared. "My dear fellow, you must have been reading the + English newspapers! Food supply! My dear professor! Have you not heard? We + have got over that difficulty entirely and for ever. But come, here is a + restaurant. In with you and eat to your heart's content." + </p> + <p> + We entered the restaurant. It was filled to overflowing with a laughing + crowd of diners and merry-makers. Thick clouds of blue cigar smoke filled + the air. Waiters ran to and fro with tall steins of foaming beer, and + great bundles of bread tickets, soup tickets, meat cards and butter + coupons. + </p> + <p> + These were handed around to the guests, who sat quietly chewing the + corners of them as they sipped their beer. + </p> + <p> + "Now-then," said my host, looking over the printed menu in front of him, + "what shall it be? What do you say to a ham certificate with a cabbage + ticket on the side? Or how would you like lobster-coupon with a receipt + for asparagus?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes," I answered, "or perhaps, as our journey has made me hungry, one of + these beef certificates with an affidavit for Yorkshire pudding." + </p> + <p> + "Done!" said Boobenstein. + </p> + <p> + A few moments later we were comfortably drinking our tall glasses of beer + and smoking <i>Tannhauser</i> cigars, with an appetising pile of coloured + tickets and certificates in front of us. + </p> + <p> + "Admit," said von Boobenstein good-naturedly, "that we have overcome the + food difficulty for ever." + </p> + <p> + "You have," I said. + </p> + <p> + "It was a pure matter of science and efficiency," he went on. "It has long + been observed that if one sat down in a restaurant and drank beer and + smoked cigars (especially such a brand as these <i>Tannhausers</i>) during + the time it took for the food to be brought (by a German waiter), all + appetite was gone. It remained for the German scientists to organise this + into system. Have you finished? Or would you like to take another look at + your beef certificate?" + </p> + <p> + We rose. Von Boobenstein paid the bill by writing I.O.U. on the back of + one of the cards—not forgetting the waiter, for whom he wrote on a + piece of paper, "God bless you"—and we left. + </p> + <p> + "Count," I said, as we took our seat on a bench in the Sieges-Allee, or + Alley of Victory, and listened to the music of the military band, and + watched the crowd, "I begin to see that Germany is unconquerable." + </p> + <p> + "Absolutely so," he answered. + </p> + <p> + "In the first place, your men are inexhaustible. If we kill one class you + call out another; and anyway one-half of those we kill get well again, and + the net result is that you have more than ever." + </p> + <p> + "Precisely," said the Count. + </p> + <p> + "As to food," I continued, "you are absolutely invulnerable. What with + acorns, thistles, tanbark, glue, tickets, coupons, and certificates, you + can go on for ever." + </p> + <p> + "We can," he said. + </p> + <p> + "Then for money you use I.O.U.'s. Anybody with a lead pencil can command + all the funds he wants. Moreover, your soldiers at the front are getting + dug in deeper and deeper: last spring they were fifty feet under ground: + by 1918 they will be nearly 200 feet down. Short of mining for them, we + shall never get them out." + </p> + <p> + "Never," said von Boobenstein with great firmness. + </p> + <p> + "But there is one thing that I don't quite understand. Your navy, your + ships. There, surely, we have you: sooner or later that whole proud fleet + in the Kiel Canal will come out under fire of our guns and be sunk to the + bottom of the sea. There, at least, we conquer." + </p> + <p> + Von Boobenstein broke into loud laughter. + </p> + <p> + "The fleet!" he roared, and his voice was almost hysterical and + overstrung, as if high living on lobster-coupons and over-smoking of <i>Tannhausers</i> + was undermining his nerves. "The fleet! Is it possible you do not know? + Why all Germany knows it. Capture our fleet! Ha! Ha! It now lies fifty + miles inland. <i>We have filled in the canal</i>—pushed in the + banks. The canal is solid land again, and the fleet is high and dry. The + ships are boarded over and painted to look like German inns and breweries. + Prinz Adelbert is disguised as a brewer, Admiral von Tirpitz is made up as + a head waiter, Prince Heinrich is a bar tender, the sailors are dressed up + as chambermaids. And some day when Jellicoe and his men are coaxed ashore, + they will drop in to drink a glass of beer, and then—pouf! we will + explode them all with a single torpedo! Such is the naval strategy of our + scientists! Are we not a nation of sailors?" + </p> + <p> + Von Boobenstein's manner had grown still wilder and more hysterical. There + was a queer glitter in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + I thought it better to soothe him. + </p> + <p> + "I see," I said, "the Allies are beaten. One might as well spin a coin for + heads or tails to see whether we abandon England now or wait till you come + and take it." + </p> + <p> + As I spoke, I took from my pocket an English sovereign that I carry as a + lucky-piece, and prepared to spin it in the air. + </p> + <p> + Von Boobenstein, as he saw it, broke into a sort of hoarse shriek. + </p> + <p> + "Gold! gold!" he cried. "Give it to me!" + </p> + <p> + "What?" I exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + "A piece of gold," he panted. "Give it to me, give it to me, quick. I know + a place where we can buy bread with it. Real bread—not tickets—food—give + me the gold—gold—for bread—we can get-bread. I am + starving—gold—bread." + </p> + <p> + And as he spoke his hoarse voice seemed to grow louder and louder in my + ears; the sounds of the street were hushed; a sudden darkness fell; and a + wind swept among the trees of the <i>Alley of Victory</i>—moaning—and + a thousand, a myriad voices seemed to my ear to take up the cry: + </p> + <p> + "Gold! Bread! We are starving." + </p> + <p> + Then I woke up. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +XII. Abdul Aziz has His: + An Adventure in the Yildiz Kiosk +</pre> + <p> + "Come, come, Abdul," I said, putting my hand, not unkindly, on his + shoulder, "tell me all about it." + </p> + <p> + But he only broke out into renewed sobbing. + </p> + <p> + "There, there," I continued soothingly. "Don't cry, Abdul. Look! Here's a + lovely narghileh for you to smoke, with a gold mouthpiece. See! Wouldn't + you like a little latakia, eh? And here's a little toy Armenian—look! + See his head come off—snick! There, it's on again, snick! now it's + off! look, Abdul!" + </p> + <p> + But still he sobbed. + </p> + <p> + His fez had fallen over his ears and his face was all smudged with tears. + </p> + <p> + It seemed impossible to stop him. + </p> + <p> + I looked about in vain from the little alcove of the hall of the Yildiz + Kiosk where we were sitting on a Persian bench under a lemon-tree. There + was no one in sight. I hardly knew what to do. + </p> + <p> + In the Yildiz Kiosk—I think that was the name of the place—I + scarcely as yet knew my way about. In fact, I had only been in it a few + hours. I had come there—as I should have explained in commencing—in + order to try to pick up information as to the exact condition of things in + Turkey. For this purpose I had assumed the character and disguise of an + English governess. I had long since remarked that an English governess is + able to go anywhere, see everything, penetrate the interior of any royal + palace and move to and fro as she pleases without hindrance and without + insult. No barrier can stop her. Every royal court, however splendid or + however exclusive, is glad to get her. She dines with the King or the + Emperor as a matter of course. All state secrets are freely confided to + her and all military plans are submitted to her judgment. Then, after a + few weeks' residence, she leaves the court and writes a book of + disclosures. + </p> + <p> + This was now my plan. + </p> + <p> + And, up to the moment of which I speak, it had worked perfectly. + </p> + <p> + I had found my way through Turkey to the royal capital without difficulty. + The poke bonnet, the spectacles and the long black dress which I had + assumed had proved an ample protection. None of the rude Turkish soldiers + among whom I had passed had offered to lay a hand on me. This tribute I am + compelled to pay to the splendid morality of the Turks. They wouldn't + touch me. + </p> + <p> + Access to the Yildiz Kiosk and to the Sultan had proved equally easy. I + had merely to obtain an interview with Codfish Pasha, the Secretary of + War, whom I found a charming man of great intelligence, a master of three + or four languages (as he himself informed me), and able to count up to + seventeen. + </p> + <p> + "You wish," he said, "to be appointed as English, or rather Canadian + governess to the Sultan?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes," I answered. + </p> + <p> + "And your object?" + </p> + <p> + "I propose to write a book of disclosures." + </p> + <p> + "Excellent," said Codfish. + </p> + <p> + An hour later I found myself, as I have said, in a flag-stoned hall of the + Yildiz Kiosk, with the task of amusing and entertaining the Sultan. + </p> + <p> + Of the difficulty of this task I had formed no conception. Here I was at + the outset, with the unhappy Abdul bent and broken with sobs which I found + no power to check or control. + </p> + <p> + Naturally, therefore, I found myself at a loss. The little man as he sat + on his cushions, in his queer costume and his long slippers with his fez + fallen over his lemon-coloured face, presented such a pathetic object that + I could not find the heart to be stern with him. + </p> + <p> + "Come, now, Abdul," I said, "be good!" + </p> + <p> + He paused a moment in his crying— + </p> + <p> + "Why do you call me Abdul?" he asked. "That isn't my name." + </p> + <p> + "Isn't it?" I said. "I thought all you Sultans were called Abdul. Isn't + the Sultan's name always Abdul?" + </p> + <p> + "Mine isn't," he whimpered, "but it doesn't matter," and his face began to + crinkle up with renewed weeping. "Call me anything you like. It doesn't + matter. Anyway I'd rather be called Abdul than be called a W-W-War Lord + and a G-G-General when they won't let me have any say at all—" + </p> + <p> + And with that the little Sultan burst into unrestrained crying. + </p> + <p> + "Abdul," I said firmly, "if you don't stop crying, I'll go and fetch one + of the Bashi-Bazouks to take you away." + </p> + <p> + The little Sultan found his voice again. + </p> + <p> + "There aren't any Bub-Bub-Bashi-Bazouks left," he sobbed. + </p> + <p> + "None left?" I exclaimed. "Where are they gone?" + </p> + <p> + "They've t-t-taken them all aw-w-way—" + </p> + <p> + "Who have?" + </p> + <p> + "The G-G-G-Germans," sobbed Abdul. "And they've sent them all to + P-P-P-Poland." + </p> + <p> + "Come, come, Abdul," I said, straightening him up a little as he sat. + "Brace up! Be a Turk! Be a Mohammedan! Don't act like a Christian." + </p> + <p> + This seemed to touch his pride. He made a great effort to be calm. I could + hear him muttering to himself, "Allah, Illallah, Mohammed rasoul Allah!" + He said this over a good many times, while I took advantage of the pause + to get his fez a little straighter and wipe his face. + </p> + <p> + "How many times have I said it?" he asked presently. + </p> + <p> + "Twenty." + </p> + <p> + "Twenty? That ought to be enough, shouldn't it?" said the Sultan, + regaining himself a little. "Isn't prayer helpful, eh? Give me a smoke?" + </p> + <p> + I filled his narghileh for him, and he began to suck blue smoke out of it + with a certain contentment, while the rose water bubbled in the bowl + below. + </p> + <p> + "Now, Abdul," I said, as I straightened up his cushions and made him a + little more comfortable, "what is it? What is the matter?" + </p> + <p> + "Why," he answered, "they've all g-g-gone—" + </p> + <p> + "Now, don't cry! Tell me properly." + </p> + <p> + "They've all gone b-b-back on me! Boo-hoo!" + </p> + <p> + "Who have? Who've gone back on you?" + </p> + <p> + "Why, everybody. The English and the French and everybody—" + </p> + <p> + "What <i>do</i> you mean?" I asked with increasing interest. "Tell me + exactly what you mean. Whatever you say I will hold sacred, of course." + </p> + <p> + I saw my part already to a volume of interesting disclosures. + </p> + <p> + "They used to treat me so differently," Abdul went on, and his sobbing + ceased as he continued, "They used to call me the Bully Boy of the + Bosphorus. They said I was the Guardian of the Golden Gate. They used to + let me kill all the Armenians I liked and nobody was allowed to collect + debts from me, and every now and then they used to send me the nicest + ultimatums—Oh, you don't know," he broke off, "how nice it used to + be here in the Yildiz in the old days! We used all to sit round here, in + this very hall, me and the diplomats, and play games, such as 'Ultimatum, + ultimatum, who's got the ultimatum.' Oh, say, it was so nice and peaceful! + And we used to have big dinners and conferences, especially after the + military manoeuvres and the autumn massacres—me and the diplomats, + all with stars and orders, and me in my white fez with a copper tassel—and + hold discussions about how to reform Macedonia." + </p> + <p> + "But you spoilt it all, Abdul," I protested. + </p> + <p> + "I didn't, I didn't!" he exclaimed almost angrily. "I'd have gone on for + ever. It was all so nice. They used to present me—the diplomats did—with + what they called their Minimum, and then we (I mean Codfish Pasha and me) + had to draft in return our Maximum—see?—and then we all had to + get together again and frame a <i>status quo</i>." + </p> + <p> + "But that couldn't go on for ever," I urged. + </p> + <p> + "Why not?" said Abdul. "It was a great system. We invented it, but + everybody was beginning to copy it. In fact, we were leading the world, + before all this trouble came. Didn't you have anything of our system in + your country —what do you call it—in Canada?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes," I admitted. "Now that I come to think of it, we were getting into + it. But the war has changed it all—" + </p> + <p> + "Exactly," said Abdul. "There you are! All changed! The good old days gone + for ever!" + </p> + <p> + "But surely," I said, "you still have friends—the Bulgarians." + </p> + <p> + The Sultan's little black eyes flashed with anger as he withdrew his pipe + for a moment from his mouth. + </p> + <p> + "The low scoundrels!" he said between his teeth. "The traitors!" + </p> + <p> + "Why, they're your Allies!" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, Allah destroy them! They are. They've come over to <i>our</i> side. + After centuries of fighting they refuse to play fair any longer. They're + on <i>our</i> side! Who ever heard of such a thing? Bah! But, of course," + he added more quietly, "we shall massacre them just the same. We shall + insist, in the terms of peace, on retaining our rights of massacre. But + then, no doubt, all the nations will." + </p> + <p> + "But you have the Germans—" I began. + </p> + <p> + "Hush, hush," said Abdul, laying his hand on my arm. "Some one might + hear." + </p> + <p> + "You have the Germans," I repeated. + </p> + <p> + "The Germans," said Abdul, and his voice sounded in a queer sing-song like + that of a child repeating a lesson, "are my noble friends, the Germans are + my powerful allies, the Kaiser is my good brother, the Reichstag is my + foster-sister. I love the Germans. I hate the English. I love the Kaiser. + The Kaiser loves me—" + </p> + <p> + "Stop, stop, Abdul," I said, "who taught you all that?" + </p> + <p> + Abdul looked cautiously around. + </p> + <p> + "<i>They</i> did," he said in a whisper. "There's a lot more of it. Would + you like me to recite some more? Or, no, no, what's the good? I've no + heart for reciting any longer." And at this Abdul fell to weeping again. + </p> + <p> + "But, Abdul," I said, "I don't understand. Why are you so distressed just + now? All this has been going on for over two years. Why are you so worried + just now?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh," exclaimed the little Sultan in surprise, "you haven't heard! I see—you've + only just arrived. Why, to-day is the last day. After to-day it is all + over." + </p> + <p> + "Last day for what?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "For intervention. For the intervention of the United States. The only + thing that can save us. It was to have come to-day, by the end of this + full moon—our astrologers had predicted it—Smith Pasha, + Minister under Heaven of the United States, had promised, if it came, to + send it to us at the earliest moment. How do they send it, do you know, in + a box, or in paper?" + </p> + <p> + "Stop," I said as my ear caught the sound of footsteps. "There's some one + coming now." + </p> + <p> + The sound of slippered feet was distinctly heard on the stones in the + outer corridor. + </p> + <p> + Abdul listened intently a moment. + </p> + <p> + "I know his slippers," he said. + </p> + <p> + "Who is it?" + </p> + <p> + "It is my chief secretary, Toomuch Koffi. Yes, here he comes." + </p> + <p> + As the Sultan spoke, the doors swung open and there entered an aged Turk, + in a flowing gown and coloured turban, with a melancholy yellow face, and + a long white beard that swept to his girdle. + </p> + <p> + "Who do you say he is?" I whispered to Abdul. + </p> + <p> + "My chief secretary," he whispered back. "Toomuch Koffi." + </p> + <p> + "He looks like it," I murmured. + </p> + <p> + Meantime, Toomuch Koffi had advanced across the broad flagstones of the + hall where we were sitting. With hands lifted he salaamed four times—east, + west, north, and south. + </p> + <p> + "What does that mean?" I whispered. + </p> + <p> + "It means," said the Sultan, with visible agitation, "that he has a + communication of the greatest importance and urgency, which will not brook + a moment's delay." + </p> + <p> + "Well, then, why doesn't he get a move on?" I whispered. + </p> + <p> + "Hush," said Abdul. + </p> + <p> + Toomuch Koffi now straightened himself from his last salaam and spoke. + </p> + <p> + "Allah is great!" he said. + </p> + <p> + "And Mohammed is his prophet," rejoined the Sultan. + </p> + <p> + "Allah protect you! And make your face shine," said Toomuch. + </p> + <p> + "Allah lengthen your beard," said the Sultan, and he added aside to me in + English, which Toomuch Koffi evidently did not understand, "I'm all + eagerness to know what it is—it's something big, for sure." The + little man was quite quivering with excitement as he spoke. "Do you know + what I think it is? I think it must be the American Intervention. The + United States is going to intervene. Eh? What? Don't you think so?" + </p> + <p> + "Then hurry him up," I urged. + </p> + <p> + "I can't," said Abdul. "It is impossible in Turkey to do business like + that. He must have some coffee first and then he must pray and then there + must be an interchange of presents." + </p> + <p> + I groaned, for I was getting as impatient as Abdul himself. + </p> + <p> + "Do you not do public business like that in Canada?" the Sultan continued. + </p> + <p> + "We used to. But we have got over it," I said. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile a slippered attendant had entered and placed a cushion for the + secretary, and in front of it a little Persian stool on which he put a + quaint cup filled with coffee black as ink. + </p> + <p> + A similar cup was placed before the Sultan. + </p> + <p> + "Drink!" said Abdul. + </p> + <p> + "Not first, until the lips of the Commander of the Faithful—" + </p> + <p> + "He means 'after you,'" I said. "Hurry up, Abdul." + </p> + <p> + Abdul took a sip. + </p> + <p> + "Allah is good," he said. + </p> + <p> + "And all things are of Allah," rejoined Toomuch. + </p> + <p> + Abdul unpinned a glittering jewel from his robe and threw it to the feet + of Toomuch. + </p> + <p> + "Take this poor bauble," he said. + </p> + <p> + Toomuch Koffi in return took from his wrist a solid bangle of beaten gold. + </p> + <p> + "Accept this mean gift from your humble servant," he said. + </p> + <p> + "Right!" said Abdul, speaking in a changed voice as the ceremonies ended. + "Now, then, Toomuch, what is it? Hurry up. Be quick. What is the matter?" + </p> + <p> + Toomuch rose to his feet, lifted his hands high in the air with the palms + facing the Sultan. + </p> + <p> + "One is without," he said. + </p> + <p> + "Without what?" I asked eagerly of the Sultan. + </p> + <p> + "Without—outside. Don't you understand Turkish? What you call in + English—a gentleman to see me." + </p> + <p> + "And did he make all that fuss and delay over that?" I asked in disgust. + "Why with us in Canada, at one of the public departments of Ottawa, all + that one would have to do would be simply to send in a card, get it + certified, then simply wait in an anteroom, simply read a newspaper, send + in another card, wait a little, then simply send in a third card, and then + simply—" + </p> + <p> + "Pshaw!" said Abdul. "The cards might be poisoned. Our system is best. + Speak on, Toomuch. Who is without? Is it perchance a messenger from Smith + Pasha, Minister under Heaven of the United States?" + </p> + <p> + "Alas, no!" said Toomuch. "It is HE. It is THE LARGE ONE!" + </p> + <p> + As he spoke he rolled his eyes upward with a gesture of despair. + </p> + <p> + "HE!" cried Abdul, and a look of terror convulsed his face. "The Large + One! Shut him out! Call the Chief Eunuch and the Major Domo of the Harem! + Let him not in!" + </p> + <p> + "Alas," said Toomuch, "he threw them out of the window. Lo! he is here, he + enters." + </p> + <p> + As the secretary spoke, a double door at the end of the hall swung noisily + open, at the blow of an imperious fist, and with a rattle of arms and + accoutrements a man of gigantic stature, wearing full military uniform and + a spiked helmet, strode into the room. + </p> + <p> + As he entered, an attendant who accompanied him, also in a uniform and a + spiked helmet, called in a loud strident voice that resounded to the + arches of the hall: + </p> + <p> + "His High Excellenz Feld Marechal von der Doppelbauch, Spezial + Representant of His Majestat William II, Deutscher Kaiser and King of + England!" + </p> + <p> + Abdul collapsed into a little heap. His fez fell over his face. Toomuch + Koffi had slunk into a corner. + </p> + <p> + Von der Doppelbauch strode noisily forward and came to a stand in front of + Abdul with a click and rattle after the Prussian fashion. + </p> + <p> + "Majestat," he said in a deep, thunderous voice, "I greet you. I bow low + before you. Salaam! I kiss the floor at your feet." + </p> + <p> + But in reality he did nothing of the sort. He stood to the full height of + his six feet six and glowered about him. + </p> + <p> + "Salaam!" said Abdul, in a feeble voice. + </p> + <p> + "But who is this?" added the Field-Marshal, looking angrily at me. + </p> + <p> + My costume, or rather my disguise, for, as I have said, I was wearing a + poke bonnet with a plain black dress, seemed to puzzle him. + </p> + <p> + "My new governess," said Abdul. "She came this morning. She is a professor—" + </p> + <p> + "Bah!" said the Field-Marshal, "a <i>woman</i> a professor! Bah!" + </p> + <p> + "No, no," said Abdul in protest, and it seemed decent of the little + creature to stick up for me. "She's all right, she is interesting and + knows a great deal. She's from Canada!" + </p> + <p> + "What!" exclaimed Von der Doppelbauch. "From Canada! But stop! It seems to + me that Canada is a country that we are at war with. Let me think, Canada? + I must look at my list"—he pulled out a little set of tablets as he + spoke—"let me see, Britain, Great Britain, British North America, + British Guiana, British Nigeria—ha! of course, under K—Kandahar, + Korfu. No, I don't seem to see it —Fritz," he called to the + aide-de-camp who had announced him, "telegraph at once to the + Topographical Staff at Berlin and find out if we are at war with Canada. + If we are"—he pointed at me—"throw her into the Bosphorus. If + we are not, treat her with every consideration, with every distinguished + consideration. But see that she doesn't get away. Keep her tight, till we + <i>are</i> at war with Canada, as no doubt we shall be, wherever it is, + and <i>then</i> throw her into the Bosphorus." + </p> + <p> + The aide clicked his heels and withdrew. + </p> + <p> + "And now, your majesty," continued the Field-Marshal, turning abruptly to + the Sultan, "I bring you good news." + </p> + <p> + "More good news," groaned Abdul miserably, winding his clasped fingers to + and fro. "Alas, good news again!" + </p> + <p> + "First," said Von der Doppelbauch, "the Kaiser has raised you to the order + of the Black Dock. Here is your feather." + </p> + <p> + "Another feather," moaned Abdul. "Here, Toomuch, take it and put it among + the feathers!" + </p> + <p> + "Secondly," went on the Field-Marshal, checking off his items as he spoke, + "your contribution, your personal contribution to His Majesty's + Twenty-third Imperial Loan, is accepted." + </p> + <p> + "I didn't make any!" sobbed Abdul. + </p> + <p> + "No difference," said Von der Doppelbauch. "It is accepted anyway. The + telegram has just arrived accepting all your money. My assistants are + packing it up outside." + </p> + <p> + Abdul collapsed still further into his cushions. + </p> + <p> + "Third, and this will rejoice your Majesty's heart: Your troops are again + victorious!" + </p> + <p> + "Victorious!" moaned Abdul. "Victorious again! I knew they would be! I + suppose they are all dead as usual?" + </p> + <p> + "They are," said the Marshal. "Their souls," he added reverently, with a + military salute, "are in Heaven!" + </p> + <p> + "No, no," gasped Abdul, "not in Heaven! don't say that! Not in Heaven! Say + that they are in Nishvana, our Turkish paradise." + </p> + <p> + "I am sorry," said the Field-Marshal gravely. "This is a Christian war. + The Kaiser has insisted on their going to Heaven." + </p> + <p> + The Sultan bowed his head. + </p> + <p> + "Ishmillah!" he murmured. "It is the will of Allah." + </p> + <p> + "But they did not die without glory," went on the Field-Marshal. "Their + victory was complete. Set it out to yourself," and here his eyes glittered + with soldierly passion. "There stood your troops—ten thousand! In + front of them the Russians—a hundred thousand. What did your men do? + Did they pause? No, they charged!" + </p> + <p> + "They <i>charged!</i>" cried the Sultan in misery. "Don't say that! Have + they charged again! Just Allah!" he added, turning to Toomuch. "They have + charged again! And we must pay, we shall have to pay—we always do + when they charge. Alas, alas, they have charged again. Everything is + charged!" + </p> + <p> + "But how nobly," rejoined the Prussian. "Imagine it to yourself! Here, + beside this stool, let us say, were your men. There, across the cushion, + were the Russians. All the ground between was mined. We knew it. Our + soldiers knew it. Even our staff knew it. Even Prinz Tattelwitz Halfstuff, + our commander, knew it. But your soldiers did not. What did our Prinz do? + The Prinz called for volunteers to charge over the ground. There was a + great shout—from our men, our German regiments. He called again. + There was another shout. He called still again. There was a third shout. + Think of it! And again Prinz Halfstuff called and again they shouted." + </p> + <p> + "Who shouted?" asked the Sultan gloomily. + </p> + <p> + "Our men, our Germans." + </p> + <p> + "Did my Turks shout?" asked Abdul. + </p> + <p> + "They did not. They were too busy tightening their belts and fixing their + bayonets. But our generous fellows shouted for them. Then Prinz Halfstuff + called out, 'The place of honour is for our Turkish brothers. Let them + charge!' And all our men shouted again." + </p> + <p> + "And they charged?" + </p> + <p> + "They did—and were all gloriously blown up. A magnificent victory. + The blowing up of the mines blocked all the ground, checked the Russians + and enabled our men, by a prearranged rush, to advance backwards, taking + up a new strategic—" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, yes," said Abdul, "I know—I have read of it, alas, only too + often! And they are dead! Toomuch," he added quietly, drawing a little + pouch from his girdle, "take this pouch of rubies and give them to the + wives of the dead general of our division—one to each. He had, I + think, but seventeen. His walk was quiet. Allah give him peace." + </p> + <p> + "Stop," said Von der Doppelbauch. "I will take the rubies. I myself will + charge myself with the task and will myself see that I do it myself. Give + me them." + </p> + <p> + "Be it so, Toomuch," assented the Sultan humbly. "Give them to him." + </p> + <p> + "And now," continued the Field-Marshal, "there is yet one other thing + further still more." He drew a roll of paper from his pocket. "Toomuch," + he said, "bring me yonder little table, with ink, quills and sand. I have + here a manifesto for His Majesty to sign." + </p> + <p> + "No, no," cried Abdul in renewed alarm. "Not another manifesto. Not that! + I signed one only last week." + </p> + <p> + "This is a new one," said the Field-Marshal, as he lifted the table that + Toomuch had brought into place in front of the Sultan, and spread out the + papers on it. "This is a better one. This is the best one yet." + </p> + <p> + "What does it say?" said Abdul, peering at it miserably, "I can't read it. + It's not in Turkish." + </p> + <p> + "It is your last word of proud defiance to all your enemies," said the + Marshal. + </p> + <p> + "No, no," whined Abdul. "Not defiance; they might not understand." + </p> + <p> + "Here you declare," went on the Field-Marshal, with his big finger on the + text, "your irrevocable purpose. You swear that rather than submit you + will hurl yourself into the Bosphorus." + </p> + <p> + "Where does it say that?" screamed Abdul. + </p> + <p> + "Here beside my thumb." + </p> + <p> + "I can't do it, I can't do it," moaned the little Sultan. + </p> + <p> + "More than that further," went on the Prussian quite undisturbed, "you + state hereby your fixed resolve, rather than give in, to cast yourself + from the highest pinnacle of the topmost minaret of this palace." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, not the highest; don't make it the highest," moaned Abdul. + </p> + <p> + "Your purpose is fixed. Nothing can alter it. Unless the Allied Powers + withdraw from their advance on Constantinople you swear that within one + hour you will fill your mouth with mud and burn yourself alive." + </p> + <p> + "Just Allah!" cried the Sultan. "Does it say all that?" + </p> + <p> + "All that," said Von der Doppelbauch. "All that within an hour. It is a + splendid defiance. The Kaiser himself has seen it and admired it. 'These,' + he said, 'are the words of a man!'" + </p> + <p> + "Did he say that?" said Abdul, evidently flattered. "And is he too about + to hurl himself off his minaret?" + </p> + <p> + "For the moment, no," replied Von der Doppelbauch sternly. + </p> + <p> + "Well, well," said Abdul, and to my surprise he began picking up the pen + and making ready. "I suppose if I must sign it, I must." Then he marked + the paper and sprinkled it with sand. "For one hour? Well, well," he + murmured. "Von der Doppelbauch Pasha," he added with dignity, "you are + permitted to withdraw. Commend me to your Imperial Master, my brother. + Tell him that, when I am gone, he may have Constantinople, provided only"—and + a certain slyness appeared in the Sultan's eye—"that he can get it. + Farewell." + </p> + <p> + The Field-Marshal, majestic as ever, gathered up the manifesto, clicked + his heels together and withdrew. + </p> + <p> + As the door closed behind him, I had expected the little Sultan to fall + into hopeless collapse. + </p> + <p> + Not at all. On the contrary, a look of peculiar cheerfulness spread over + his features. + </p> + <p> + He refilled his narghileh and began quietly smoking at it. + </p> + <p> + "Toomuch," he said, quite cheerfully, "I see there is no hope." + </p> + <p> + "Alas!" said the secretary. + </p> + <p> + "I have now," went on the Sultan, "apparently but sixty minutes in front + of me. I had hoped that the intervention of the United States might have + saved me. It has not. Instead of it, I meet my fate. Well, well, it is + Kismet. I bow to it." + </p> + <p> + He smoked away quite cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + Presently he paused. + </p> + <p> + "Toomuch," he said, "kindly go and fetch me a sharp knife, double-edged if + possible, but sharp, and a stout bowstring." + </p> + <p> + Up to this time I had remained a mere spectator of what had happened. But + now I feared that I was on the brink of witnessing an awful tragedy. + </p> + <p> + "Good heavens, Abdul," I said, "what are you going to do?" + </p> + <p> + "Do? Why kill myself, of course," the Sultan answered, pausing for a + moment in an interval of his cheerful smoking. "What else should I do? + What else is there to do? I shall first stab myself in the stomach and + then throttle myself with the bowstring. In half an hour I shall be in + paradise. Toomuch, summon hither from the inner harem Fatima and Falloola; + they shall sit beside me and sing to me at the last hour, for I love them + well, and later they too shall voyage with me to paradise. See to it that + they are both thrown a little later into the Bosphorus, for my heart + yearns towards the two of them," and he added thoughtfully, "especially + perhaps towards Fatima, but I have never quite made up my mind." + </p> + <p> + The Sultan sat back with a little gurgle of contentment, the rose water + bubbling soothingly in the bowl of his pipe. + </p> + <p> + Then he turned to his secretary again. + </p> + <p> + "Toomuch," he said, "you will at the same time send a bowstring to Codfish + Pasha, my Chief of War. It is our sign, you know," he added in explanation + to me—"it gives Codfish leave to kill himself. And, Toomuch, send a + bowstring also to Beefhash Pasha, my Vizier—good fellow, he will + expect it—and to Macpherson Effendi, my financial adviser. Let them + all have bowstrings." + </p> + <p> + "Stop, stop," I pleaded. "I don't understand." + </p> + <p> + "Why surely," said the little man, in evident astonishment, "it is plain + enough. What would you do in Canada? When your ministers—as I think + you call them—fail and no longer enjoy your support, do you not send + them bowstrings?" + </p> + <p> + "Never," I said. "They go out of office, but—" + </p> + <p> + "And they do not disembowel themselves on their retirement? Have they not + that privilege?" + </p> + <p> + "Never!" I said. "What an idea!" + </p> + <p> + "The ways of the infidel." said the little Sultan, calmly resuming his + pipe, "are beyond the compass of the true intelligence of the Faithful. + Yet I thought it was so even as here. I had read in your newspapers that + after your last election your ministers were buried alive—buried + under a landslide, was it not? We thought it—here in Turkey—a + noble fate for them." + </p> + <p> + "They crawled out," I said. + </p> + <p> + "Ishmillah!" ejaculated Abdul. "But go, Toomuch. And listen, thou also—for + in spite of all thou hast served me well—shalt have a bowstring." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, master, master," cried Toomuch, falling on his knees in gratitude and + clutching the sole of Abdul's slipper. "It is too kind!" + </p> + <p> + "Nay, nay," said the Sultan. "Thou hast deserved it. And I will go + further. This stranger, too, my governess, this professor, bring also for + the professor a bowstring, and a two-bladed knife! All Canada shall + rejoice to hear of it. The students shall leap up like young lambs at the + honour that will be done. Bring the knife, Toomuch; bring the knife!" + </p> + <p> + "Abdul," I said, "Abdul, this is too much. I refuse. I am not fit. The + honour is too great." + </p> + <p> + "Not so," said Abdul. "I am still Sultan. I insist upon it. For, listen, I + have long penetrated your disguise and your kind design. I saw it from the + first. You knew all and came to die with me. It was kindly meant. But you + shall die no common death; yours shall be the honour of the double knife—let + it be extra sharp, Toomuch—and the bowstring." + </p> + <p> + "Abdul," I urged, "it cannot be. You forget. I have an appointment to be + thrown into the Bosphorus." + </p> + <p> + "The death of a dog! Never!" cried Abdul. "My will is still law. Toomuch, + kill him on the spot. Hit him with the stool, throw the coffee at him—" + </p> + <p> + But at this moment there were heard loud cries and shouting as in tones of + great gladness, in the outer hall of the palace, doors swinging to and fro + and the sound of many running feet. One heard above all the call, "It has + come! It has come!" + </p> + <p> + The Sultan looked up quickly. + </p> + <p> + "Toomuch," he said eagerly and anxiously, "quick, see what it is. Hurry! + hurry! Haste! Do not stay on ceremony. Drink a cup of coffee, give me five + cents—fifty cents, anything—and take leave and see what it + is." + </p> + <p> + But before Toomuch could reply, a turbaned attendant had already burst in + through the door unannounced and thrown himself at Abdul's feet. + </p> + <p> + "Master! Master!" he cried. "It is here. It has come." As he spoke he held + out in one hand a huge envelope, heavy with seals. I could detect in great + letters stamped across it the words, WASHINGTON and OFFICE OF THE + SECRETARY OF STATE. + </p> + <p> + Abdul seized and opened the envelope with trembling hands. + </p> + <p> + "It is it!" he cried. "It is sent by Smith Pasha, Minister under the Peace + of Heaven of the United States. It is the Intervention. I am saved." + </p> + <p> + Then there was silence among us, breathless and anxious. + </p> + <p> + Abdul glanced down the missive, reading it in silence to himself. + </p> + <p> + "Oh noble," he murmured. "Oh generous! It is too much. Too splendid a + lot!" + </p> + <p> + "What does it say?" + </p> + <p> + "Look," said the Sultan. "The United States has used its good offices. It + has intervened! All is settled. My fate is secure." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, yes," I said, "but what is it?" + </p> + <p> + "Is it believable?" exclaimed Abdul. "It appears that none of the + belligerents cared about <i>me</i> at all. None had designs upon me. The + war was <i>not</i> made, as we understood, Toomuch, as an attempt to seize + my person. All they wanted was Constantinople. Not <i>me</i> at all!" + </p> + <p> + "Powerful Allah!" murmured Toomuch. "Why was it not so said?" + </p> + <p> + "For me," said the Sultan, still consulting the letter, "great honours are + prepared! I am to leave Constantinople —that is the sole condition. + It shall then belong to whoever can get it. Nothing could be fairer. It + always has. I am to have a safe conduct—is it not noble?—to + the United States. No one is to attempt to poison me—is it not + generosity itself?—neither on land nor even—mark this + especially, Toomuch—on board ship. Nor is anyone to throw me + overboard or otherwise transport me to paradise." + </p> + <p> + "It passes belief!" murmured Toomuch Koffi. "Allah is indeed good." + </p> + <p> + "In the United States itself," went on Abdul, "or, I should say, + themselves, Toomuch, for are they not innumerable? I am to have a position + of the highest trust, power and responsibility." + </p> + <p> + "Is it really possible?" I said, greatly surprised. + </p> + <p> + "It is so written," said the Sultan. "I am to be placed at the head, as + the sole head or sovereign of—how is it written?—a <i>Turkish + Bath Establishment</i> in New York. There I am to enjoy the same freedom + and to exercise just as much—it is so written—exactly as much + political power as I do here. Is it not glorious?" + </p> + <p> + "Allah! Illallah!" cried the secretary. + </p> + <p> + "You, Toomuch, shall come with me, for there is a post of great importance + placed at my disposal—so it is written—under the title of + Rubber Down. Toomuch, let our preparations be made at once. Notify Fatima + and Falloola. Those two alone shall go, for it is a Christian country and + I bow to its prejudices. Two, I understand, is the limit. But we must + leave at once." + </p> + <p> + The Sultan paused a moment and then looked at me. + </p> + <p> + "And our good friend here," he added, "we must leave to get out of this + Yildiz Kiosk by whatsoever magic means he came into it." + </p> + <p> + Which I did. + </p> + <p> + And I am assured, by those who know, that the intervention was made good + and that Abdul and Toomuch may be seen to this day, or to any other day, + moving to and fro in their slippers and turbans in their Turkish Bath + Emporium at the corner of Broadway and— + </p> + <p> + But stop; that would be saying too much, especially as Fatima and Falloola + occupy the upstairs. + </p> + <p> + And it is said that Abdul has developed a very special talent for heating + up the temperature for his Christian customers. + </p> + <p> + Moreover, it is the general opinion that, whether or not the Kaiser and + such people will get their deserts, Abdul Aziz has his. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIII. In Merry Mexico + </h2> + <p> + I stood upon the platform of the little deserted railway station of the + frontier and looked around at the wide prospect. "So this," I said to + myself, "is Mexico!" + </p> + <p> + About me was the great plain rolling away to the Sierras in the + background. The railroad track traversed it in a thin line. There were no + trees—only here and there a clump of cactus or chaparral, a tuft of + dog-grass or a few patches of dogwood. At intervals in the distance one + could see a hacienda standing in majestic solitude in a cup of the hills. + In the blue sky floated little banderillos of white cloud, while a + graceful hidalgo appeared poised on a crag on one leg with folded wings, + or floated lazily in the sky on one wing with folded legs. + </p> + <p> + There was a drowsy buzzing of cicadas half asleep in the cactus cups, and, + from some hidden depth of the hills far in the distance, the tinkling of a + mule bell. + </p> + <p> + I had seen it all so often in moving pictures that I recognised the scene + at once. + </p> + <p> + "So this is Mexico?" I repeated. + </p> + <p> + The station building beside me was little more than a wooden shack. Its + door was closed. There was a sort of ticket wicket opening at the side, + but it too was closed. + </p> + <p> + But as I spoke thus aloud, the wicket opened. There appeared in it the + head and shoulders of a little wizened man, swarthy and with bright eyes + and pearly teeth. + </p> + <p> + He wore a black velvet suit with yellow facings, and a tall straw hat + running to a point. I seemed to have seen him a hundred times in comic + opera. + </p> + <p> + "Can you tell me when the next train—?" I began. + </p> + <p> + The little man made a gesture of Spanish politeness. + </p> + <p> + "Welcome to Mexico!" he said. + </p> + <p> + "Could you tell me—?" I continued. + </p> + <p> + "Welcome to our sunny Mexico!" he repeated—"our beautiful, glorious + Mexico. Her heart throbs at the sight of you." + </p> + <p> + "Would you mind—?" I began again. + </p> + <p> + "Our beautiful Mexico, torn and distracted as she is, greets you. In the + name of the <i>de facto</i> government, thrice welcome. <i>Su casa!</i>" + he added with a graceful gesture indicating the interior of his little + shack. "Come in and smoke cigarettes and sleep. <i>Su casa!</i> You are + capable of Spanish, is it not?" + </p> + <p> + "No," I said, "it is not. But I wanted to know when the next train for the + interior—" + </p> + <p> + "Ah!" he rejoined more briskly. "You address me as a servant of the <i>de + facto</i> government. <i>Momentino!</i> One moment!" + </p> + <p> + He shut the wicket and was gone a long time. I thought he had fallen + asleep. + </p> + <p> + But he reappeared. He had a bundle of what looked like railway time + tables, very ancient and worn, in his hand. + </p> + <p> + "Did you say," he questioned, "the <i>in</i>terior or the <i>ex</i>terior?" + </p> + <p> + "The interior, please." + </p> + <p> + "Ah, good, excellent—for the interior." The little Mexican retreated + into his shack and I could hear him murmuring, "For the interior, + excellent," as he moved to and fro. + </p> + <p> + Presently he reappeared, a look of deep sorrow on his face. + </p> + <p> + "Alas," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "I am <i>desolado!</i> It has + gone! The next train has gone!" + </p> + <p> + "Gone! When?" + </p> + <p> + "Alas, who can tell? Yesterday, last month? But it has gone." + </p> + <p> + "And when will there be another one?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "Ha!" he said, resuming a brisk official manner. "I understand. Having + missed the next, you propose to take another one. Excellent! What business + enterprise you foreigners have! You miss your train! What do you do? Do + you abandon your journey? No. Do you sit down—do you weep? No. Do + you lose time? You do not." + </p> + <p> + "Excuse me," I said, "but when is there another train?" + </p> + <p> + "That must depend," said the little official, and as he spoke he emerged + from his house and stood beside me on the platform fumbling among his + railway guides. "The first question is, do you propose to take a <i>de + facto</i> train or a <i>de jure</i> train?" + </p> + <p> + "When do they go?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "There is a <i>de jure</i> train," continued the stationmaster, peering + into his papers, "at two p.m. A very good train—sleepers and diners—one + at four, a through train—sleepers, observation car, dining car, + corridor compartments—that also is a <i>de jure</i> train—" + </p> + <p> + "But what is the difference between the <i>de jure</i> and the <i>de + facto?</i>" + </p> + <p> + "It's a distinction we generally make in Mexico. The <i>de jure</i> trains + are those that ought to go; that is, in theory, they go. The <i>de facto</i> + trains are those that actually do go. It is a distinction clearly + established in our correspondence with Huedro Huilson." + </p> + <p> + "Do you mean Woodrow Wilson?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, Huedro Huilson, president—<i>de jure</i>—of the United + States." + </p> + <p> + "Oh," I said. "Now I understand. And when will there be a <i>de facto</i> + train?" + </p> + <p> + "At any moment you like," said the little official with a bow. + </p> + <p> + "But I don't see—" + </p> + <p> + "Pardon me, I have one here behind the shed on that side track. Excuse me + one moment and I will bring it." + </p> + <p> + He disappeared and I presently saw him energetically pushing out from + behind the shed a little railroad lorry or hand truck. + </p> + <p> + "Now then," he said as he shoved his little car on to the main track, + "this is the train. Seat yourself. I myself will take you." + </p> + <p> + "And how much shall I pay? What is the fare to the interior?" I + questioned. + </p> + <p> + The little man waved the idea aside with a polite gesture. + </p> + <p> + "The fare," he said, "let us not speak of it. Let us forget it How much + money have you?" + </p> + <p> + "I have here," I said, taking out a roll of bills, "fifty dollars—" + </p> + <p> + "And that is <i>all</i> you have?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes." + </p> + <p> + "Then let <i>that</i> be your fare! Why should I ask more? Were I an + American, I might; but in our Mexico, no. What you have we take; beyond + that we ask nothing. Let us forget it. Good! And, now, would you prefer to + travel first, second, or third class?" + </p> + <p> + "First class please," I said. + </p> + <p> + "Very good. Let it be so." Here the little man took from his pocket a red + label marked FIRST CLASS and tied it on the edge of the hand car. "It is + more comfortable," he said. "Now seat yourself, seize hold of these two + handles in front of you. Move them back and forward, thus. Beyond that you + need do nothing. The working of the car, other than the mere shoving of + the handles, shall be my task. Consider yourself, in fact, <i>senor</i>, + as my guest." + </p> + <p> + We took our places. I applied myself, as directed, to the handles and the + little car moved forward across the plain. + </p> + <p> + "A glorious prospect," I said, as I gazed at the broad panorama. + </p> + <p> + "<i>Magnifico!</i> Is it not?" said my companion. "Alas, my poor Mexico! + She want nothing but water to make her the most fertile country of the + globe! Water and soil, those only, and she would excel all others. Give + her but water, soil, light, heat, capital and labour, and what could she + not be! And what do we see? Distraction, revolution, destruction—pardon + me, will you please stop the car a moment? I wish to tear up a little of + the track behind us." + </p> + <p> + I did as directed. My companion descended, and with a little bar that he + took from beneath the car unloosed a few of the rails of the light track + and laid them beside the road. + </p> + <p> + "It is our custom," he explained, as he climbed on board again. "We + Mexicans, when we move to and fro, always tear up the track behind us. But + what was I saying? Ah, yes—destruction, desolation, alas, our + Mexico!" + </p> + <p> + He looked sadly up at the sky. + </p> + <p> + "You speak," I said, "like a patriot. May I ask your name?" + </p> + <p> + "My name is Raymon," he answered, with a bow, "Raymon Domenico y + Miraflores de las Gracias." + </p> + <p> + "And may I call you simply Raymon?" + </p> + <p> + "I shall be delirious with pleasure if you will do so," he answered, "and + dare I ask you, in return, your business in our beautiful country?" + </p> + <p> + The car, as we were speaking, had entered upon a long gentle down-grade + across the plain, so that it ran without great effort on my part. + </p> + <p> + "Certainly," I said. "I'm going into the interior to see General Villa!" + </p> + <p> + At the shock of the name, Raymon nearly fell off the car. + </p> + <p> + "Villa! General Francesco Villa! It is not possible!" + </p> + <p> + The little man was shivering with evident fear. + </p> + <p> + "See him! See Villa! Not possible. Let me show you a picture of him + instead? But approach him—it is not possible. He shoots everybody at + sight!" + </p> + <p> + "That's all right," I said. "I have a written safe conduct that protects + me." + </p> + <p> + "From whom?" + </p> + <p> + "Here," I said, "look at them—I have two." + </p> + <p> + Raymon took the documents I gave him and read aloud: + </p> + <p> + "'The bearer is on an important mission connected with American rights in + Mexico. If anyone shoots him he will be held to a strict accountability. + W. W.' Ah! Excellent! He will be compelled to send in an itemised account. + Excellent! And this other, let me see. 'If anybody interferes with the + bearer, I will knock his face in. T. R.' Admirable. This is, if anything, + better than the other for use in our country. It appeals to our quick + Mexican natures. It is, as we say, <i>simpatico</i>. It touches us." + </p> + <p> + "It is meant to," I said. + </p> + <p> + "And may I ask," said Raymon, "the nature of your business with Villa?" + </p> + <p> + "We are old friends," I answered. "I used to know him years ago when he + kept a Mexican cigar store in Buffalo. It occurred to me that I might be + able to help the cause of peaceful intervention. I have already had a + certain experience in Turkey. I am commissioned to make General Villa an + offer." + </p> + <p> + "I see," said Raymon. "In that case, if we are to find Villa let us make + all haste forward. And first we must direct ourselves yonder"—he + pointed in a vague way towards the mountains—"where we must + presently leave our car and go on foot, to the camp of General Carranza." + </p> + <p> + "Carranza!" I exclaimed. "But he is fighting Villa!" + </p> + <p> + "Exactly. It is <i>possible</i>—not certain—but possible, that + he knows where Villa is. In our Mexico when two of our generalistas are + fighting in the mountains, they keep coming across one another. It is hard + to avoid it." + </p> + <p> + "Good," I said. "Let us go forward." + </p> + <p> + It was two days later that we reached Carranza's camp in the mountains. + </p> + <p> + We found him just at dusk seated at a little table beneath a tree. + </p> + <p> + His followers were all about, picketing their horses and lighting fires. + </p> + <p> + The General, buried in a book before him, noticed neither the movements of + his own men nor our approach. + </p> + <p> + I must say that I was surprised beyond measure at his appearance. + </p> + <p> + The popular idea of General Carranza as a rude bandit chief is entirely + erroneous. + </p> + <p> + I saw before me a quiet, scholarly-looking man, bearing every mark of + culture and refinement. His head was bowed over the book in front of him, + which I noticed with astonishment and admiration was <i>Todhunter's + Algebra</i>. Close at his hand I observed a work on <i>Decimal Fractions</i>, + while, from time to time, I saw the General lift his eyes and glance + keenly at a multiplication table that hung on a bough beside him. + </p> + <p> + "You must wait a few moments," said an aide-de-camp, who stood beside us. + "The General is at work on a simultaneous equation!" + </p> + <p> + "Is it possible?" I said in astonishment. + </p> + <p> + The aide-de-camp smiled. + </p> + <p> + "Soldiering to-day, my dear Senor," he said, "is an exact science. On this + equation will depend our entire food supply for the next week." + </p> + <p> + "When will he get it done?" I asked anxiously. + </p> + <p> + "Simultaneously," said the aide-de-camp. + </p> + <p> + The General looked up at this moment and saw us. + </p> + <p> + "Well?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + "Your Excellency," said the aide-de-camp, "there is a stranger here on a + visit of investigation to Mexico." + </p> + <p> + "Shoot him!" said the General, and turned quickly to his work. + </p> + <p> + The aide-de-camp saluted. + </p> + <p> + "When?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + "As soon as he likes," said the General. + </p> + <p> + "You are fortunate, indeed," said the aide-de-camp, in a tone of + animation, as he led me away, still accompanied by Raymon. "You might have + been kept waiting round for days. Let us get ready at once. You would like + to be shot, would you not, smoking a cigarette, and standing beside your + grave? Luckily, we have one ready. Now, if you will wait a moment, I will + bring the photographer and his machine. There is still light enough, I + think. What would you like it called? <i>The Fate of a Spy?</i> That's + good, isn't it? Our syndicate can always work up that into a two-reel + film. All the rest of it—the camp, the mountains, the general, the + funeral and so on—we can do to-morrow without you." + </p> + <p> + He was all eagerness as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + "One moment," I interrupted. "I am sure there is some mistake. I only + wished to present certain papers and get a safe conduct from the General + to go and see Villa." + </p> + <p> + The aide-de-camp stopped abruptly. + </p> + <p> + "Ah!" he said. "You are not here for a picture. A thousand pardons. Give + me your papers. One moment—I will return to the General and + explain." + </p> + <p> + He vanished, and Raymon and I waited in the growing dusk. + </p> + <p> + "No doubt the General supposed," explained Raymon, as he lighted a + cigarette, "that you were here for <i>las machinas</i>, the moving + pictures." + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes the aide-de-camp returned. + </p> + <p> + "Come," he said, "the General will see you now." + </p> + <p> + We returned to where we had left Carranza. + </p> + <p> + The General rose to meet me with outstretched hand and with a gesture of + simple cordiality. + </p> + <p> + "You must pardon my error," he said. + </p> + <p> + "Not at all," I said. + </p> + <p> + "It appears you do not desire to be shot." + </p> + <p> + "Not at present." + </p> + <p> + "Later, perhaps," said the General. "On your return, no doubt, provided," + he added with grave courtesy that sat well on him, "that you do return. My + aide-de-camp shall make a note of it. But at present you wish to be guided + to Francesco Villa?" + </p> + <p> + "If it is possible." + </p> + <p> + "Quite easy. He is at present near here, in fact much nearer than he has + any right to be." The General frowned. "We found this spot first. The + light is excellent and the mountains, as you have seen, are wonderful for + our pictures. This is, by every rule of decency, <i>our</i> scenery. Villa + has no right to it. This is <i>our</i> Revolution"—the General spoke + with rising animation—"not his. When you see the fellow, tell him + from me—or tell his manager—that he must either move his + revolution further away or, by heaven, I'll—I'll use force against + him. But stop," he checked himself. "You wish to see Villa. Good. You have + only to follow the straight track over the mountain there. He is just + beyond, at the little village in the hollow, El Corazon de las Quertas." + </p> + <p> + The General shook hands and seated himself again at his work. The + interview was at an end. We withdrew. + </p> + <p> + The next morning we followed without difficulty the path indicated. A few + hours' walk over the mountain pass brought us to a little straggling + village of adobe houses, sleeping drowsily in the sun. + </p> + <p> + There were but few signs of life in its one street—a mule here and + there tethered in the sun, and one or two Mexicans drowsily smoking in the + shade. + </p> + <p> + One building only, evidently newly made, and of lumber, had a decidedly + American appearance. Its doorway bore the sign GENERAL OFFICES OF THE + COMPANY, and under it the notice KEEP OUT, while on one of its windows was + painted GENERAL MANAGER and below it the legend NO ADMISSION, and on the + other, SECRETARY'S OFFICE: GO AWAY. + </p> + <p> + We therefore entered at once. + </p> + <p> + "General Francesco Villa?" said a clerk, evidently American. "Yes, he's + here all right. At least, this is the office." + </p> + <p> + "And where is the General?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + The clerk turned to an assistant at a desk in a corner of the room. + </p> + <p> + "Where's Frank working this morning?" he asked. + </p> + <p> + "Over down in the gulch," said the other, turning round for a moment. + "There's an attack on American cavalry this morning." + </p> + <p> + "Oh, yes, I forgot," said the chief clerk. "I thought it was the Indian + Massacre, but I guess that's for to-morrow. Go straight to the end of the + street and turn left about half a mile and you'll find the boys down + there." + </p> + <p> + We thanked him and withdrew. + </p> + <p> + We passed across the open plaza, and went down a narrow side road, + bordered here and there with adobe houses, and so out into the open + country. Here the hills rose again and the road that we followed wound + sharply round a turn into a deep gorge, bordered with rocks and sage + brush. We had no sooner turned the curve of the road than we came upon a + scene of great activity. Men in Mexican costume were running to and fro + apparently arranging a sort of barricade at the side of the road. Others + seemed to be climbing the rocks on the further side of the gorge, as if + seeking points of advantage. I noticed that all were armed with rifles and + machetes and presented a formidable appearance. Of Villa himself I could + see nothing. But there was a grim reality about the glittering knives, the + rifles and the maxim guns that I saw concealed in the sage brush beside + the road. + </p> + <p> + "What is it?" I asked of a man who was standing idle, watching the scene + from the same side of the road as ourselves. + </p> + <p> + "Attack of American cavalry," he said nonchalantly. + </p> + <p> + "Here!" I gasped. + </p> + <p> + "Yep, in about ten minutes: soon as they are ready." + </p> + <p> + "Where's Villa?" + </p> + <p> + "It's him they're attacking. They chase him here, see! This is an ambush. + Villa rounds on them right here, and they fight to a finish!" + </p> + <p> + "Great heavens!" I exclaimed. "How do you know that?" + </p> + <p> + "Know it? Why because I <i>seen</i> it. Ain't they been trying it out for + three days? Why, I'd be in it myself only I'm off work. Got a sore toe + yesterday—horse stepped on it." + </p> + <p> + All this was, of course, quite unintelligible to me. + </p> + <p> + "But it's right here where they're going to fight?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "Sure," said the American, as he moved carelessly aside, "as soon as the + boss gets it all ready." + </p> + <p> + I noticed for the first time a heavy-looking man in an American tweed suit + and a white plug hat, moving to and fro and calling out directions with an + air of authority. + </p> + <p> + "Here!" he shouted, "what in h—l are you doing with that machine + gun? You've got it clean out of focus. Here, Jose, come in closer—that's + right. Steady there now, and don't forget, at the second whistle you and + Pete are dead. Here, you, Pete, how in thunder do you think you can die + there? You're all out of the picture and hidden by that there sage brush. + That's no place to die. And, boys, remember one thing, now, <i>die slow</i>. + Ed"—he turned and called apparently to some one invisible behind the + rocks—"when them two boys is killed, turn her round on them, slew + her round good and get them centre focus. Now then, are you all set? + Ready?" + </p> + <p> + At this moment the speaker turned and saw Raymon and myself. + </p> + <p> + "Here, youse," he shouted, "get further back, you're in the picture. Or, + say, no, stay right where you are. You," he said, pointing to me, "stay + right where you are and I'll give you a dollar to just hold that horror; + you understand, just keep on registering it. Don't do another thing, just + register that face." + </p> + <p> + His words were meaningless to me. I had never known before that it was + possible to make money by merely registering my face. + </p> + <p> + "No, no," cried out Raymon, "my friend here is not wanting work. He has a + message, a message of great importance for General Villa." + </p> + <p> + "Well," called back the boss, "he'll have to wait. We can't stop now. All + ready, boys? One—two—now!" + </p> + <p> + And with that he put a whistle to his lips and blew a long shrill blast. + </p> + <p> + Then in a moment the whole scene was transformed. Rifle shots rang out + from every crag and bush that bordered the gully. + </p> + <p> + A wild scamper of horses' hoofs was heard and in a moment there came + tearing down the road a whole troop of mounted Mexicans, evidently in + flight, for they turned and fired from their saddles as they rode. The + horses that carried them were wild with excitement and flecked with foam. + The Mexican cavalry men shouted and yelled, brandishing their machetes and + firing their revolvers. Here and there a horse and rider fell to the + ground in a great whirl of sand and dust. In the thick of the press, a + leader of ferocious aspect, mounted upon a gigantic black horse, waved his + sombrero about his head. + </p> + <p> + "Villa—it is Villa!" cried Raymon, tense with excitement. "Is he not + <i>magnifico?</i> But look! Look—the <i>Americanos!</i> They are + coming!" + </p> + <p> + It was a glorious sight to see them as they rode madly on the heels of the + Mexicans—a whole company of American cavalry, their horses shoulder + to shoulder, the men bent low in their saddles, their carbines gripped in + their hands. They rode in squadrons and in line, not like the shouting, + confused mass of the Mexicans—but steady, disciplined, irresistible. + </p> + <p> + On the right flank in front a grey-haired officer steadied the charging + line. The excitement of it was maddening. + </p> + <p> + "Go to it," I shouted in uncontrollable emotion. "Your Mexicans are + licked, Raymon, they're no good!" + </p> + <p> + "But look!" said Raymon. "See—the ambush, the ambuscada!" + </p> + <p> + For as they reached the centre of the gorge in front of us the Mexicans + suddenly checked their horses, bringing them plunging on their haunches in + the dust, and then swung round upon their pursuers, while from every crag + and bush at the side of the gorge the concealed riflemen sprang into view—and + the sputtering of the machine guns swept the advancing column with a + volley. + </p> + <p> + We could see the American line checked as with the buffet of a great wave, + men and horses rolling in the road. Through the smoke one saw the + grey-haired leader —dismounted, his uniform torn, his hat gone, but + still brandishing his sword and calling his orders to his men, his face as + one caught in a flash of sunlight, steady and fearless. His words I could + not hear, but one saw the American cavalry, still unbroken, dismount, + throw themselves behind their horses, and fire with steady aim into the + mass of the Mexicans. We could see the Mexicans in front of where we stood + falling thick and fast, in little huddled bundles of colour, kicking the + sand. The man Pete had gone down right in the foreground and was breathing + out his soul before our eyes. + </p> + <p> + "Well done," I shouted. "Go to it, boys! You can lick 'em yet! Hurrah for + the United States. Look, Raymon, look! They've shot down the crew of the + machine guns. See, see, the Mexicans are turning to run. At 'em, boys! + They're waving the American flag! There it is in all the thick of the + smoke! Hark! There's the bugle call to mount again! They're going to + charge again! Here they come!" + </p> + <p> + As the American cavalry came tearing forward, the Mexicans leaped from + their places with gestures of mingled rage and terror as if about to break + and run. + </p> + <p> + The battle, had it continued, could have but one end. + </p> + <p> + But at this moment we heard from the town behind us the long sustained + note of a steam whistle blowing the hour of noon. + </p> + <p> + In an instant the firing ceased. + </p> + <p> + The battle stopped. The Mexicans picked themselves up off the ground and + began brushing off the dust from their black velvet jackets. The American + cavalry reined in their horses. Dead Pete came to life. General Villa and + the American leader and a number of others strolled over towards the boss, + who stood beside the fence vociferating his comments. + </p> + <p> + "That won't do!" he was shouting. "That won't do! Where in blazes was that + infernal Sister of Mercy? Miss Jenkinson!" and he called to a tall girl, + whom I now noticed for the first time among the crowd, wearing a sort of + khaki costume and a short skirt and carrying a water bottle in a strap. + "You never got into the picture at all. I want you right in there among + the horses, under their feet." + </p> + <p> + "Land sakes!" said the Sister of Mercy. "You ain't no right to ask me to + go in there among them horses and be trampled." + </p> + <p> + "Ain't you <i>paid</i> to be trampled?" said the manager angrily. Then as + he caught sight of Villa he broke off and said: "Frank, you boys done + fine. It's going to be a good act, all right. But it ain't just got the + right amount of ginger in it yet. We'll try her over <i>once</i> again, + anyway." + </p> + <p> + "Now, boys," he continued, calling out to the crowd with a voice like a + megaphone, "this afternoon at three-thirty —Hospital scene. I only + want the wounded, the doctors and the Sisters of Mercy. All the rest of + youse is free till ten to-morrow—for the Indian Massacre. Everybody + up for that." + </p> + <p> + It was an hour or two later that I had my interview with Villa in a back + room of the little <i>posada</i>, or inn, of the town. The General had + removed his ferocious wig of straight black hair, and substituted a check + suit for his warlike costume. He had washed the darker part of the paint + off his face—in fact, he looked once again the same Frank Villa that + I used to know when he kept his Mexican cigar store in Buffalo. + </p> + <p> + "Well, Frank," I said, "I'm afraid I came down here under a + misunderstanding." + </p> + <p> + "Looks like it," said the General, as he rolled a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + "And you wouldn't care to go back even for the offer that I am + commissioned to make—your old job back again, and half the profits + on a new cigar to be called the Francesco Villa?" + </p> + <p> + The General shook his head. + </p> + <p> + "It sounds good, all right," he said, "but this moving-picture business is + better." + </p> + <p> + "I see," I said, "I hadn't understood. I thought there really was a + revolution here in Mexico." + </p> + <p> + "No," said Villa, shaking his head, "been no revolution down here for + years—not since Diaz. The picture companies came in and took the + whole thing over; they made us a fair offer—so much a reel straight + out, and a royalty, and let us divide up the territory as we liked. The + first film we done was the bombardment of Vera Cruz. Say, that was a + dandy; did you see it?" + </p> + <p> + "No," I said. + </p> + <p> + "They had us all in that," he continued. "I done an American Marine. Lots + of people think it all real when they see it." + </p> + <p> + "Why," I said, "nearly everybody does. Even the President—" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I guess he knows," said Villa, "but, you see, there's tons of money + in it and it's good for business, and he's too decent a man to give It + away. Say, I heard the boy saying there's a war in Europe. I wonder what + company got that up, eh? But I don't believe it'll draw. There ain't the + scenery for it that we have in Mexico." + </p> + <p> + "Alas!" murmured Raymon. "Our beautiful Mexico. To what is she fallen! + Needing only water, air, light and soil to make her—" + </p> + <p> + "Come on, Raymon," I said, "let's go home." + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIV. Over the Grape Juice; or, The Peacemakers + </h2> + <h3> + Characters + </h3> + <p> + MR. W. JENNINGS BRYAN. DR. DAVID STARR JORDAN. A PHILANTHROPIST. MR. + NORMAN ANGELL. A LADY PACIFIST. A NEGRO PRESIDENT. AN EMINENT DIVINE. THE + MAN ON THE STREET. THE GENERAL PUBLIC. And many others. + </p> + <p> + "War," said the Negro President of Haiti, "is a sad spectacle. It shames + our polite civilisation." + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, he looked about him at the assembled company around the huge + dinner table, glittering with cut glass and white linen, and brilliant + with hot-house flowers. + </p> + <p> + "A sad spectacle," he repeated, rolling his big eyes in his black and + yellow face that was melancholy with the broken pathos of the African + race. + </p> + <p> + The occasion was a notable one. It was the banquet of the Peacemakers' + Conference of 1917 and the company gathered about the board was as notable + as it was numerous. + </p> + <p> + At the head of the table the genial Mr. Jennings Bryan presided as host, + his broad countenance beaming with amiability, and a tall flagon of grape + juice standing beside his hand. A little further down the table one saw + the benevolent head and placid physiognomy of Mr. Norman Angell, bowed + forward as if in deep calculation. Within earshot of Mr. Bryan, but not + listening to him, one recognised without the slightest difficulty Dr. + David Starr Jordan, the distinguished ichthyologist and director in chief + of the World's Peace Foundation, while the bland features of a gentleman + from China, and the presence of a yellow delegate from the Mosquito Coast, + gave ample evidence that the company had been gathered together without + reference to colour, race, religion, education, or other prejudices + whatsoever. + </p> + <p> + But it would be out of the question to indicate by name the whole of the + notable assemblage. Indeed, certain of the guests, while carrying in their + faces and attitudes something strangely and elusively familiar, seemed in + a sense to be nameless, and to represent rather types and abstractions + than actual personalities. Such was the case, for instance, with a female + member of the company, seated in a place of honour near the host, whose + demure garb and gentle countenance seemed to indicate her as a Lady + Pacifist, but denied all further identification. The mild, ecclesiastical + features of a second guest, so entirely Christian in its expression as to + be almost devoid of expression altogether, marked him at once as An + Eminent Divine, but, while puzzlingly suggestive of an actual and + well-known person, seemed to elude exact recognition. His accent, when he + presently spoke, stamped him as British and his garb was that of the + Established Church. Another guest appeared to answer to the general + designation of Capitalist or Philanthropist, and seemed from his + prehensile grasp upon his knife and fork to typify the Money Power. In + front of this guest, doubtless with a view of indicating his extreme + wealth and the consideration in which he stood, was placed a floral + decoration representing a broken bank, with the figure of a ruined + depositor entwined among the debris. + </p> + <p> + Of these nameless guests, two individuals alone, from the very + significance of their appearance, from their plain dress, unsuited to the + occasion, and from the puzzled expression of their faces, seemed out of + harmony with the galaxy of distinction which surrounded them. They seemed + to speak only to one another, and even that somewhat after the fashion of + an appreciative chorus to what the rest of the company was saying; while + the manner in which they rubbed their hands together and hung upon the + words of the other speakers in humble expectancy seemed to imply that they + were present in the hope of gathering rather than shedding light. To these + two humble and obsequious guests no attention whatever was paid, though it + was understood, by those who knew, that their names were The General + Public and the Man on the Street. + </p> + <p> + "A sad spectacle," said the Negro President, and he sighed as he spoke. + "One wonders if our civilisation, if our moral standards themselves, are + slipping from us." Then half in reverie, or as if overcome by the + melancholy of his own thought, he lifted a spoon from the table and slid + it gently into the bosom of his faded uniform. + </p> + <p> + "Put back that spoon!" called The Lady Pacifist sharply. + </p> + <p> + "Pardon!" said the Negro President humbly, as he put it back. The + humiliation of generations of servitude was in his voice. + </p> + <p> + "Come, come," exclaimed Mr. Jennings Bryan cheerfully, "try a little more + of the grape juice?" + </p> + <p> + "Does it intoxicate?" asked the President. + </p> + <p> + "Never," answered Mr. Bryan. "Rest assured of that. I can guarantee it. + The grape is picked in the dark. It is then carried, still in the dark, to + the testing room. There every particle of alcohol is removed. Try it." + </p> + <p> + "Thank you," said the President. "I am no longer thirsty." + </p> + <p> + "Will anybody have some more of the grape juice?" asked Mr. Bryan, running + his eye along the ranks of the guests. + </p> + <p> + No one spoke. + </p> + <p> + "Will anybody have some more ground peanuts?" + </p> + <p> + No one moved. + </p> + <p> + "Or does anybody want any more of the shredded tan bark? No? Or will + somebody have another spoonful of sunflower seeds?" + </p> + <p> + There was still no sign of assent. + </p> + <p> + "Very well, then," said Mr. Bryan, "the banquet, as such, is over, and we + now come to the more serious part of our business. I need hardly tell you + that we are here for a serious purpose. We are here to do good. That I + know is enough to enlist the ardent sympathy of everybody present." + </p> + <p> + There was a murmur of assent. + </p> + <p> + "Personally," said The Lady Pacifist, "I do nothing else." + </p> + <p> + "Neither do I," said the guest who has been designated The Philanthropist, + "whether I am producing oil, or making steel, or building motor-cars." + </p> + <p> + "Does he build motor-cars?" whispered the humble person called The Man in + the Street to his fellow, The General Public. + </p> + <p> + "All great philanthropists do things like that," answered his friend. + "They do it as a social service so as to benefit humanity; any money they + make is just an accident. They don't really care about it a bit. Listen to + him. He's going to say so." + </p> + <p> + "Indeed, our business itself," The Philanthropist continued, while his + face lighted up with unselfish enthusiasm, "our business itself—" + </p> + <p> + "Hush, hush!" said Mr. Bryan gently. "We know—" + </p> + <p> + "Our business itself," persisted The Philanthropist, "is one great piece + of philanthropy." + </p> + <p> + Tears gathered in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + "Come, come," said Mr. Bryan firmly, "we must get to business. Our friend + here," he continued, turning to the company at large and indicating the + Negro President on his right, "has come to us in great distress. His + beautiful island of Haiti is and has been for many years overwhelmed in + civil war. Now he learns that not only Haiti, but also Europe is engulfed + in conflict. He has heard that we are making proposals for ending the war + —indeed, I may say are about to declare that the war in Europe <i>must + stop</i>—I think I am right, am I not, my friends?" + </p> + <p> + There was a general chorus of assent. + </p> + <p> + "Naturally then," continued Mr. Bryan, "our friend the President of Haiti, + who is overwhelmed with grief at what has been happening in his island, + has come to us for help. That is correct, is it not?" + </p> + <p> + "That's it, gentlemen," said the Negro President, in a voice of some + emotion, wiping the sleeve of his faded uniform across his eyes. "The + situation is quite beyond my control. In fact," he added, shaking his head + pathetically as he relapsed into more natural speech, "dis hyah chile, + gen'l'n, is clean done beat with it. Dey ain't doin' nuffin' on the island + but shootin', burnin', and killin' somethin' awful. Lawd a massy! it's + just like a real civilised country, all right, now. Down in our island we + coloured people is feeling just as bad as youse did when all them poor + white folks was murdered on the <i>Lusitania!</i>" + </p> + <p> + But the Negro President had no sooner used the words "Murdered on the <i>Lusitania</i>," + than a chorus of dissent and disapproval broke out all down the table. + </p> + <p> + "My dear sir, my dear sir," protested Mr. Bryan, "pray moderate your + language a little, if you please. Murdered? Oh, dear, dear me, how can we + hope to advance the cause of peace if you insist on using such terms?" + </p> + <p> + "Ain't it that? Wasn't it murder?" asked the President, perplexed. + </p> + <p> + "We are all agreed here," said The Lady Pacifist, "that it is far better + to call it an incident. We speak of the '<i>Lusitania</i> Incident,'" she + added didactically, "just as one speaks of the <i>Arabic</i> Incident, and + the Cavell Incident, and other episodes of the sort. It makes it so much + easier to forget." + </p> + <p> + "True, quite true," murmured The Eminent Divine, "and then one must + remember that there are always two sides to everything. There are two + sides to murder. We must not let ourselves forget that there is always the + murderer's point of view to consider." + </p> + <p> + But by this time the Negro President was obviously confused and out of his + depth. The conversation had reached a plane of civilisation which was + beyond his reach. + </p> + <p> + The genial Mr. Bryan saw fit to come to his rescue. + </p> + <p> + "Never mind," said Mr. Bryan soothingly. "Our friends here, will soon + settle all your difficulties for you. I'm going to ask them, one after the + other, to advise you. They will tell you the various means that they are + about to apply to stop the war in Europe, and you may select any that you + like for your use in Haiti. We charge you nothing for it, except of course + your fair share of the price of this grape juice and the shredded nuts." + </p> + <p> + The President nodded. + </p> + <p> + "I am going to ask our friend on my right"—and here Mr. Bryan + indicated The Lady Pacifist—"to speak first." + </p> + <p> + There was a movement of general expectancy and the two obsequious guests + at the foot of the table, of whom mention has been made, were seen to + nudge one another and whisper, "Isn't this splendid?" + </p> + <p> + "You are not asking me to speak first merely because I am a woman?" asked + The Lady Pacifist. + </p> + <p> + "Oh no," said Mr. Bryon, with charming tact. + </p> + <p> + "Very good," said the lady, adjusting her glasses. "As for stopping the + war, I warn you, as I have warned the whole world, that it may be too + late. They should have called me in sooner. That was the mistake. If they + had sent for me at once and had put my picture in the papers both in + England and Germany, with the inscription 'The True Woman of To-day,' I + doubt if any of the men who looked at it would have felt that it was worth + while to fight. But, as things are, the only advice I can give is this. + Everybody is wrong (except me). The Germans are a very naughty people. But + the Belgians are worse. It was very, very wicked of the Germans to bombard + the houses of the Belgians. But how naughty of the Belgians to go and sit + in their houses while they were bombarded. It is to that that I attribute—with + my infallible sense of justice—the dreadful loss of life. So you see + the only conclusion that I can reach is that everybody is very naughty and + that the only remedy would be to appoint me a committee—me and a few + others, though the others don't really matter—to make a proper + settlement. I hope I make myself clear." + </p> + <p> + The Negro President shook his head and looked mystified. + </p> + <p> + "Us coloured folks," he said, "wouldn't quite understand that. We done got + the idea that sometimes there's such a thing as a quarrel that is right + and just." The President's melancholy face lit up with animation and his + voice rose to the sonorous vibration of the negro preacher. "We learn that + out of the Bible, we coloured folks—we learn to smite the ungodly—" + </p> + <p> + "Pray, pray," said Mr. Bryan soothingly, "don't introduce religion, let me + beg of you. That would be fatal. We peacemakers are all agreed that there + must be no question of religion raised." + </p> + <p> + "Exactly so," murmured The Eminent Divine, "my own feelings exactly. The + name of—of—the Deity should never be brought in. It inflames + people. Only a few weeks ago I was pained and grieved to the heart to hear + a woman in one of our London streets raving that the German Emperor was a + murderer. Her child had been killed that night by a bomb from a Zeppelin; + she had its body in a cloth hugged to her breast as she talked—thank + heaven, they keep these things out of the newspapers—and she was + calling down God's vengeance on the Emperor. Most deplorable! Poor + creature, unable, I suppose, to realise the Emperor's exalted situation, + his splendid lineage, the wonderful talent with which he can draw pictures + of the apostles with one hand while he writes an appeal to his Mohammedan + comrades with the other. I dined with him once," he added, in modest + afterthought. + </p> + <p> + "I dined with him, too," said Dr. Jordan. "I shall never forget the + impression he made. As he entered the room accompanied by his staff, the + Emperor looked straight at me and said to one of his aides, 'Who is this?' + 'This is Dr. Jordan,' said the officer. The Emperor put out his hand. 'So + this is Dr. Jordan,' he said. I never witnessed such an exhibition of + brain power in my life. He had seized my name in a moment and held it for + three seconds with all the tenaciousness of a Hohenzollern. + </p> + <p> + "But may I," continued the Director of the World's Peace, "add a word to + what has been said to make it still clearer to our friend? I will try to + make it as simple as one of my lectures in Ichthyology. I know of nothing + simpler than that." + </p> + <p> + Everybody murmured assent. The Negro President put his hand to his ear. + </p> + <p> + "Theology?" he said. + </p> + <p> + "Ichthyology," said Dr. Jordan. "It is better. But just listen to this. + War is waste. It destroys the tissues. It is exhausting and fatiguing and + may in extreme cases lead to death." + </p> + <p> + The learned gentleman sat back in his seat and took a refreshing drink of + rain water from a glass beside him, while a murmur of applause ran round + the table. It was known and recognised that the speaker had done more than + any living man to establish the fact that war is dangerous, that + gunpowder, if heated, explodes, that fire burns, that fish swim, and other + great truths without which the work of the peace endowment would appear + futile. + </p> + <p> + "And now," said Mr. Bryan, looking about him with the air of a successful + toastmaster, "I am going to ask our friend here to give us his views." + </p> + <p> + Renewed applause bore witness to the popularity of The Philanthropist, + whom Mr. Bryan had indicated with a wave of his hand. + </p> + <p> + The Philanthropist cleared his throat. + </p> + <p> + "In our business—" he began. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bryan plucked him gently by the sleeve. + </p> + <p> + "Never mind your business just now," he whispered. + </p> + <p> + The Philanthropist bowed in assent and continued: + </p> + <p> + "I will come at once to the subject. My own feeling is that the true way + to end war is to try to spread abroad in all directions goodwill and + brotherly love." + </p> + <p> + "Hear, hear!" cried the assembled company. + </p> + <p> + "And the great way to inspire brotherly love all round is to keep on + getting richer and richer till you have so much money that every one loves + you. Money, gentlemen, is a glorious thing." + </p> + <p> + At this point, Mr. Norman Angell, who had remained silent hitherto, raised + his head from his chest and murmured drowsily: + </p> + <p> + "Money, money, there isn't anything but money. Money is the only thing + there is. Money and property, property and money. If you destroy it, it is + gone; if you smash it, it isn't there. All the rest is a great illus—" + </p> + <p> + And with this he dozed off again into silence. + </p> + <p> + "Our poor Angell is asleep again," said The Lady Pacifist. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bryan shook his head. + </p> + <p> + "He's been that way ever since the war began—sleeps all the time, + and keeps muttering that there isn't any war, that people only imagine it, + in fact that it is all an illusion. But I fear we are interrupting you," + he added, turning to The Philanthropist. + </p> + <p> + "I was just saying," continued that gentleman, "that you can do anything + with money. You can stop a war with it if you have enough of it, in ten + minutes. I don't care what kind of war it is, or what the people are + fighting for, whether they are fighting for conquest or fighting for their + homes and their children. I can stop it, stop it absolutely by my grip on + money, without firing a shot or incurring the slightest personal danger." + </p> + <p> + The Philanthropist spoke with the greatest emphasis, reaching out his hand + and clutching his fingers in the air. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, gentlemen," he went on, "I am speaking here not of theories but of + facts. This is what I am doing and what I mean to do. You've no idea how + amenable people are, especially poor people, struggling people, those with + ties and responsibilities, to the grip of money. I went the other day to a + man I know, the head of a bank, where I keep a little money—just a + fraction of what I make, gentlemen, a mere nothing to me but everything to + this man because he is still not rich and is only fighting his way up. + 'Now,' I said to him, 'you are English, are you not?' 'Yes, sir,' he + answered. 'And I understand you mean to help along the loan to England + with all the power of your bank.' 'Yes,' he said, 'I mean it and I'll do + it.' 'Then I'll tell you what,' I said, 'you lend one penny, or help to + lend one penny, to the people of England or the people of France, and I'll + break you, I'll grind you into poverty—you and your wife and + children and all that belongs to you.'" + </p> + <p> + The Philanthropist had spoken with so great an intensity that there was a + deep stillness over the assembled company. The Negro President had + straightened up in his seat, and as he looked at the speaker there was + something in his erect back and his stern face and the set of his faded + uniform that somehow turned him, African though he was, into a soldier. + </p> + <p> + "Sir," he said, with his eye riveted on the speaker's face, "what happened + to that banker man?" + </p> + <p> + "The fool!" said The Philanthropist. "He wouldn't hear —he defied me—he + said that there wasn't money enough in all my business to buy the soul of + a single Englishman. I had his directors turn him from his bank that day, + and he's enlisted, the scoundrel, and is gone to the war. But his wife and + family are left behind; they shall learn what the grip of the money power + is—learn it in misery and poverty." + </p> + <p> + "My good sir," said the Negro President slowly and impressively, "do you + know why your plan of stopping war wouldn't work in Haiti?" + </p> + <p> + "No," said The Philanthropist. + </p> + <p> + "Because our black people there would kill you. Whichever side they were + on, whatever they thought of the war, they would take a man like you and + lead you out into the town square, and stand you up against the side of an + adobe house, and they'd shoot you. Come down to Haiti, if you doubt my + words, and try it." + </p> + <p> + "Thank you," said The Philanthropist, resuming his customary manner of + undisturbed gentleness, "I don't think I will. I don't think somehow that + I could do business in Haiti." + </p> + <p> + The passage at arms between the Negro President and The Philanthropist had + thrown a certain confusion into the hitherto agreeable gathering. Even The + Eminent Divine was seen to be slowly shaking his head from side to side, + an extreme mark of excitement which he never permitted himself except + under stress of passion. The two humble guests at the foot of the table + were visibly perturbed. "Say, I don't like that about the banker," + squeaked one of them. "That ain't right, eh what? I don't like it." + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bryan was aware that the meeting was in danger of serious disorder. He + rapped loudly on the table for attention. When he had at last obtained + silence, he spoke. + </p> + <p> + "I have kept my own views to the last," he said, "because I cannot but + feel that they possess a peculiar importance. There is, my dear friends, + every prospect that within a measurable distance of time I shall be able + to put them into practice. I am glad to be able to announce to you the + practical certainty that four years from now I shall be President of the + United States." + </p> + <p> + At this announcement the entire company broke into spontaneous and + heartfelt applause. It had long been felt by all present that Mr. Bryan + was certain to be President of the United States if only he ran for the + office often enough, but that the glad moment had actually arrived seemed + almost too good for belief. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, my friends," continued the genial host, "I have just had a + communication from my dear friend Wilson, in which he tells me that he, + himself, will never contest the office again. The Presidency, he says, + interfered too much with his private life. In fact, I am authorised to + state in confidence that his wife forbids him to run." + </p> + <p> + "But, my dear Jennings," interposed Dr. Jordan thoughtfully, "what about + Mr. Hughes and Colonel Roosevelt?" + </p> + <p> + "In that quarter my certainty in the matter is absolute. I have calculated + it out mathematically that I am bound to obtain, in view of my known + principles, the entire German vote—which carries with it all the + great breweries of the country—the whole Austrian vote, all the + Hungarians of the sugar refineries, the Turks; in fact, my friends, I am + positive that Roosevelt, if he dares to run, will carry nothing but the + American vote!" + </p> + <p> + Loud applause greeted this announcement. + </p> + <p> + "And now let me explain my plan, which I believe is shared by a great + number of sane, and other, pacifists in the country. All the great nations + of the world will be invited to form a single international force + consisting of a fleet so powerful and so well equipped that no single + nation will dare to bid it defiance." + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bryan looked about him with a glance of something like triumph. The + whole company, and especially the Negro President, were now evidently + interested. "Say," whispered The General Public to his companion, "this + sounds like the real thing? Eh, what? Isn't he a peach of a thinker?" + </p> + <p> + "What flag will your fleet fly?" asked the Negro President. + </p> + <p> + "The flags of all nations," said Mr. Bryan. + </p> + <p> + "Where will you get your sailors?" + </p> + <p> + "From all the nations," said Mr. Bryan, "but the uniform will be all the + same, a plain white blouse with blue insertions, and white duck trousers + with the word PEACE stamped across the back of them in big letters. This + will help to impress the sailors with the almost sacred character of their + functions." + </p> + <p> + "But what will the fleet's functions be?" asked the President. + </p> + <p> + "Whenever a quarrel arises," explained Mr. Bryan, "it will be submitted to + a Board. Who will be on this Board, in addition to myself, I cannot as yet + say. But it's of no consequence. Whenever a case is submitted to the Board + it will think it over for three years. It will then announce its decision—if + any. After that, if any one nation refuses to submit, its ports will be + bombarded by the Peace Fleet." + </p> + <p> + Rapturous expressions of approval greeted Mr. Bryan's explanation. + </p> + <p> + "But I don't understand," said the Negro President, turning his puzzled + face to Mr. Bryan. "Would some of these ships be British ships?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, certainly. In view of the dominant size of the British Navy about + one-quarter of all the ships would be British ships." + </p> + <p> + "And the sailors British sailors?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, yes," said Mr. Bryan, "except that they would be wearing + international breeches—a most important point." + </p> + <p> + "And if the Board, made up of all sorts of people, were to give a decision + against England, then these ships—British ships with British sailors—would + be sent to bombard England itself." + </p> + <p> + "Exactly," said Mr. Bryan. "Isn't it beautifully simple? And to guarantee + its working properly," he continued, "just in case we have to use the + fleet against England, we're going to ask Admiral Jellicoe himself to take + command." + </p> + <p> + The Negro President slowly shook his head. + </p> + <p> + "Marse Bryan," he said, "you notice what I say. I know Marse Jellicoe. I + done seen him lots of times when he was just a lieutenant, down in the + harbour of Port au Prince. If youse folks put up this proposition to Marse + Jellicoe, he'll just tell the whole lot of you to go plumb to—" + </p> + <p> + But the close of the sentence was lost by a sudden interruption. A servant + entered with a folded telegram in his hand. + </p> + <p> + "For me?" said Mr. Bryan, with a winning smile. + </p> + <p> + "For the President of Haiti, sir," said the man. + </p> + <p> + The President took the telegram and opened it clumsily with his finger and + thumb amid a general silence. Then he took from his pocket and adjusted a + huge pair of spectacles with a horn rim and began to read. + </p> + <p> + "Well, I 'clare to goodness!" he said. + </p> + <p> + "Who is it from ?" said Mr. Bryan. "Is it anything about me?" + </p> + <p> + The Negro President shook his head. + </p> + <p> + "It's from Haiti," he said, "from my military secretary." + </p> + <p> + "Read it, read it," cried the company. + </p> + <p> + "<i>Come back home right away,</i>" read out the Negro President, word by + word. "<i>Everything is all right again. Joint British and American Naval + Squadron came into harbour yesterday, landed fifty bluejackets and one + midshipman. Perfect order. Banks open. Bars open. Mule cars all running + again. Things fine. Going to have big dance at your palace. Come right + back.</i>" + </p> + <p> + The Negro President paused. + </p> + <p> + "Gentlemen," he said, in a voice of great and deep relief, "this lets me + out. I guess I won't stay for the rest of the discussion. I'll start for + Haiti. I reckon there's something in this Armed Force business after all." + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XV. The White House from Without In + </h2> + <p> + Being Extracts from the Diary of a President of the United States. + </p> + <p> + MONDAY. Rose early. Swept out the White House. Cooked breakfast. Prayers. + Sat in the garden reading my book on Congressional Government. What a + wonderful thing it is! Why doesn't Congress live up to it? Certainly a + lovely morning. Sat for some time thinking how beautiful the world is. I + defy anyone to make a better. Afterwards determined to utter this defiance + publicly and fearlessly. Shall put in list of fearless defiances for July + speeches. Shall probably use it in Oklahoma. + </p> + <p> + 9.30 a.m. Bad news. British ship <i>Torpid</i> torpedoed by a torpedo. + Tense atmosphere all over Washington. Retreated instantly to the + pigeon-house and shut the door. I must <i>think</i>. At all costs. And no + one shall hurry me. + </p> + <p> + 10 a.m. Have thought. Came out of pigeon-house. It is all right. I wonder + I didn't think of it sooner. The point is perfectly simple. If Admiral + Tirpitz torpedoed the <i>Torpid</i> with a torpedo, where's the torpedo + Admiral Tirpitz torped? In other words, how do they know it's a torpedo? + The idea seems absolutely overwhelming. Wrote notes at once to England and + to Germany. + </p> + <p> + 11 a.m. Gave out my idea to the Ass Press. Tense feeling at Washington + vanished instantly and utterly. Feeling now loose. In fact everything + splendid. Money became easy at once. Marks rose. Exports jumped. Gold + reserve swelled. + </p> + <p> + 3 p.m. Slightly bad news. Appears there is trouble in the Island of + Piccolo Domingo. Looked it up on map. Is one of the smaller West Indies. + We don't own it. I imagine Roosevelt must have overlooked it. An American + has been in trouble there: was refused a drink after closing time and + burnt down saloon. Is now in jail. Shall send at once our latest + battleship—the <i>Woodrow</i>—new design, both ends alike, + escorted by double-ended coal barges the <i>Wilson</i>, the <i>President</i>, + the <i>Professor</i> and the <i>Thinker</i>. Shall take firm stand on + American rights. Piccolo Domingo must either surrender the American alive, + or give him to us dead. + </p> + <p> + TUESDAY. A lovely day. Rose early. Put flowers in all the vases. Laid a + wreath of early japonica beside my egg-cup on the breakfast table. Cabinet + to morning prayers and breakfast. Prayed for better guidance. + </p> + <p> + 9 a.m. Trouble, bad trouble. First of all Roosevelt has an interview in + the morning papers in which he asks why I don't treat Germany as I treat + Piccolo Domingo. Now, what a fool question! Can't he <i>see</i> why? + Roosevelt never could see reason. Bryan also has an interview: wants to + know why I don't treat Piccolo Domingo as I treat Germany? Doesn't he <i>know</i> + why? + </p> + <p> + Result: strained feeling in Washington. Morning mail bad. + </p> + <p> + 10 a.m. British Admiralty communication. To the pigeon-house at once. They + offer to send piece of torpedo, fragment of ship and selected portions of + dead American citizens. + </p> + <p> + Have come out of pigeon-house. Have cabled back: How do they know it is a + torpedo, how do they know it is a fragment, how do they know he was an + American who said he was dead? + </p> + <p> + My answer has helped. Feeling in Washington easier at once. General + buoyancy. Loans and discounts doubled. + </p> + <p> + As I expected—a note from Germany. Chancellor very explicit. Says + not only did they not torpedo the <i>Torpid</i>, but that on the day + (whenever it was) that the steamer was torpedoed they had no submarines at + sea, no torpedoes in their submarines, and nothing really explosive in + their torpedoes. Offers, very kindly, to fill in the date of sworn + statement as soon as we furnish accurate date of incident. Adds that his + own theory is that the <i>Torpid</i> was sunk by somebody throwing rocks + at it from the shore. Wish, somehow, that he had not added this argument. + </p> + <p> + More bad news: Further trouble in Mexico. Appears General Villa is not + dead. He has again crossed the border, shot up a saloon and retreated to + the mountains of Huahuapaxtapetl. Have issued instructions to have the + place looked up on the map and send the whole army to it, but without in + any way violating the neutrality of Mexico. + </p> + <p> + Late cables from England. Two more ships torpedoed. American passenger + lost. Name of Roosevelt. Christian name not Theodore but William. Cabled + expression of regret. + </p> + <p> + WEDNESDAY. Rose sad at heart. Did not work in garden. Tried to weed a + little grass along the paths but simply couldn't. This is a cruel job. How + was it that Roosevelt grew stout on it? His nature must be different from + mine. What a miserable nature he must have. + </p> + <p> + Received delegations. From Kansas, on the prospect of the corn crop: they + said the number of hogs in Kansas will double. Congratulated them. From + Idaho, on the blight on the root crop: they say there will soon not be a + hog left in Idaho. Expressed my sorrow. From Michigan, beet sugar growers + urging a higher percentage of sugar in beets. Took firm stand: said I + stand where I stood and I stood where I stand. They went away dazzled, + delighted. + </p> + <p> + Mail and telegrams. British Admiralty. <i>Torpid</i> Incident. Send + further samples. Fragment of valise, parts of cow-hide trunk (dead + passenger's luggage) which, they say, could not have been made except in + Nevada. + </p> + <p> + Cabled that the incident is closed and that I stand where I stood and that + I am what I am. Situation in Washington relieved at once. General feeling + that I shall not make war. + </p> + <p> + Second Cable from England. The Two New Cases. Claim both ships torpedoed. + Offer proofs. Situation very grave. Feeling in Washington very tense. + Roosevelt out with a signed statement, <i>What will the President Do?</i> + Surely he knows what I will do. + </p> + <p> + Cables from Germany. Chancellor now positive as to <i>Torpid</i>. Sworn + evidence that she was sunk by some one throwing a rock. Sample of rock to + follow. Communication also from Germany regarding the New Cases. Draws + attention to fact that all of the crews who were not drowned were saved. + An important point. Assures this government that everything ascertainable + will be ascertained, but that pending juridical verification any imperial + exemplification must be held categorically allegorical. How well these + Germans write! + </p> + <p> + THURSDAY. A dull morning. Up early and read Congressional Government. + Breakfast. Prayers. We prayed for the United States, for the citizens, for + the Congress (both houses, especially the Senate), and for the Cabinet. Is + there any one else? + </p> + <p> + Trouble. Accident to naval flotilla <i>en route</i> to Piccolo Domingo. + The new battleship the <i>Woodrow</i> has broken down. Fault in structure. + Tried to go with both ends first. Appeared impossible. Went sideways a + little and is sinking. Wireless from the barges the <i>Wilson</i>, the <i>Thinker</i> + and others. They are standing by. They wire that they will continue to + stand by. Why on earth do they do that? Shall cable them to act. + </p> + <p> + Feeling in Washington gloomy. + </p> + <p> + FRIDAY. Rose early and tried to sweep out the White House. Had little + heart for it. The dust gathers in the corners. How did Roosevelt manage to + keep it so clean? An idea! I must get a vacuum cleaner! But where can I + get a vacuum? Took my head in my hands and thought: problem solved. Can + get the vacuum all right. + </p> + <p> + Good news. Villa dead again. Feeling in Washington relieved. + </p> + <p> + Trouble. Ship torpedoed. News just came from the French Government. + Full-rigged ship, the <i>Ping-Yan</i>, sailing out of Ping Pong, French + Cochin China, and cleared for Hoo-Ra, Indo-Arabia. No American citizens on + board, but one American citizen with ticket left behind on wharf at Ping + Pong. Claims damages. Complicated case. Feeling in Washington much + disturbed. Sterling exchange fell and wouldn't get up. French Admiralty + urge treaty of 1778. German Chancellor admits torpedoing ship but denies + that it was full-rigged. Captain of submarine drew picture of ship as it + sank. His picture unlike any known ship of French navy. + </p> + <p> + SATURDAY. A day of trouble. Villa came to life and crossed the border. Our + army looking for him in Mexico: inquiry by wire, are they authorised to + come back? General Carranza asks leave to invade Canada. Piccolo Domingo + expedition has failed. The <i>Woodrow</i> is still sinking. The President + and the <i>Thinker</i> cable that they are still standing by and will + continue to stand where they have stood. British Admiralty sending + shipload of fragments. German Admiralty sending shipload of affidavits. + Feeling in Washington depressed to the lowest depths. Sterling sinking. + Marks falling. Exports dwindling. + </p> + <p> + An idea: Is this job worth while? I wonder if Billy Sunday would take it? + </p> + <p> + Spent the evening watering the crocuses. Whoever is here a year from now + is welcome to them. They tell me that Hughes hates crocuses. Watered them + very carefully. + </p> + <p> + SUNDAY. Good news! Just heard from Princeton University. I am to come + back, and everything will be forgiven and forgotten. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Timid Thoughts on Timely Topics + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVI. Are the Rich Happy? + </h2> + <p> + Let me admit at the outset that I write this essay without adequate + material. I have never known, I have never seen, any rich people. Very + often I have thought that I had found them. But it turned out that it was + not so. They were not rich at all. They were quite poor. They were hard + up. They were pushed for money. They didn't know where to turn for ten + thousand dollars. + </p> + <p> + In all the cases that I have examined this same error has crept in. I had + often imagined, from the fact of people keeping fifteen servants, that + they were rich. I had supposed that because a woman rode down town in a + limousine to buy a fifty-dollar hat, she must be well to do. Not at all. + All these people turn out on examination to be not rich. They are cramped. + They say it themselves. Pinched, I think, is the word they use. When I see + a glittering group of eight people in a stage box at the opera, I know + that they are all pinched. The fact that they ride home in a limousine has + nothing to do with it. + </p> + <p> + A friend of mine who has ten thousand dollars a year told me the other day + with a sigh that he found it quite impossible to keep up with the rich. On + his income he couldn't do it. A family that I know who have twenty + thousand a year have told me the same thing. They can't keep up with the + rich. There is no use trying. A man that I respect very much who has an + income of fifty thousand dollars a year from his law practice has told me + with the greatest frankness that he finds it absolutely impossible to keep + up with the rich. He says it is better to face the brutal fact of being + poor. He says he can only give me a plain meal, what he calls a home + dinner —it takes three men and two women to serve it—and he + begs me to put up with it. + </p> + <p> + As far as I remember, I have never met Mr. Carnegie. But I know that if I + did he would tell me that he found it quite impossible to keep up with Mr. + Rockefeller. No doubt Mr. Rockefeller has the same feeling. + </p> + <p> + On the other hand there are, and there must be rich people, somewhere. I + run across traces of them all the time. The janitor in the building where + I work has told me that he has a rich cousin in England who is in the + South-Western Railway and gets ten pounds a week. He says the railway + wouldn't know what to do without him. In the same way the lady who washes + at my house has a rich uncle. He lives in Winnipeg and owns his own house, + clear, and has two girls at the high school. + </p> + <p> + But these are only reported cases of richness. I cannot vouch for them + myself. + </p> + <p> + When I speak therefore of rich people and discuss whether they are happy, + it is understood that I am merely drawing my conclusions from the people + whom I see and know. + </p> + <p> + My judgment is that the rich undergo cruel trials and bitter tragedies of + which the poor know nothing. + </p> + <p> + In the first place I find that the rich suffer perpetually from money + troubles. The poor sit snugly at home while sterling exchange falls ten + points in a day. Do they care? Not a bit. An adverse balance of trade + washes over the nation like a flood. Who have to mop it up? The rich. Call + money rushes up to a hundred per cent, and the poor can still sit and + laugh at a ten cent moving picture show and forget it. + </p> + <p> + But the rich are troubled by money all the time. + </p> + <p> + I know a man, for example—his name is Spugg—whose private bank + account was overdrawn last month twenty thousand dollars. He told me so at + dinner at his club, with apologies for feeling out of sorts. He said it + was bothering him. He said he thought it rather unfair of his bank to have + called his attention to it. I could sympathise, in a sort of way, with his + feelings. My own account was overdrawn twenty cents at the time. I knew + that if the bank began calling in overdrafts it might be my turn next. + Spugg said he supposed he'd have to telephone his secretary in the morning + to sell some bonds and cover it. It seemed an awful thing to have to do. + Poor people are never driven to this sort of thing. I have known cases of + their having to sell a little furniture, perhaps, but imagine having to + sell the very bonds out of one's desk. There's a bitterness about it that + the poor man can never know. + </p> + <p> + With this same man, Mr. Spugg, I have often talked of the problem of + wealth. He is a self-made man and he has told me again and again that the + wealth he has accumulated is a mere burden to him. He says that he was + much happier when he had only the plain, simple things of life. Often as I + sit at dinner with him over a meal of nine courses, he tells me how much + he would prefer a plain bit of boiled pork with a little mashed turnip. He + says that if he had his way he would make his dinner out of a couple of + sausages, fried with a bit of bread. I forgot what it is that stands in + his way. I have seen Spugg put aside his glass of champagne—or his + glass after he had drunk his champagne—with an expression of + something like contempt. He says that he remembers a running creek at the + back of his father's farm where he used to lie at full length upon the + grass and drink his fill. Champagne, he says, never tasted like that. I + have suggested that he should lie on his stomach on the floor of the club + and drink a saucerful of soda water. But he won't. + </p> + <p> + I know well that my friend Spugg would be glad to be rid of his wealth + altogether, if such a thing were possible. Till I understood about these + things, I always imagined that wealth could be given away. It appears that + it cannot. It is a burden that one must carry. Wealth, if one has enough + of it, becomes a form of social service. One regards it as a means of + doing good to the world, of helping to brighten the lives of others—in + a word, a solemn trust. Spugg has often talked with me so long and so late + on this topic—the duty of brightening the lives of others—that + the waiter who held blue flames for his cigarettes fell asleep against a + door post, and the chauffeur outside froze to the seat of his motor. + </p> + <p> + Spugg's wealth, I say, he regards as a solemn trust. I have often asked + him why he didn't give it, for example, to a college. But he tells me that + unfortunately he is not a college man. I have called his attention to the + need of further pensions for college professors; after all that Mr. + Carnegie and others have done, there are still thousands and thousands of + old professors of thirty-five and even forty, working away day after day + and getting nothing but what they earn themselves, and with no provision + beyond the age of eighty-five. But Mr. Spugg says that these men are the + nation's heroes. Their work is its own reward. + </p> + <p> + But, after all, Mr. Spugg's troubles—for he is a single man with no + ties—are in a sense selfish. It is perhaps in the homes, or more + properly in the residences, of the rich that the great silent tragedies + are being enacted every day—tragedies of which the fortunate poor + know and can know nothing. + </p> + <p> + I saw such a case only a few nights ago at the house of the + Ashcroft-Fowlers, where I was dining. As we went in to dinner, Mrs. + Ashcroft-Fowler said in a quiet aside to her husband, "Has Meadows + spoken?" He shook his head rather gloomily and answered, "No, he has said + nothing yet." I saw them exchange a glance of quiet sympathy and mutual + help, like people in trouble, who love one another. + </p> + <p> + They were old friends and my heart beat for them. All through the dinner + as Meadows—he was their butler—poured out the wine with each + course, I could feel that some great trouble was impending over my + friends. + </p> + <p> + After Mrs. Ashcroft-Fowler had risen and left us, and we were alone over + our port wine, I drew my chair near to Fowler's and I said, "My dear + Fowler, I'm an old friend and you'll excuse me if I seem to be taking a + liberty. But I can see that you and your wife are in trouble." + </p> + <p> + "Yes," he said very sadly and quietly, "we are." + </p> + <p> + "Excuse me," I said. "Tell me—for it makes a thing easier if one + talks about it—is it anything about Meadows?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes," he said, "it is about Meadows." + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a moment, but I knew already what Fowler was going + to say. I could feel it coming. + </p> + <p> + "Meadows," he said presently, constraining himself to speak with as little + emotion as possible, "is leaving us." + </p> + <p> + "Poor old chap!" I said, taking his hand. + </p> + <p> + "It's hard, isn't it?" he said. "Franklin left last winter—no fault + of ours; we did everything we could —and now Meadows." + </p> + <p> + There was almost a sob in his voice. + </p> + <p> + "He hasn't spoken definitely as yet," Fowler went on, "but we know there's + hardly any chance of his staying." + </p> + <p> + "Does he give any reason?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "Nothing specific," said Fowler. "It's just a sheer case of + incompatibility. Meadows doesn't like us." + </p> + <p> + He put his hand over his face and was silent. + </p> + <p> + I left very quietly a little later, without going up to the drawing-room. + A few days afterwards I heard that Meadows had gone. The Ashcroft-Fowlers, + I am told, are giving up in despair. They are going to take a little suite + of ten rooms and four baths in the Grand Palaver Hotel, and rough it there + for the winter. + </p> + <p> + Yet one must not draw a picture of the rich in colours altogether gloomy. + There are cases among them of genuine, light-hearted happiness. + </p> + <p> + I have observed this is especially the case among those of the rich who + have the good fortune to get ruined, absolutely and completely ruined. + They may do this on the Stock Exchange or by banking or in a dozen other + ways. The business side of getting ruined is not difficult. + </p> + <p> + Once the rich are ruined, they are, as far as my observation goes, all + right. They can then have anything they want. + </p> + <p> + I saw this point illustrated again just recently. I was walking with a + friend of mine and a motor passed bearing a neatly dressed young man, + chatting gaily with a pretty woman. My friend raised his hat and gave it a + jaunty and cheery swing in the air as if to wave goodwill and happiness. + </p> + <p> + "Poor old Edward Overjoy!" he said, as the motor moved out of sight. + </p> + <p> + "What's wrong with him?" I asked. + </p> + <p> + "Hadn't you heard?" said my friend. "He's ruined—absolutely cleaned + out—not a cent left." + </p> + <p> + "Dear me!" I said. "That's awfully hard. I suppose he'll have to sell that + beautiful motor?" + </p> + <p> + My friend shook his head. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, no," he said. "He'll hardly do that. I don't think his wife would + care to sell that." + </p> + <p> + My friend was right. The Overjoys have not sold their motor. Neither have + they sold their magnificent sandstone residence. They are too much + attached to it, I believe, to sell it. Some people thought they would have + given up their box at the opera. But it appears not. They are too musical + to care to do that. Meantime it is a matter of general notoriety that the + Overjoys are absolutely ruined; in fact, they haven't a single cent. You + could buy Overjoy—so I am informed—for ten dollars. + </p> + <p> + But I observe that he still wears a seal-lined coat worth at least five + hundred. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVII. Humour as I See It + </h2> + <p> + It is only fair that at the back of this book I should be allowed a few + pages to myself to put down some things that I really think. + </p> + <p> + Until two weeks ago I might have taken my pen in hand to write about + humour with the confident air of an acknowledged professional. + </p> + <p> + But that time is past. Such claim as I had has been taken from me. In fact + I stand unmasked. An English reviewer writing in a literary journal, the + very name of which is enough to put contradiction to sleep, has said of my + writing, "What is there, after all, in Professor Leacock's humour but a + rather ingenious mixture of hyperbole and myosis?" + </p> + <p> + The man was right. How he stumbled upon this trade secret I do not know. + But I am willing to admit, since the truth is out, that it has long been + my custom in preparing an article of a humorous nature to go down to the + cellar and mix up half a gallon of myosis with a pint of hyperbole. If I + want to give the article a decidedly literary character, I find it well to + put in about half a pint of paresis. The whole thing is amazingly simple. + </p> + <p> + But I only mention this by way of introduction and to dispel any idea that + I am conceited enough to write about humour, with the professional + authority of Ella Wheeler Wilcox writing about love, or Eva Tanguay + talking about dancing. + </p> + <p> + All that I dare claim is that I have as much sense of humour as other + people. And, oddly enough, I notice that everybody else makes this same + claim. Any man will admit, if need be, that his sight is not good, or that + he cannot swim, or shoots badly with a rifle, but to touch upon his sense + of humour is to give him a mortal affront. + </p> + <p> + "No," said a friend of mine the other day, "I never go to Grand Opera," + and then he added with an air of pride, "You see, I have absolutely no ear + for music." + </p> + <p> + "You don't say so!" I exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + "None!" he went on. "I can't tell one tune from another. I don't know <i>Home, + Sweet Home</i> from <i>God Save the King</i>. I can't tell whether a man + is tuning a violin or playing a sonata." + </p> + <p> + He seemed to get prouder and prouder over each item of his own deficiency. + He ended by saying that he had a dog at his house that had a far better + ear for music than he had. As soon as his wife or any visitor started to + play the piano the dog always began to howl—plaintively, he said—as + if it were hurt. He himself never did this. + </p> + <p> + When he had finished I made what I thought a harmless comment. + </p> + <p> + "I suppose," I said, "that you find your sense of humour deficient in the + same way: the two generally go together." + </p> + <p> + My friend was livid with rage in a moment. + </p> + <p> + "Sense of humour!" he said. "My sense of humour! Me without a sense of + humour! Why, I suppose I've a keener sense of humour than any man, or any + two men, in this city!" + </p> + <p> + From that he turned to bitter personal attack. He said that <i>my</i> + sense of humour seemed to have withered altogether. + </p> + <p> + He left me, still quivering with indignation. + </p> + <p> + Personally, however, I do not mind making the admission, however damaging + it may be, that there are certain forms of so-called humour, or, at least, + fun, which I am quite unable to appreciate. Chief among these is that + ancient thing called the Practical Joke. + </p> + <p> + "You never knew McGann, did you?" a friend of mine asked me the other day. + </p> + <p> + When I said I had never known McGann, he shook his head with a sigh, and + said: + </p> + <p> + "Ah, you should have known McGann. He had the greatest sense of humour of + any man I ever knew—always full of jokes. I remember one night at + the boarding-house where we were, he stretched a string across the + passage-way and then rang the dinner bell. One of the boarders broke his + leg. We nearly died laughing." + </p> + <p> + "Dear me!" I said. "What a humorist! Did he often do things like that?" + </p> + <p> + "Oh, yes, he was at them all the time. He used to put tar in the tomato + soup, and beeswax and tin-tacks on the chairs. He was full of ideas. They + seemed to come to him without any trouble." + </p> + <p> + McGann, I understand, is dead. I am not sorry for it. Indeed, I think that + for most of us the time has gone by when we can see the fun of putting + tacks on chairs, or thistles in beds, or live snakes in people's boots. + </p> + <p> + To me it has always seemed that the very essence of good humour is that it + must be without harm and without malice. I admit that there is in all of + us a certain vein of the old original demoniacal humour or joy in the + misfortune of another which sticks to us like our original sin. It ought + not to be funny to see a man, especially a fat and pompous man, slip + suddenly on a banana skin. But it is. When a skater on a pond who is + describing graceful circles, and showing off before the crowd, breaks + through the ice and gets a ducking, everybody shouts with joy. To the + original savage, the cream of the joke in such cases was found if the man + who slipped broke his neck, or the man who went through the ice never came + up again. I can imagine a group of prehistoric men standing round the + ice-hole where he had disappeared and laughing till their sides split. If + there had been such a thing as a prehistoric newspaper, the affair would + have headed up: "<i>Amusing Incident. Unknown Gentleman Breaks Through Ice + and Is Drowned.</i>" + </p> + <p> + But our sense of humour under civilisation has been weakened. Much of the + fun of this sort of thing has been lost on us. + </p> + <p> + Children, however, still retain a large share of this primitive sense of + enjoyment. + </p> + <p> + I remember once watching two little boys making snow-balls at the side of + the street and getting ready a little store of them to use. As they + worked, there came along an old man wearing a silk hat, and belonging by + appearance to the class of "jolly old gentlemen." When he saw the boys his + gold spectacles gleamed with kindly enjoyment. He began waving his arms + and calling, "Now, then, boys, free shot at me! free shot!" In his gaiety + he had, without noticing it, edged himself over the sidewalk on to the + street. An express cart collided with him and knocked him over on his back + in a heap of snow. He lay there gasping and trying to get the snow off his + face and spectacles. The boys gathered up their snow-balls and took a run + toward him. "Free shot!" they yelled. "Soak him! Soak him!" + </p> + <p> + I repeat, however, that for me, as I suppose for most of us, it is a prime + condition of humour that it must be without harm or malice, nor should it + convey incidentally any real picture of sorrow or suffering or death. + There is a great deal in the humour of Scotland (I admit its general + merit) which seems to me not being a Scotchman, to sin in this respect. + Take this familiar story (I quote it as something already known and not + for the sake of telling it). + </p> + <p> + A Scotchman had a sister-in-law—his wife's sister—with whom he + could never agree. He always objected to going anywhere with her, and in + spite of his wife's entreaties always refused to do so. The wife was taken + mortally ill and as she lay dying, she whispered, "John, ye'll drive Janet + with you to the funeral, will ye no?" The Scotchman, after an internal + struggle, answered, "Margaret, I'll do it for ye, but it'll spoil my day." + </p> + <p> + Whatever humour there may be in this is lost for me by the actual and + vivid picture that it conjures up—the dying wife, the darkened room + and the last whispered request. + </p> + <p> + No doubt the Scotch see things differently. That wonderful people—whom + personally I cannot too much admire—always seem to me to prefer + adversity to sunshine, to welcome the prospect of a pretty general + damnation, and to live with grim cheerfulness within the very shadow of + death. Alone among the nations they have converted the devil —under + such names as Old Horny—into a familiar acquaintance not without a + certain grim charm of his own. No doubt also there enters into their + humour something of the original barbaric attitude towards things. For a + primitive people who saw death often and at first hand, and for whom the + future world was a vivid reality that could be <i>felt</i>, as it were, in + the midnight forest and heard in the roaring storm, it was no doubt + natural to turn the flank of terror by forcing a merry and jovial + acquaintance with the unseen world. Such a practice as a wake, and the + merry-making about the corpse, carry us back to the twilight of the world, + with the poor savage in his bewildered misery, pretending that his dead + still lived. Our funeral with its black trappings and its elaborate + ceremonies is the lineal descendant of a merry-making. Our undertaker is, + by evolution, a genial master of ceremonies, keeping things lively at the + death-dance. Thus have the ceremonies and the trappings of death been + transformed in the course of ages till the forced gaiety is gone, and the + black hearse and the gloomy mutes betoken the cold dignity of our despair. + </p> + <p> + But I fear this article is getting serious. I must apologise. + </p> + <p> + I was about to say, when I wandered from the point, that there is another + form of humour which I am also quite unable to appreciate. This is that + particular form of story which may be called, <i>par excellence</i>, the + English Anecdote. It always deals with persons of rank and birth, and, + except for the exalted nature of the subject itself, is, as far as I can + see, absolutely pointless. + </p> + <p> + This is the kind of thing that I mean. + </p> + <p> + "His Grace the Fourth Duke of Marlborough was noted for the open-handed + hospitality which reigned at Blenheim, the family seat, during his regime. + One day on going in to luncheon it was discovered that there were thirty + guests present, whereas the table only held covers for twenty-one. 'Oh, + well,' said the Duke, not a whit abashed, 'some of us will have to eat + standing up.' Everybody, of course, roared with laughter." + </p> + <p> + My only wonder is that they didn't kill themselves with it. A mere roar + doesn't seem enough to do justice to such a story as this. + </p> + <p> + The Duke of Wellington has been made the storm-centre of three generations + of wit of this sort. In fact the typical Duke of Wellington story has been + reduced to a thin skeleton such as this: + </p> + <p> + "A young subaltern once met the Duke of Wellington coming out of + Westminster Abbey. 'Good morning, your Grace,' he said, 'rather a wet + morning.' 'Yes' said the Duke, with a very rigid bow, 'but it was a damn + sight wetter, sir, on the morning of Waterloo.' The young subaltern, + rightly rebuked, hung his head." + </p> + <p> + Nor is it only the English who sin in regard to anecdotes. + </p> + <p> + One can indeed make the sweeping assertion that the telling of stories as + a mode of amusing others ought to be kept within strict limits. Few people + realise how extremely difficult it is to tell a story so as to reproduce + the real fun of it—to "get it over" as the actors say. The mere + "facts" of a story seldom make it funny. It needs the right words, with + every word in its proper place. Here and there, perhaps once in a hundred + times, a story turns up which needs no telling. The humour of it turns so + completely on a sudden twist or incongruity in the <i>denouement</i> of it + that no narrator, however clumsy, can altogether fumble it. + </p> + <p> + Take, for example, this well-known instance—a story which, in one + form or other, everybody has heard. + </p> + <p> + "George Grossmith, the famous comedian, was once badly run down and went + to consult a doctor. It happened that the doctor, though, like everybody + else, he had often seen Grossmith on the stage, had never seen him without + his make-up and did not know him by sight. He examined his patient, looked + at his tongue, felt his pulse and tapped his lungs. Then he shook his + head. 'There's nothing wrong with you, sir,' he said, 'except that you're + run down from overwork and worry. You need rest and amusement. Take a + night off and go and see George Grossmith at the Savoy.' 'Thank you,' said + the patient, 'I <i>am</i> George Grossmith.'" + </p> + <p> + Let the reader please observe that I have purposely told this story all + wrongly, just as wrongly as could be, and yet there is something left of + it. Will the reader kindly look back to the beginning of it and see for + himself just how it ought to be narrated and what obvious error has been + made? If he has any particle of the artist in his make-up, he will see at + once that the story ought to begin: + </p> + <p> + "One day a very haggard and nervous-looking patient called at the house of + a fashionable doctor, etc. etc." + </p> + <p> + In other words, the chief point of the joke lies in keeping it concealed + till the moment when the patient says, "Thank you, I am George Grossmith." + But the story is such a good one that it cannot be completely spoiled even + when told wrongly. This particular anecdote has been variously told of + George Grossmith, Coquelin, Joe Jefferson, John Hare, Cyril Maude, and + about sixty others. And I have noticed that there is a certain type of man + who, on hearing this story about Grossmith, immediately tells it all back + again, putting in the name of somebody else, and goes into new fits of + laughter over it, as if the change of name made it brand new. + </p> + <p> + But few people, I repeat, realise the difficulty of reproducing a humorous + or comic effect in its original spirit. + </p> + <p> + "I saw Harry Lauder last night," said Griggs, a Stock Exchange friend of + mine, as we walked up town together the other day. "He came on to the + stage in kilts" (here Grigg started to chuckle) "and he had a slate under + his arm" (here Griggs began to laugh quite heartily), "and he said, 'I + always like to carry a slate with me' (of course he said it in Scotch but + I can't do the Scotch the way he does it) 'just in case there might be any + figures I'd be wanting to put down'" (by this time, Griggs was almost + suffocated with laughter)—"and he took a little bit-of chalk out of + his pocket, and he said" (Griggs was now almost hysterical), "'I like to + carry a wee bit chalk along because I find the slate is'" (Griggs was now + faint with laughter) "'the slate is—is—not much good without + the chalk.'" + </p> + <p> + Griggs had to stop, with his hand to his side, and lean against a + lamp-post. "I can't, of course, do the Scotch the way Harry Lauder does + it," he repeated. + </p> + <p> + Exactly. He couldn't do the Scotch and he couldn't do the rich mellow + voice of Mr. Lauder and the face beaming with merriment, and the + spectacles glittering with amusement, and he couldn't do the slate, nor + the "wee bit chalk"—in fact he couldn't do any of it. He ought + merely to have said, "Harry Lauder," and leaned up against a post and + laughed till he had got over it. + </p> + <p> + Yet in spite of everything, people insist on spoiling conversation by + telling stories. I know nothing more dreadful at a dinner table than one + of these amateur raconteurs—except perhaps, two of them. After about + three stories have been told, there falls on the dinner table an + uncomfortable silence, in which everybody is aware that everybody else is + trying hard to think of another story, and is failing to find it. There is + no peace in the gathering again till some man of firm and quiet mind turns + to his neighbour and says, "But after all there is no doubt that whether + we like it or not prohibition is coming." Then everybody in his heart + says, "Thank heaven!" and the whole tableful are happy and contented + again, till one of the story-tellers "thinks of another," and breaks + loose. + </p> + <p> + Worst of all perhaps is the modest story-teller who is haunted by the idea + that one has heard this story before. He attacks you after this fashion: + </p> + <p> + "I heard a very good story the other day on the steamer going to Bermuda"—then + he pauses with a certain doubt in his face—"but perhaps you've heard + this?" + </p> + <p> + "No, no, I've never been to Bermuda. Go ahead." + </p> + <p> + "Well, this is a story that they tell about a man who went down to Bermuda + one winter to get cured of rheumatism —but you've heard this?" + </p> + <p> + "No, no." + </p> + <p> + "Well he had rheumatism pretty bad and he went to Bermuda to get cured of + it. And so when he went into the hotel he said to the clerk at the desk—but, + perhaps you know this." + </p> + <p> + "No, no, go right ahead." + </p> + <p> + "Well, he said to the clerk, 'I want a room that looks out over the sea'—but + perhaps—" + </p> + <p> + Now the sensible thing to do is to stop the narrator right at this point. + Say to him quietly and firmly, "Yes, I have heard that story. I always + liked it ever since it came out in <i>Tit Bits</i> in 1878, and I read it + every time I see it. Go on and tell it to me and I'll sit back with my + eyes closed and enjoy it." + </p> + <p> + No doubt the story-telling habit owes much to the fact that ordinary + people, quite unconsciously, rate humour very low: I mean, they + underestimate the difficulty of "making humour." It would never occur to + them that the thing is hard, meritorious and dignified. Because the result + is gay and light, they think the process must be. Few people would realise + that it is much harder to write one of Owen Seaman's "funny" poems in <i>Punch</i> + than to write one of the Archbishop of Canterbury's sermons. Mark Twain's + <i>Huckleberry Finn</i> is a greater work than Kant's <i>Critique of Pure + Reason</i>, and Charles Dickens's creation of Mr. Pickwick did more for + the elevation of the human race—I say it in all seriousness—than + Cardinal Newman's <i>Lead, Kindly Light, Amid the Encircling Gloom</i>. + Newman only cried out for light in the gloom of a sad world. Dickens gave + it. + </p> + <p> + But the deep background that lies behind and beyond what we call humour is + revealed only to the few who, by instinct or by effort, have given thought + to it. The world's humour, in its best and greatest sense, is perhaps the + highest product of our civilisation. One thinks here not of the mere + spasmodic effects of the comic artist or the blackface expert of the + vaudeville show, but of the really great humour which, once or twice in a + generation at best, illuminates and elevates our literature. It is no + longer dependent upon the mere trick and quibble of words, or the odd and + meaningless incongruities in things that strike us as "funny." Its basis + lies in the deeper contrasts offered by life itself: the strange + incongruity between our aspiration and our achievement, the eager and + fretful anxieties of to-day that fade into nothingness to-morrow, the + burning pain and the sharp sorrow that are softened in the gentle + retrospect of time, till as we look back upon the course that has been + traversed we pass in view the panorama of our lives, as people in old age + may recall, with mingled tears and smiles, the angry quarrels of their + childhood. And here, in its larger aspect, humour is blended with pathos + till the two are one, and represent, as they have in every age, the + mingled heritage of tears and laughter that is our lot on earth. + </p> + <h3> + END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11504 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |