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Jerome</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Second Thoughts of an Idle Fellow, by +Jerome K. Jerome + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Second Thoughts of an Idle Fellow + + +Author: Jerome K. Jerome + + + +Release Date: May 20, 2015 [eBook #1915] +[This file was first posted in February 17, 1999] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECOND THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE +FELLOW*** +</pre> +<p>This etext was prepared by Les Bowler from the 1899 Hurst and +Blackett edition.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" + src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>The Second Thoughts<br /> +of<br /> +An Idle Fellow</h1> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">By</span><br /> +JEROME K. JEROME<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AUTHOR OF</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">‘THREE MEN IN A BOAT,’ +‘IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW,’</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">‘STAGELAND,’ ‘JOHN +INGERFIELD,’ ETC.</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">LONDON</span><br /> +HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED<br /> +13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET<br /> +1899<br /> +<span class="GutSmall"><i>All rights reserved</i></span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="gutindent">First printing published August 17, 1898.<br +/> +Second printing published September 2, 1898.<br /> +Third printing published November 1, 1898.<br /> +Fourth printing published January 1, 1899.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall"><span +class="smcap">Richard Clay</span></span><span class="GutSmall"> +& </span><span class="GutSmall"><span +class="smcap">Sons</span></span><span class="GutSmall">, +</span><span class="GutSmall"><span +class="smcap">Limited</span></span><span class="GutSmall">, +</span><span class="GutSmall"><span +class="smcap">London</span></span><span class="GutSmall"> & +</span><span class="GutSmall"><span +class="smcap">Bungay</span></span><span +class="GutSmall">.</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Art of Making Up One’s +Mind</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Disadvantage of Not Getting +What One Wants</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Exceptional Merit attaching to +the Things We Meant To Do</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Preparation and Employment of +Love Philtres</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Delights and Benefits of +Slavery</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page119">119</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Care and Management of +Women</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page149">149</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Minding of Other People’s +Business</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page175">175</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Time Wasted in Looking Before +One Leaps</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page215">215</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Nobility of +Ourselves</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page245">245</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Motherliness of Man</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page271">271</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Inadvisability of Following +Advice</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page301">301</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Playing of Marches at the +Funerals Of Marionettes</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page335">335</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>ON THE +ART OF MAKING UP ONE’S MIND</h2> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Now</span>, which would you advise, +dear? You see, with the red I shan’t be able to wear +my magenta hat.”</p> +<p>“Well then, why not have the grey?”</p> +<p>“Yes—yes, I think the grey will be <i>more +useful</i>.”</p> +<p>“It’s a good material.”</p> +<p>“Yes, and it’s a <i>pretty</i> grey. You +know what I mean, dear; not a <i>common</i> grey. Of course +grey is always an <i>uninteresting</i> colour.”</p> +<p>“It’s quiet.”</p> +<p>“And then again, what I feel about the red is that it is +so warm-looking. Red makes you <i>feel</i> warm even when +you’re <i>not</i> warm. You know what I mean, +dear!”</p> +<p>“Well then, why not have the red? It suits +you—red.”</p> +<p>“No; do you really think so?”</p> +<p>“Well, when you’ve got a colour, I mean, of +course!”</p> +<p>“Yes, that is the drawback to red. No, I think, on +the whole, the grey is <i>safer</i>.”</p> +<p>“Then you will take the grey, madam?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I think I’d better; don’t you, +dear?”</p> +<p>“I like it myself very much.”</p> +<p>“And it is good wearing stuff. I shall have it +trimmed with— Oh! you haven’t cut it off, have +you?”</p> +<p>“I was just about to, madam.”</p> +<p>“Well, don’t for a moment. Just let me have +another look at the red. You see, dear, it has just +occurred to me—that chinchilla would look so well on the +red!”</p> +<p>“So it would, dear!”</p> +<p>“And, you see, I’ve <i>got</i> the +chinchilla.”</p> +<p>“Then have the red. Why not?”</p> +<p>“Well, there is the hat I’m thinking +of.”</p> +<p>“You haven’t anything else you could wear with +that?”</p> +<p>“Nothing at all, and it would go so <i>beautifully</i> +with the grey.—Yes, I think I’ll have the grey. +It’s always a safe colour—grey.”</p> +<p>“Fourteen yards I think you said, madam?”</p> +<p>“Yes, fourteen yards will be enough; because I shall mix +it with—One minute. You see, dear, if I take the grey +I shall have nothing to wear with my black jacket.”</p> +<p>“Won’t it go with grey?”</p> +<p>“Not well—not so well as with red.”</p> +<p>“I should have the red then. You evidently fancy +it yourself.”</p> +<p>“No, personally I prefer the grey. But then one +must think of <i>everything</i>, and—Good gracious! +that’s surely not the right time?”</p> +<p>“No, madam, it’s ten minutes slow. We always +keep our clocks a little slow!”</p> +<p>“And we were too have been at Madame Jannaway’s at +a quarter past twelve. How long shopping does take! +Why, whatever time did we start?”</p> +<p>“About eleven, wasn’t it?”</p> +<p>“Half-past ten. I remember now; because, you know, +we said we’d start at half-past nine. We’ve +been two hours already!”</p> +<p>“And we don’t seem to have done much, do +we?”</p> +<p>“Done literally nothing, and I meant to have done so +much. I <i>must</i> go to Madame Jannaway’s. +Have you got my purse, dear? Oh, it’s all right, +I’ve got it.”</p> +<p>“Well, now you haven’t decided whether +you’re going to have the grey or the red.”</p> +<p>“I’m sure I don’t know what I <i>do</i> want +now. I had made up my mind a minute ago, and now it’s +all gone again—oh yes, I remember, the red. Yes, +I’ll have the red. No, I don’t mean the red, I +mean the grey.”</p> +<p>“You were talking about the red last time, if you +remember, dear.”</p> +<p>“Oh, so I was, you’re quite right. +That’s the worst of shopping. Do you know I get quite +confused sometimes.”</p> +<p>“Then you will decide on the red, madam?”</p> +<p>“Yes—yes, I shan’t do any better, shall I, +dear? What do <i>you</i> think? You haven’t got +any other shades of red, have you? This is such an +<i>ugly</i> red.”</p> +<p>The shopman reminds her that she has seen all the other reds, +and that this is the particular shade she selected and +admired.</p> +<p>“Oh, very well,” she replies, with the air of one +from whom all earthly cares are falling, “I must take that +then, I suppose. I can’t be worried about it any +longer. I’ve wasted half the morning +already.”</p> +<p>Outside she recollects three insuperable objections to the +red, and four unanswerable arguments why she should have selected +the grey. She wonders would they change it, if she went +back and asked to see the shop-walker? Her friend, who +wants her lunch, thinks not.</p> +<p>“That is what I hate about shopping,” she +says. “One never has time to really +<i>think</i>.”</p> +<p>She says she shan’t go to that shop again.</p> +<p>We laugh at her, but are we so very much better? Come, +my superior male friend, have you never stood, amid your +wardrobe, undecided whether, in her eyes, you would appear more +imposing, clad in the rough tweed suit that so admirably displays +your broad shoulders; or in the orthodox black frock, that, after +all, is perhaps more suitable to the figure of a man +approaching—let us say, the nine-and-twenties? Or, +better still, why not riding costume? Did we not hear her +say how well Jones looked in his top-boots and breeches, and, +“hang it all,” we have a better leg than Jones. +What a pity riding-breeches are made so baggy nowadays. Why +is it that male fashions tend more and more to hide the male +leg? As women have become less and less ashamed of theirs, +we have become more and more reticent of ours. Why are the +silken hose, the tight-fitting pantaloons, the neat kneebreeches +of our forefathers impossible to-day? Are we grown more +modest—or has there come about a falling off, rendering +concealment advisable?</p> +<p>I can never understand, myself, why women love us. It +must be our honest worth, our sterling merit, that attracts +them—certainly not our appearance, in a pair of tweed +“dittos,” black angora coat and vest, stand-up +collar, and chimney-pot hat! No, it must be our sheer force +of character that compels their admiration.</p> +<p>What a good time our ancestors must have had was borne in upon +me when, on one occasion, I appeared in character at a fancy +dress ball. What I represented I am unable to say, and I +don’t particularly care. I only know it was something +military. I also remember that the costume was two sizes +too small for me in the chest, and thereabouts; and three sizes +too large for me in the hat. I padded the hat, and dined in +the middle of the day off a chop and half a glass of +soda-water. I have gained prizes as a boy for mathematics, +also for scripture history—not often, but I have done +it. A literary critic, now dead, once praised a book of +mine. I know there have been occasions when my conduct has +won the approbation of good men; but never—never in my +whole life, have I felt more proud, more satisfied with myself +than on that evening when, the last hook fastened, I gazed at my +full-length Self in the cheval glass. I was a dream. +I say it who should not; but I am not the only one who said +it. I was a glittering dream. The groundwork was red, +trimmed with gold braid wherever there was room for gold braid; +and where there was no more possible room for gold braid there +hung gold cords, and tassels, and straps. Gold buttons and +buckles fastened me, gold embroidered belts and sashes caressed +me, white horse-hair plumes waved o’er me. I am not +sure that everything was in its proper place, but I managed to +get everything on somehow, and I looked well. It suited +me. My success was a revelation to me of female human +nature. Girls who had hitherto been cold and distant +gathered round me, timidly solicitous of notice. Girls on +whom I smiled lost their heads and gave themselves airs. +Girls who were not introduced to me sulked and were rude to girls +that had been. For one poor child, with whom I sat out two +dances (at least she sat, while I stood gracefully beside +her—I had been advised, by the costumier, <i>not</i> to +sit), I was sorry. He was a worthy young fellow, the son of +a cotton broker, and he would have made her a good husband, I +feel sure. But he was foolish to come as a beer-bottle.</p> +<p>Perhaps, after all, it is as well those old fashions have gone +out. A week in that suit might have impaired my natural +modesty.</p> +<p>One wonders that fancy dress balls are not more popular in +this grey age of ours. The childish instinct to +“dress up,” to “make believe,” is with us +all. We grow so tired of being always ourselves. A +tea-table discussion, at which I once assisted, fell into +this:—Would any one of us, when it came to the point, +change with anybody else, the poor man with the millionaire, the +governess with the princess—change not only outward +circumstances and surroundings, but health and temperament, +heart, brain, and soul; so that not one mental or physical +particle of one’s original self one would retain, save only +memory? The general opinion was that we would not, but one +lady maintained the affirmative.</p> +<p>“Oh no, you wouldn’t really, dear,” argued a +friend; “you <i>think</i> you would.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I would,” persisted the first lady; “I +am tired of myself. I’d even be you, for a +change.”</p> +<p>In my youth, the question chiefly important to me +was—What sort of man shall I decide to be? At +nineteen one asks oneself this question; at thirty-nine we say, +“I wish Fate hadn’t made me this sort of +man.”</p> +<p>In those days I was a reader of much well-meant advice to +young men, and I gathered that, whether I should become a Sir +Lancelot, a Herr Teufelsdrockh, or an Iago was a matter for my +own individual choice. Whether I should go through life +gaily or gravely was a question the pros and cons of which I +carefully considered. For patterns I turned to books. +Byron was then still popular, and many of us made up our minds to +be gloomy, saturnine young men, weary with the world, and prone +to soliloquy. I determined to join them.</p> +<p>For a month I rarely smiled, or, when I did, it was with a +weary, bitter smile, concealing a broken heart—at least +that was the intention. Shallow-minded observers +misunderstood.</p> +<p>“I know exactly how it feels,” they would say, +looking at me sympathetically, “I often have it +myself. It’s the sudden change in the weather, I +think;” and they would press neat brandy upon me, and +suggest ginger.</p> +<p>Again, it is distressing to the young man, busy burying his +secret sorrow under a mound of silence, to be slapped on the back +by commonplace people and asked—“Well, how’s +‘the hump’ this morning?” and to hear his mood +of dignified melancholy referred to, by those who should know +better, as “the sulks.”</p> +<p>There are practical difficulties also in the way of him who +would play the Byronic young gentleman. He must be +supernaturally wicked—or rather must <i>have been</i>; +only, alas! in the unliterary grammar of life, where the future +tense stands first, and the past is formed, not from the +indefinite, but from the present indicative, “to have +been” is “to be”; and to be wicked on a small +income is impossible. The ruin of even the simplest of +maidens costs money. In the Courts of Love one cannot sue +in <i>formâ pauperis</i>; nor would it be the Byronic +method.</p> +<p>“To drown remembrance in the cup” sounds well, but +then the “cup,” to be fitting, should be of some +expensive brand. To drink deep of old Tokay or Asti is +poetical; but when one’s purse necessitates that the +draught, if it is to be deep enough to drown anything, should be +of thin beer at five-and-nine the four and a half gallon cask, or +something similar in price, sin is robbed of its flavour.</p> +<p>Possibly also—let me think it—the conviction may +have been within me that Vice, even at its daintiest, is but an +ugly, sordid thing, repulsive in the sunlight; that +though—as rags and dirt to art—it may afford +picturesque material to Literature, it is an evil-smelling +garment to the wearer; one that a good man, by reason of poverty +of will, may come down to, but one to be avoided with all +one’s effort, discarded with returning mental +prosperity.</p> +<p>Be this as it may, I grew weary of training for a saturnine +young man; and, in the midst of my doubt, I chanced upon a book +the hero of which was a debonnaire young buck, own cousin to Tom +and Jerry. He attended fights, both of cocks and men, +flirted with actresses, wrenched off door-knockers, extinguished +street lamps, played many a merry jest upon many an +unappreciative night watch-man. For all the which he was +much beloved by the women of the book. Why should not I +flirt with actresses, put out street lamps, play pranks on +policemen, and be beloved? London life was changed since +the days of my hero, but much remained, and the heart of woman is +eternal. If no longer prizefighting was to be had, at least +there were boxing competitions, so called, in dingy back parlours +out Whitechapel way. Though cockfighting was a lost sport, +were there not damp cellars near the river where for twopence a +gentleman might back mongrel terriers to kill rats against time, +and feel himself indeed a sportsman? True, the atmosphere +of reckless gaiety, always surrounding my hero, I missed myself +from these scenes, finding in its place an atmosphere more +suggestive of gin, stale tobacco, and nervous apprehension of the +police; but the essentials must have been the same, and the next +morning I could exclaim in the very words of my +prototype—“Odds crickets, but I feel as though the +devil himself were in my head. Peste take me for a +fool.”</p> +<p>But in this direction likewise my fatal lack of means opposed +me. (It affords much food to the philosophic mind, this influence +of income upon character.) Even fifth-rate “boxing +competitions,” organized by “friendly leads,” +and ratting contests in Rotherhithe slums, become expensive, when +you happen to be the only gentleman present possessed of a +collar, and are expected to do the honours of your class in +dog’s-nose. True, climbing lamp-posts and putting out +the gas is fairly cheap, providing always you are not caught in +the act, but as a recreation it lacks variety. Nor is the +modern London lamp-post adapted to sport. Anything more +difficult to grip—anything with less “give” in +it—I have rarely clasped. The disgraceful amount of +dirt allowed to accumulate upon it is another drawback from the +climber’s point of view. By the time you have swarmed +up your third post a positive distaste for “gaiety” +steals over you. Your desire is towards arnica and a +bath.</p> +<p>Nor in jokes at the expense of policemen is the fun entirely +on your side. Maybe I did not proceed with judgment. +It occurs to me now, looking back, that the neighbourhoods of +Covent Garden and Great Marlborough Street were ill-chosen for +sport of this nature. To bonnet a fat policeman is +excellent fooling. While he is struggling with his helmet +you can ask him comic questions, and by the time he has got his +head free you are out of sight. But the game should be +played in a district where there is not an average of three +constables to every dozen square yards. When two other +policemen, who have had their eye on you for the past ten +minutes, are watching the proceedings from just round the next +corner, you have little or no leisure for due enjoyment of the +situation. By the time you have run the whole length of +Great Titchfield Street and twice round Oxford Market, you are of +opinion that a joke should never be prolonged beyond the point at +which there is danger of its becoming wearisome; and that the +time has now arrived for home and friends. The +“Law,” on the other hand, now raised by +reinforcements to a strength of six or seven men, is just +beginning to enjoy the chase. You picture to yourself, +while doing Hanover Square, the scene in Court the next +morning. You will be accused of being drunk and +disorderly. It will be idle for you to explain to the +magistrate (or to your relations afterwards) that you were only +trying to live up to a man who did this sort of thing in a book +and was admired for it. You will be fined the usual forty +shillings; and on the next occasion of your calling at the +Mayfields’ the girls will be out, and Mrs. Mayfield, an +excellent lady, who has always taken a motherly interest in you, +will talk seriously to you and urge you to sign the pledge.</p> +<p>Thanks to your youth and constitution you shake off the +pursuit at Notting Hill; and, to avoid any chance of unpleasant +<i>contretemps</i> on the return journey, walk home to Bloomsbury +by way of Camden Town and Islington.</p> +<p>I abandoned sportive tendencies as the result of a vow made by +myself to Providence, during the early hours of a certain Sunday +morning, while clinging to the waterspout of an unpretentious +house situate in a side street off Soho. I put it to +Providence as man to man. “Let me only get out of +this,” I think were the muttered words I used, “and +no more ‘sport’ for me.” Providence +closed on the offer, and did let me get out of it. True, it +was a complicated “get out,” involving a broken +skylight and three gas globes, two hours in a coal cellar, and a +sovereign to a potman for the loan of an ulster; and when at +last, secure in my chamber, I took stock of myself—what was +left of me,—I could not but reflect that Providence might +have done the job neater. Yet I experienced no desire to +escape the terms of the covenant; my inclining for the future was +towards a life of simplicity.</p> +<p>Accordingly, I cast about for a new character, and found one +to suit me. The German professor was becoming popular as a +hero about this period. He wore his hair long and was +otherwise untidy, but he had “a heart of steel,” +occasionally of gold. The majority of folks in the book, +judging him from his exterior together with his +conversation—in broken English, dealing chiefly with his +dead mother and his little sister Lisa,—dubbed him +uninteresting, but then they did not know about the heart. +His chief possession was a lame dog which he had rescued from a +brutal mob; and when he was not talking broken English he was +nursing this dog.</p> +<p>But his speciality was stopping runaway horses, thereby saving +the heroine’s life. This, combined with the broken +English and the dog, rendered him irresistible.</p> +<p>He seemed a peaceful, amiable sort of creature, and I decided +to try him. I could not of course be a German professor, +but I could, and did, wear my hair long in spite of much public +advice to the contrary, voiced chiefly by small boys. I +endeavoured to obtain possession of a lame dog, but failed. +A one-eyed dealer in Seven Dials, to whom, as a last resource, I +applied, offered to lame one for me for an extra five shillings, +but this suggestion I declined. I came across an +uncanny-looking mongrel late one night. He was not lame, +but he seemed pretty sick; and, feeling I was not robbing anybody +of anything very valuable, I lured him home and nursed him. +I fancy I must have over-nursed him. He got so healthy in +the end, there was no doing anything with him. He was an +ill-conditioned cur, and he was too old to be taught. He +became the curse of the neighbourhood. His idea of sport +was killing chickens and sneaking rabbits from outside +poulterers’ shops. For recreation he killed cats and +frightened small children by yelping round their legs. +There were times when I could have lamed him myself, if only I +could have got hold of him. I made nothing by running that +dog—nothing whatever. People, instead of admiring me +for nursing him back to life, called me a fool, and said that if +I didn’t drown the brute they would. He spoilt my +character utterly—I mean my character at this period. +It is difficult to pose as a young man with a heart of gold, when +discovered in the middle of the road throwing stones at your own +dog. And stones were the only things that would reach and +influence him.</p> +<p>I was also hampered by a scarcity in runaway horses. The +horse of our suburb was not that type of horse. Once and +only once did an opportunity offer itself for practice. It +was a good opportunity, inasmuch as he was not running away very +greatly. Indeed, I doubt if he knew himself that he was +running away. It transpired afterwards that it was a habit +of his, after waiting for his driver outside the Rose and Crown +for what he considered to be a reasonable period, to trot home on +his own account. He passed me going about seven miles an +hour, with the reins dragging conveniently beside him. He +was the very thing for a beginner, and I prepared myself. +At the critical moment, however, a couple of officious policemen +pushed me aside and did it themselves.</p> +<p>There was nothing for me to regret, as the matter turned +out. I should only have rescued a bald-headed commercial +traveller, very drunk, who swore horribly, and pelted the crowd +with empty collar-boxes.</p> +<p>From the window of a very high flat I once watched three men, +resolved to stop a runaway horse. Each man marched +deliberately into the middle of the road and took up his +stand. My window was too far away for me to see their +faces, but their attitude suggested heroism unto death. The +first man, as the horse came charging towards him, faced it with +his arms spread out. He never flinched until the horse was +within about twenty yards of him. Then, as the animal was +evidently determined to continue its wild career, there was +nothing left for him to do but to retire again to the kerb, where +he stood looking after it with evident sorrow, as though saying +to himself—“Oh, well, if you are going to be +headstrong I have done with you.”</p> +<p>The second man, on the catastrophe being thus left clear for +him, without a moment’s hesitation, walked up a bye street +and disappeared. The third man stood his ground, and, as +the horse passed him, yelled at it. I could not hear what +he said. I have not the slightest doubt it was excellent +advice, but the animal was apparently too excited even to +listen. The first and the third man met afterwards, and +discussed the matter sympathetically. I judged they were +regretting the pig-headedness of runaway horses in general, and +hoping that nobody had been hurt.</p> +<p>I forget the other characters I assumed about this +period. One, I know, that got me into a good deal of +trouble was that of a downright, honest, hearty, outspoken young +man who always said what he meant.</p> +<p>I never knew but one man who made a real success of speaking +his mind. I have heard him slap the table with his open +hand and exclaim—</p> +<p>“You want me to flatter you—to stuff you up with a +pack of lies. That’s not me, that’s not Jim +Compton. But if you care for my honest opinion, all I can +say is, that child is the most marvellous performer on the piano +I’ve ever heard. I don’t say she is a genius, +but I have heard Liszt and Metzler and all the crack players, and +I prefer <i>her</i>. That’s my opinion. I speak +my mind, and I can’t help it if you’re +offended.”</p> +<p>“How refreshing,” the parents would say, “to +come across a man who is not afraid to say what he really +thinks. Why are we not all outspoken?”</p> +<p>The last character I attempted I thought would be easy to +assume. It was that of a much admired and beloved young +man, whose great charm lay in the fact that he was always +just—himself. Other people posed and acted. He +never made any effort to be anything but his own natural, simple +self.</p> +<p>I thought I also would be my own natural, simple self. +But then the question arose—What was my own natural, simple +self?</p> +<p>That was the preliminary problem I had to solve; I have +not solved it to this day. What am I? I am a great +gentleman, walking through the world with dauntless heart and +head erect, scornful of all meanness, impatient of all +littleness. I am a mean-thinking, little-daring +man—the type of man that I of the dauntless heart and the +erect head despise greatly—crawling to a poor end by +devious ways, cringing to the strong, timid of all pain. +I—but, dear reader, I will not sadden your sensitive ears +with details I could give you, showing how contemptible a +creature this wretched I happens to be. Nor would you +understand me. You would only be astonished, discovering +that such disreputable specimens of humanity contrive to exist in +this age. It is best, my dear sir, or madam, you should +remain ignorant of these evil persons. Let me not trouble +you with knowledge.</p> +<p>I am a philosopher, greeting alike the thunder and the +sunshine with frolic welcome. Only now and then, when all +things do not fall exactly as I wish them, when foolish, wicked +people will persist in doing foolish, wicked acts, affecting my +comfort and happiness, I rage and fret a goodish deal.</p> +<p>As Heine said of himself, I am knight, too, of the Holy Grail, +valiant for the Truth, reverent of all women, honouring all men, +eager to yield life to the service of my great Captain.</p> +<p>And next moment, I find myself in the enemy’s lines, +fighting under the black banner. (It must be confusing to +these opposing Generals, all their soldiers being deserters from +both armies.) What are women but men’s +playthings! Shall there be no more cakes and ale for me +because thou art virtuous! What are men but hungry dogs, +contending each against each for a limited supply of bones! +Do others lest thou be done. What is the Truth but an +unexploded lie!</p> +<p>I am a lover of all living things. You, my poor sister, +struggling with your heavy burden on your lonely way, I would +kiss the tears from your worn cheeks, lighten with my love the +darkness around your feet. You, my patient brother, +breathing hard as round and round you tramp the trodden path, +like some poor half-blind gin-horse, stripes your only +encouragement, scanty store of dry chaff in your manger! I +would jog beside you, taking the strain a little from your aching +shoulders; and we would walk nodding, our heads side by side, and +you, remembering, should tell me of the fields where long ago you +played, of the gallant races that you ran and won. And you, +little pinched brats, with wondering eyes, looking from +dirt-encrusted faces, I would take you in my arms and tell you +fairy stories. Into the sweet land of make-believe we would +wander, leaving the sad old world behind us for a time, and you +should be Princes and Princesses, and know Love.</p> +<p>But again, a selfish, greedy man comes often, and sits in my +clothes. A man who frets away his life, planning how to get +more money—more food, more clothes, more pleasures for +himself; a man so busy thinking of the many things he needs he +has no time to dwell upon the needs of others. He deems +himself the centre of the universe. You would imagine, +hearing him grumbling, that the world had been created and got +ready against the time when he should come to take his pleasure +in it. He would push and trample, heedless, reaching +towards these many desires of his; and when, grabbing, he misses, +he curses Heaven for its injustice, and men and women for getting +in his path. He is not a nice man, in any way. I +wish, as I say, he would not come so often and sit in my +clothes. He persists that he is I, and that I am only a +sentimental fool, spoiling his chances. Sometimes, for a +while, I get rid of him, but he always comes back; and then he +gets rid of me and I become him. It is very +confusing. Sometimes I wonder if I really am myself.</p> +<h2><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>ON THE +DISADVANTAGE OF NOT GETTING WHAT ONE WANTS</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Long</span>, long ago, when you and I, +dear Reader, were young, when the fairies dwelt in the hearts of +the roses, when the moonbeams bent each night beneath the weight +of angels’ feet, there lived a good, wise man. Or +rather, I should say, there had lived, for at the time of which I +speak the poor old gentleman lay dying. Waiting each moment +the dread summons, he fell a-musing on the life that stretched +far back behind him. How full it seemed to him at that +moment of follies and mistakes, bringing bitter tears not to +himself alone but to others also. How much brighter a road +might it have been, had he been wiser, had he known!</p> +<p>“Ah, me!” said the good old gentleman, “if +only I could live my life again in the light of +experience.”</p> +<p>Now as he spoke these words he felt the drawing near to him of +a Presence, and thinking it was the One whom he expected, raising +himself a little from his bed, he feebly cried,</p> +<p>“I am ready.”</p> +<p>But a hand forced him gently back, a voice saying, “Not +yet; I bring life, not death. Your wish shall be +granted. You shall live your life again, and the knowledge +of the past shall be with you to guide you. See you use +it. I will come again.”</p> +<p>Then a sleep fell upon the good man, and when he awoke, he was +again a little child, lying in his mother’s arms; but, +locked within his brain was the knowledge of the life that he had +lived already.</p> +<p>So once more he lived and loved and laboured. So a +second time he lay an old, worn man with life behind him. +And the angel stood again beside his bed; and the voice said,</p> +<p>“Well, are you content now?”</p> +<p>“I am well content,” said the old gentleman. +“Let Death come.”</p> +<p>“And have you understood?” asked the angel.</p> +<p>“I think so,” was the answer; “that +experience is but as of the memory of the pathways he has trod to +a traveller journeying ever onward into an unknown land. I +have been wise only to reap the reward of folly. Knowledge +has ofttimes kept me from my good. I have avoided my old +mistakes only to fall into others that I knew not of. I +have reached the old errors by new roads. Where I have +escaped sorrow I have lost joy. Where I have grasped +happiness I have plucked pain also. Now let me go with +Death that I may learn..”</p> +<p>Which was so like the angel of that period, the giving of a +gift, bringing to a man only more trouble. Maybe I am +overrating my coolness of judgment under somewhat startling +circumstances, but I am inclined to think that, had I lived in +those days, and had a fairy or an angel come to me, wanting to +give me something—my soul’s desire, or the sum of my +ambition, or any trifle of that kind I should have been short +with him.</p> +<p>“You pack up that precious bag of tricks of +yours,” I should have said to him (it would have been rude, +but that is how I should have felt), “and get outside with +it. I’m not taking anything in your line +to-day. I don’t require any supernatural aid to get +me into trouble. All the worry I want I can get down here, +so it’s no good your calling. You take that little +joke of yours,—I don’t know what it is, but I know +enough not to want to know,—and run it off on some other +idiot. I’m not priggish. I have no objection to +an innocent game of ‘catch-questions’ in the ordinary +way, and when I get a turn myself. But if I’ve got to +pay every time, and the stakes are to be my earthly happiness +plus my future existence—why, I don’t play. +There was the case of Midas; a nice, shabby trick you fellows +played off upon him! making pretence you did not understand him, +twisting round the poor old fellow’s words, just for all +the world as though you were a pack of Old Bailey lawyers, trying +to trip up a witness; I’m ashamed of the lot of you, and I +tell you so—coming down here, fooling poor unsuspecting +mortals with your nonsense, as though we had not enough to harry +us as it was. Then there was that other case of the poor +old peasant couple to whom you promised three wishes, the whole +thing ending in a black pudding. And they never got even +that. You thought that funny, I suppose. That was +your fairy humour! A pity, I say, you have not, all of you, +something better to do with your time. As I said before, +you take that celestial ‘Joe Miller’ of yours and +work it off on somebody else. I have read my fairy lore, +and I have read my mythology, and I don’t want any of your +blessings. And what’s more, I’m not going to +have them. When I want blessings I will put up with the +usual sort we are accustomed to down here. You know the +ones I mean, the disguised brand—the blessings that no +human being would think were blessings, if he were not told; the +blessings that don’t look like blessings, that don’t +feel like blessings; that, as a matter of fact, are not +blessings, practically speaking; the blessings that other people +think are blessings for us and that we don’t. +They’ve got their drawbacks, but they are better than +yours, at any rate, and they are sooner over. I don’t +want your blessings at any price. If you leave one here I +shall simply throw it out after you.”</p> +<p>I feel confident I should have answered in that strain, and I +feel it would have done good. Somebody ought to have spoken +plainly, because with fairies and angels of that sort fooling +about, no one was ever safe for a moment. Children could +hardly have been allowed outside the door. One never could +have told what silly trick some would-be funny fairy might be +waiting to play off on them. The poor child would not know, +and would think it was getting something worth having. The +wonder to me is that some of those angels didn’t get tarred +and feathered.</p> +<p>I am doubtful whether even Cinderella’s luck was quite +as satisfying as we are led to believe. After the +carpetless kitchen and the black beetles, how beautiful the +palace must have seemed—for the first year, perhaps for the +first two. And the Prince! how loving, how gallant, how +tender—for the first year, perhaps for the first two. +And after? You see he was a Prince, brought up in a Court, +the atmosphere of which is not conducive to the development of +the domestic virtues; and she—was Cinderella. And +then the marriage altogether was rather a hurried affair. +Oh yes, she is a good, loving little woman; but perhaps our Royal +Highness-ship did act too much on the impulse of the +moment. It was her dear, dainty feet that danced their way +into our heart. How they flashed and twinkled, eased in +those fairy slippers. How like a lily among tulips she +moved that night amid the over-gorgeous Court dames. She +was so sweet, so fresh, so different to all the others whom we +knew so well. How happy she looked as she put her trembling +little hand in ours. What possibilities might lie behind +those drooping lashes. And we were in amorous mood that +night, the music in our feet, the flash and glitter in our +eyes. And then, to pique us further, she disappeared as +suddenly and strangely as she had come. Who was she? +Whence came she? What was the mystery surrounding +her? Was she only a delicious dream, a haunting phantasy +that we should never look upon again, never clasp again within +our longing arms? Was our heart to be for ever hungry, +haunted by the memory of—No, by heavens, she is real, and a +woman. Here is her dear slipper, made surely to be +kissed. Of a size too that a man may well wear within the +breast of his doublet. Had any woman—nay, fairy, +angel, such dear feet! Search the whole kingdom through, +but find her, find her. The gods have heard our prayers, +and given us this clue. “Suppose she be not all she +seemed. Suppose she be not of birth fit to mate with our +noble house!” Out upon thee, for an earth-bound, +blind curmudgeon of a Lord High Chancellor. How could a +woman, whom such slipper fitted, be but of the noblest and the +best, as far above us, mere Princelet that we are, as the stars +in heaven are brighter than thy dull old eyes! Go, search +the kingdom, we tell thee, from east to west, from north to +south, and see to it that thou findest her, or it shall go hard +with thee. By Venus, be she a swineherd’s daughter, +she shall be our Queen—an she deign to accept of us, and of +our kingdom.</p> +<p>Ah well, of course, it was not a wise piece of business, that +goes without saying; but we were young, and Princes are only +human. Poor child, she could not help her education, or +rather her lack of it. Dear little thing, the wonder is +that she has contrived to be no more ignorant than she is, +dragged up as she was, neglected and overworked. Nor does +life in a kitchen, amid the companionship of peasants and +menials, tend to foster the intellect. Who can blame her +for being shy and somewhat dull of thought? not we, +generous-minded, kind-hearted Prince that we are. And she +is very affectionate. The family are trying, certainly; +father-in-law not a bad sort, though a little prosy when upon the +subject of his domestic troubles, and a little too fond of his +glass; mamma-in-law, and those two ugly, ill-mannered sisters, +decidedly a nuisance about the palace. Yet what can we do? +they are our relations now, and they do not forget to let us know +it. Well, well, we had to expect that, and things might +have been worse. Anyhow she is not jealous—thank +goodness.</p> +<p>So the day comes when poor little Cinderella sits alone of a +night in the beautiful palace. The courtiers have gone home +in their carriages. The Lord High Chancellor has bowed +himself out backwards. The Gold-Stick-in-Waiting and the +Grooms of the Chamber have gone to their beds. The Maids of +Honour have said “Good-night,” and drifted out of the +door, laughing and whispering among themselves. The clock +strikes twelve—one—two, and still no footstep creaks +upon the stair. Once it followed swiftly upon the +“good-night” of the maids, who did not laugh or +whisper then.</p> +<p>At last the door opens, and the Prince enters, none too +pleased at finding Cinderella still awake. “So sorry +I’m late, my love—detained on affairs of state. +Foreign policy very complicated, dear. Have only just this +moment left the Council Chamber.”</p> +<p>And little Cinderella, while the Prince sleeps, lies sobbing +out her poor sad heart into the beautiful royal pillow, +embroidered with the royal arms and edged with the royal monogram +in lace. “Why did he ever marry me? I should +have been happier in the old kitchen. The black beetles did +frighten me a little, but there was always the dear old cat; and +sometimes, when mother and the girls were out, papa would call +softly down the kitchen stairs for me to come up, and we would +have such a merry evening together, and sup off sausages: dear +old dad, I hardly ever see him now. And then, when my work +was done, how pleasant it was to sit in front of the fire, and +dream of the wonderful things that would come to me some +day. I was always going to be a Princess, even in my +dreams, and live in a palace, but it was so different to +this. Oh, how I hate it, this beastly palace where +everybody sneers at me—I know they do, though they bow and +scrape, and pretend to be so polite. And I’m not +clever and smart as they are. I hate them. I hate +these bold-faced women who are always here. That is the +worst of a palace, everybody can come in. Oh, I hate +everybody and everything. Oh, god-mamma, god-mamma, come +and take me away. Take me back to my old kitchen. +Give me back my old poor frock. Let me dance again with the +fire-tongs for a partner, and be happy, dreaming.”</p> +<p>Poor little Cinderella, perhaps it would have been better had +god-mamma been less ambitious for you, dear; had you married some +good, honest yeoman, who would never have known that you were not +brilliant, who would have loved you because you were just amiable +and pretty; had your kingdom been only a farmhouse, where your +knowledge of domestic economy, gained so hardly, would have been +useful; where you would have shone instead of being overshadowed; +where Papa would have dropped in of an evening to smoke his pipe +and escape from his domestic wrangles; where you would have been +<i>real</i> Queen.</p> +<p>But then you know, dear, you would not have been +content. Ah yes, with your present experience—now you +know that Queens as well as little drudges have their troubles; +but <i>without</i> that experience? You would have looked +in the glass when you were alone; you would have looked at your +shapely hands and feet, and the shadows would have crossed your +pretty face. “Yes,” you would have said to +yourself—“John is a dear, kind fellow, and I love him +very much, and all that, but—” and the old dreams, +dreamt in the old low-ceilinged kitchen before the dying fire, +would have come back to you, and you would have been discontented +then as now, only in a different way. Oh yes, you would, +Cinderella, though you gravely shake your gold-crowned +head. And let me tell you why. It is because you are +a woman, and the fate of all us, men and women alike, is to be +for ever wanting what we have not, and to be finding, when we +have it, that it is not what we wanted. That is the law of +life, dear. Do you think as you lie upon the floor with +your head upon your arms, that you are the only woman whose tears +are soaking into the hearthrug at that moment? My dear +Princess, if you could creep unseen about your City, peeping at +will through the curtain-shielded windows, you would come to +think that all the world was little else than a big nursery full +of crying children with none to comfort them. The doll is +broken: no longer it sweetly squeaks in answer to our pressure, +“I love you, kiss me.” The drum lies silent +with the drumstick inside; no longer do we make a brave noise in +the nursery. The box of tea-things we have clumsily put our +foot upon; there will be no more merry parties around the +three-legged stool. The tin trumpet will not play the note +we want to sound; the wooden bricks keep falling down; the toy +cannon has exploded and burnt our fingers. Never mind, +little man, little woman, we will try and mend things +to-morrow.</p> +<p>And after all, Cinderella dear, you do live in a fine palace, +and you have jewels and grand dresses and—No, no, do not be +indignant with <i>me</i>. Did not you dream of these things +<i>as well as</i> of love? Come now, be honest. It +was always a prince, was it not, or, at the least, an exceedingly +well-to-do party, that handsome young gentleman who bowed to you +so gallantly from the red embers? He was never a virtuous +young commercial traveller, or cultured clerk, earning a salary +of three pounds a week, was he, Cinderella? Yet there are +many charming commercial travellers, many delightful clerks with +limited incomes, quite sufficient, however, to a sensible man and +woman desiring but each other’s love. Why was it +always a prince, Cinderella? Had the palace and the +liveried servants, and the carriages and horses, and the jewels +and the dresses, <i>nothing</i> to do with the dream?</p> +<p>No, Cinderella, you were human, that is all. The artist, +shivering in his conventional attic, dreaming of Fame!—do +you think he is not hoping she will come to his loving arms in +the form Jove came to Danae? Do you think he is not +reckoning also upon the good dinners and the big cigars, the fur +coat and the diamond studs, that her visits will enable him to +purchase?</p> +<p>There is a certain picture very popular just now. You +may see it, Cinderella, in many of the shop-windows of the +town. It is called “The Dream of Love,” and it +represents a beautiful young girl, sleeping in a very beautiful +but somewhat disarranged bed. Indeed, one hopes, for the +sleeper’s sake, that the night is warm, and that the room +is fairly free from draughts. A ladder of light streams +down from the sky into the room, and upon this ladder crowd and +jostle one another a small army of plump Cupids, each one laden +with some pledge of love. Two of the Imps are emptying a +sack of jewels upon the floor. Four others are bearing, +well displayed, a magnificent dress (a “confection,” +I believe, is the proper term) cut somewhat low, but making up in +train what is lacking elsewhere. Others bear bonnet boxes +from which peep stylish toques and bewitching hoods. Some, +representing evidently wholesale houses, stagger under silks and +satins in the piece. Cupids are there from the shoemakers +with the daintiest of <i>bottines</i>. Stockings, garters, +and even less mentionable articles, are not forgotten. +Caskets, mirrors, twelve-buttoned gloves, scent-bottles and +handkerchiefs, hair-pins, and the gayest of parasols, has the God +of Love piled into the arms of his messengers. Really a +most practical, up-to-date God of Love, moving with the +times! One feels that the modern Temple of Love must be a +sort of Swan and Edgar’s; the god himself a kind of +celestial shop-walker; while his mother, Venus, no doubt +superintends the costume department. Quite an Olympian +Whiteley, this latter-day Eros; he has forgotten nothing, for, at +the back of the picture, I notice one Cupid carrying a rather fat +heart at the end of a string.</p> +<p>You, Cinderella, could give good counsel to that sleeping +child. You would say to her—“Awake from such +dreams. The contents of a pawnbroker’s store-room +will not bring you happiness. Dream of love if you will; +that is a wise dream, even if it remain ever a dream. But +these coloured beads, these Manchester goods! are you +then—you, heiress of all the ages—still at heart only +as some poor savage maiden but little removed above the monkeys +that share the primeval forest with her? Will you sell your +gold to the first trader that brings you <i>this</i> +barter? These things, child, will only dazzle your eyes for +a few days. Do you think the Burlington Arcade is the gate +of Heaven?”</p> +<p>Ah, yes, I too could talk like that—I, writer of books, +to the young lad, sick of his office stool, dreaming of a +literary career leading to fame and fortune. “And do +you think, lad, that by that road you will reach Happiness sooner +than by another? Do you think interviews with yourself in +penny weeklies will bring you any satisfaction after the first +halfdozen? Do you think the gushing female who has read all +your books, and who wonders what it must feel like to be so +clever, will be welcome to you the tenth time you meet her? +Do you think press cuttings will always consist of wondering +admiration of your genius, of paragraphs about your charming +personal appearance under the heading, ‘Our +Celebrities’? Have you thought of the Uncomplimentary +criticisms, of the spiteful paragraphs, of the everlasting fear +of slipping a few inches down the greasy pole called +‘popular taste,’ to which you are condemned to cling +for life, as some lesser criminal to his weary tread-mill, +struggling with no hope but not to fall! Make a home, lad, +for the woman who loves you; gather one or two friends about you; +work, think, and play, that will bring you happiness. Shun +this roaring gingerbread fair that calls itself, forsooth, the +‘World of art and letters.’ Let its clowns and +its contortionists fight among themselves for the plaudits and +the halfpence of the mob. Let it be with its shouting and +its surging, its blare and its cheap flare. Come away, the +summer’s night is just the other side of the hedge, with +its silence and its stars.”</p> +<p>You and I, Cinderella, are experienced people, and can +therefore offer good advice, but do you think we should be +listened to?</p> +<p>“Ah, no, my Prince is not as yours. Mine will love +me always, and I am peculiarly fitted for the life of a +palace. I have the instinct and the ability for it. I +am sure I was made for a princess. Thank you, Cinderella, +for your well-meant counsel, but there is much difference between +you and me.”</p> +<p>That is the answer you would receive, Cinderella; and my young +friend would say to me, “Yes, I can understand <i>your</i> +finding disappointment in the literary career; but then, you see, +our cases are not quite similar. <i>I</i> am not likely to +find much trouble in keeping my position. <i>I</i> shall +not fear reading what the critics say of <i>me</i>. No +doubt there are disadvantages, when you are among the ruck, but +there is always plenty of room at the top. So thank you, +and goodbye.”</p> +<p>Besides, Cinderella dear, we should not quite mean +it—this excellent advice. We have grown accustomed to +these gew-gaws, and we should miss them in spite of our knowledge +of their trashiness: you, your palace and your little gold crown; +I, my mountebank’s cap, and the answering laugh that goes +up from the crowd when I shake my bells. We want +everything. All the happiness that earth and heaven are +capable of bestowing. Creature comforts, and heart and soul +comforts also; and, proud-spirited beings that we are, we will +not be put off with a part. Give us only everything, and we +will be content. And, after all, Cinderella, you have had +your day. Some little dogs never get theirs. You must +not be greedy. You have <i>known</i> happiness. The +palace was Paradise for those few months, and the Prince’s +arms were about you, Cinderella, the Prince’s kisses on +your lips; the gods themselves cannot take <i>that</i> from +you.</p> +<p>The cake cannot last for ever if we will eat of it so +greedily. There must come the day when we have picked +hungrily the last crumb—when we sit staring at the empty +board, nothing left of the feast, Cinderella, but the pain that +comes of feasting.</p> +<p>It is a naïve confession, poor Human Nature has made to +itself, in choosing, as it has, this story of Cinderella for its +leading moral:—Be good, little girl. Be meek under +your many trials. Be gentle and kind, in spite of your hard +lot, and one day—you shall marry a prince and ride in your +own carriage. Be brave and true, little boy. Work +hard and wait with patience, and in the end, with God’s +blessing, you shall earn riches enough to come back to London +town and marry your master’s daughter.</p> +<p>You and I, gentle Reader, could teach these young folks a +truer lesson, an we would. We know, alas! that the road of +all the virtues does not lead to wealth, rather the contrary; +else how explain our limited incomes? But would it be well, +think you, to tell them bluntly the truth—that honesty is +the most expensive luxury a man can indulge in; that virtue, if +persisted in, leads, generally speaking, to a six-roomed house in +an outlying suburb? Maybe the world is wise: the fiction +has its uses.</p> +<p>I am acquainted with a fairly intelligent young lady. +She can read and write, knows her tables up to six times, and can +argue. I regard her as representative of average Humanity +in its attitude towards Fate; and this is a dialogue I lately +overheard between her and an older lady who is good enough to +occasionally impart to her the wisdom of the world—</p> +<p>“I’ve been good this morning, haven’t +I?”</p> +<p>“Yes—oh yes, fairly good, for you.”</p> +<p>“You think Papa <i>will</i> take me to the circus +to-night?”</p> +<p>“Yes, if you keep good. If you don’t get +naughty this afternoon.”</p> +<p>A pause.</p> +<p>“I was good on Monday, you may remember, +nurse.”</p> +<p>“Tolerably good.”</p> +<p>“<i>Very</i> good, you said, nurse.”</p> +<p>“Well, yes, you weren’t bad.”</p> +<p>“And I was to have gone to the pantomime, and I +didn’t.”</p> +<p>“Well, that was because your aunt came up suddenly, and +your Papa couldn’t get another seat. Poor auntie +wouldn’t have gone at all if she hadn’t gone +then.”</p> +<p>“Oh, wouldn’t she?”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>Another pause.</p> +<p>“Do you think she’ll come up suddenly +to-day?”</p> +<p>“Oh no, I don’t think so.”</p> +<p>“No, I hope she doesn’t. I want to go to the +circus to-night. Because, you see, nurse, if I don’t +it will discourage me.”</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>So, perhaps the world is wise in promising us the +circus. We believe her at first. But after a while, I +fear, we grow discouraged.</p> +<h2><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>ON THE +EXCEPTIONAL MERIT ATTACHING TO THE THINGS WE MEANT TO DO</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">can</span> remember—but then I can +remember a long time ago. You, gentle Reader, just entering +upon the prime of life, that age by thoughtless youth called +middle, I cannot, of course, expect to follow me—when there +was in great demand a certain periodical ycleped <i>The +Amateur</i>. Its aim was noble. It sought to teach +the beautiful lesson of independence, to inculcate the fine +doctrine of self-help. One chapter explained to a man how +he might make flower-pots out of Australian meat cans; another +how he might turn butter-tubs into music-stools; a third how he +might utilize old bonnet boxes for Venetian blinds: that was the +principle of the whole scheme, you made everything from something +not intended for it, and as ill-suited to the purpose as +possible.</p> +<p>Two pages, I distinctly recollect, were devoted to the +encouragement of the manufacture of umbrella stands out of old +gaspiping. Anything less adapted to the receipt of hats and +umbrellas than gas-piping I cannot myself conceive: had there +been, I feel sure the author would have thought of it, and would +have recommended it.</p> +<p>Picture-frames you fashioned out of ginger-beer corks. +You saved your ginger-beer corks, you found a picture—and +the thing was complete. How much ginger-beer it would be +necessary to drink, preparatory to the making of each frame; and +the effect of it upon the frame-maker’s physical, mental +and moral well-being, did not concern <i>The Amateur</i>. I +calculate that for a fair-sized picture sixteen dozen bottles +might suffice. Whether, after sixteen dozen of ginger-beer, +a man would take any interest in framing a picture—whether +he would retain any pride in the picture itself, is +doubtful. But this, of course, was not the point.</p> +<p>One young gentleman of my acquaintance—the son of the +gardener of my sister, as friend Ollendorff would have described +him—did succeed in getting through sufficient ginger-beer +to frame his grandfather, but the result was not +encouraging. Indeed, the gardener’s wife herself was +but ill satisfied.</p> +<p>“What’s all them corks round father?” was +her first question.</p> +<p>“Can’t you see,” was the somewhat indignant +reply, “that’s the frame.”</p> +<p>“Oh! but why corks?”</p> +<p>“Well, the book said corks.”</p> +<p>Still the old lady remained unimpressed.</p> +<p>“Somehow it don’t look like father now,” she +sighed.</p> +<p>Her eldest born grew irritable: none of us appreciate +criticism!</p> +<p>“What does it look like, then?” he growled.</p> +<p>“Well, I dunno. Seems to me to look like nothing +but corks.”</p> +<p>The old lady’s view was correct. Certain schools +of art possibly lend themselves to this method of framing. +I myself have seen a funeral card improved by it; but, generally +speaking, the consequence was a predominance of frame at the +expense of the thing framed. The more honest and tasteful +of the framemakers would admit as much themselves.</p> +<p>“Yes, it is ugly when you look at it,” said one to +me, as we stood surveying it from the centre of the room. +“But what one feels about it is that one has done it +oneself.”</p> +<p>Which reflection, I have noticed, reconciles us to many other +things beside cork frames.</p> +<p>Another young gentleman friend of mine—for I am bound to +admit it was youth that profited most by the advice and counsel +of <i>The Amateur</i>: I suppose as one grows older one grows +less daring, less industrious—made a rocking-chair, +according to the instructions of this book, out of a couple of +beer barrels. From every practical point of view it was a +bad rocking-chair. It rocked too much, and it rocked in too +many directions at one and the same time. I take it, a man +sitting on a rocking-chair does not want to be continually +rocking. There comes a time when he says to +himself—“Now I have rocked sufficiently for the +present; now I will sit still for a while, lest a worse thing +befall me.” But this was one of those headstrong +rocking-chairs that are a danger to humanity, and a nuisance to +themselves. Its notion was that it was made to rock, and +that when it was not rocking, it was wasting its time. Once +started nothing could stop it—nothing ever did stop it, +until it found itself topsy turvy on its own occupant. That +was the only thing that ever sobered it.</p> +<p>I had called, and had been shown into the empty +drawing-room. The rocking-chair nodded invitingly at +me. I never guessed it was an amateur rocking-chair. +I was young in those days, with faith in human nature, and I +imagined that, whatever else a man might attempt without +knowledge or experience, no one would be fool enough to +experiment upon a rocking-chair.</p> +<p>I threw myself into it lightly and carelessly. I +immediately noticed the ceiling. I made an instinctive +movement forward. The window and a momentary glimpse of the +wooded hills beyond shot upwards and disappeared. The +carpet flashed across my eyes, and I caught sight of my own boots +vanishing beneath me at the rate of about two hundred miles an +hour. I made a convulsive effort to recover them. I +suppose I over-did it. I saw the whole of the room at once, +the four walls, the ceiling, and the floor at the same +moment. It was a sort of vision. I saw the cottage +piano upside down, and I again saw my own boots flash past me, +this time over my head, soles uppermost. Never before had I +been in a position where my own boots had seemed so +all-pervading. The next moment I lost my boots, and stopped +the carpet with my head just as it was rushing past me. At +the same instant something hit me violently in the small of the +back. Reason, when recovered, suggested that my assailant +must be the rocking-chair.</p> +<p>Investigation proved the surmise correct. Fortunately I +was still alone, and in consequence was able, a few minutes +later, to meet my hostess with calm and dignity. I said +nothing about the rocking-chair. As a matter of fact, I was +hoping to have the pleasure, before I went, of seeing some other +guest arrive and sample it: I had purposely replaced it in the +most prominent and convenient position. But though I felt +capable of schooling myself to silence, I found myself unable to +agree with my hostess when she called for my admiration of the +thing. My recent experiences had too deeply embittered +me.</p> +<p>“Willie made it himself,” explained the fond +mother. “Don’t you think it was very clever of +him?”</p> +<p>“Oh yes, it was clever,” I replied, “I am +willing to admit that.”</p> +<p>“He made it out of some old beer barrels,” she +continued; she seemed proud of it.</p> +<p>My resentment, though I tried to keep it under control, was +mounting higher.</p> +<p>“Oh! did he?” I said; “I should have thought +he might have found something better to do with them.”</p> +<p>“What?” she asked.</p> +<p>“Oh! well, many things,” I retorted. +“He might have filled them again with beer.”</p> +<p>My hostess looked at me astonished. I felt some reason +for my tone was expected.</p> +<p>“You see,” I explained, “it is not a +well-made chair. These rockers are too short, and they are +too curved, and one of them, if you notice, is higher than the +other and of a smaller radius; the back is at too obtuse an +angle. When it is occupied the centre of gravity +becomes—”</p> +<p>My hostess interrupted me.</p> +<p>“You have been sitting on it,” she said.</p> +<p>“Not for long,” I assured her.</p> +<p>Her tone changed. She became apologetic.</p> +<p>“I am so sorry,” she said. “It looks +all right.”</p> +<p>“It does,” I agreed; “that is where the dear +lad’s cleverness displays itself. Its appearance +disarms suspicion. With judgment that chair might be made +to serve a really useful purpose. There are mutual +acquaintances of ours—I mention no names, you will know +them—pompous, self-satisfied, superior persons who would be +improved by that chair. If I were Willie I should disguise +the mechanism with some artistic drapery, bait the thing with a +couple of exceptionally inviting cushions, and employ it to +inculcate modesty and diffidence. I defy any human being to +get out of that chair, feeling as important as when he got into +it. What the dear boy has done has been to construct an +automatic exponent of the transitory nature of human +greatness. As a moral agency that chair should prove a +blessing in disguise.”</p> +<p>My hostess smiled feebly; more, I fear, from politeness than +genuine enjoyment.</p> +<p>“I think you are too severe,” she said. +“When you remember that the boy has never tried his hand at +anything of the kind before, that he has no knowledge and no +experience, it really is not so bad.”</p> +<p>Considering the matter from that point of view I was bound to +concur. I did not like to suggest to her that before +entering upon a difficult task it would be better for young men +to <i>acquire</i> knowledge and experience: that is so unpopular +a theory.</p> +<p>But the thing that <i>The Amateur</i> put in the front and +foremost of its propaganda was the manufacture of household +furniture out of egg-boxes. Why egg-boxes I have never been +able to understand, but egg-boxes, according to the prescription +of <i>The Amateur</i>, formed the foundation of household +existence. With a sufficient supply of egg-boxes, and what +<i>The Amateur</i> termed a “natural deftness,” no +young couple need hesitate to face the furnishing problem. +Three egg-boxes made a writing-table; on another egg-box you sat +to write; your books were ranged in egg-boxes around +you—and there was your study, complete.</p> +<p>For the dining-room two egg-boxes made an overmantel; four +egg-boxes and a piece of looking-glass a sideboard; while six +egg-boxes, with some wadding and a yard or so of cretonne, +constituted a so-called “cosy corner.” About +the “corner” there could be no possible doubt. +You sat on a corner, you leant against a corner; whichever way +you moved you struck a fresh corner. The +“cosiness,” however, I deny. Egg-boxes I admit +can be made useful; I am even prepared to imagine them +ornamental; but “cosy,” no. I have sampled +egg-boxes in many shapes. I speak of years ago, when the +world and we were younger, when our fortune was the Future; +secure in which, we hesitated not to set up house upon incomes +folks with lesser expectations might have deemed +insufficient. Under such circumstances, the sole +alternative to the egg-box, or similar school of furniture, would +have been the strictly classical, consisting of a doorway joined +to architectural proportions.</p> +<p>I have from Saturday to Monday, as honoured guest, hung my +clothes in egg-boxes.</p> +<p>I have sat on an egg-box at an egg-box to take my dish of +tea. I have made love on egg-boxes.—Aye, and to feel +again the blood running through my veins as then it ran, I would +be content to sit only on egg-boxes till the time should come +when I could be buried in an egg-box, with an egg-box reared +above me as tombstone.—I have spent many an evening on an +egg-box; I have gone to bed in egg-boxes. They have their +points—I am intending no pun—but to claim for them +cosiness would be but to deceive.</p> +<p>How quaint they were, those home-made rooms! They rise +out of the shadows and shape themselves again before my +eyes. I see the knobbly sofa; the easy-chairs that might +have been designed by the Grand Inquisitor himself; the dented +settle that was a bed by night; the few blue plates, purchased in +the slums off Wardour Street; the enamelled stool to which one +always stuck; the mirror framed in silk; the two Japanese fans +crossed beneath each cheap engraving; the piano cloth embroidered +in peacock’s feathers by Annie’s sister; the +tea-cloth worked by Cousin Jenny. We dreamt, sitting on +those egg-boxes—for we were young ladies and gentlemen with +artistic taste—of the days when we would eat in Chippendale +dining-rooms; sip our coffee in Louis Quatorze drawing-rooms; and +be happy. Well, we have got on, some of us, since then, as +Mr. Bumpus used to say; and I notice, when on visits, that some +of us have contrived so that we do sit on Chippendale chairs, at +Sheraton dining-tables, and are warmed from Adam’s +fireplaces; but, ah me, where are the dreams, the hopes, the +enthusiasms that clung like the scent of a March morning about +those gim-crack second floors? In the dustbin, I fear, with +the cretonne-covered egg-boxes and the penny fans. Fate is +so terribly even-handed. As she gives she ever takes +away. She flung us a few shillings and hope, where now she +doles us out pounds and fears. Why did not we know how +happy we were, sitting crowned with sweet conceit upon our +egg-box thrones?</p> +<p>Yes, Dick, you have climbed well. You edit a great +newspaper. You spread abroad the message—well, the +message that Sir Joseph Goldbug, your proprietor, instructs you +to spread abroad. You teach mankind the lessons that Sir +Joseph Goldbug wishes them to learn. They say he is to have +a peerage next year. I am sure he has earned it; and +perhaps there may be a knighthood for you, Dick.</p> +<p>Tom, you are getting on now. You have abandoned those +unsaleable allegories. What rich art patron cares to be +told continually by his own walls that Midas had ass’s +ears; that Lazarus sits ever at the gate? You paint +portraits now, and everybody tells me you are the coming +man. That “Impression” of old Lady Jezebel was +really wonderful. The woman looks quite handsome, and yet +it is her ladyship. Your touch is truly marvellous.</p> +<p>But into your success, Tom—Dick, old friend, do not +there creep moments when you would that we could fish up those +old egg-boxes from the past, refurnish with them the dingy rooms +in Camden Town, and find there our youth, our loves, and our +beliefs?</p> +<p>An incident brought back to my mind, the other day, the +thought of all these things. I called for the first time +upon a man, an actor, who had asked me to come and see him in the +little home where he lives with his old father. To my +astonishment—for the craze, I believe, has long since died +out—I found the house half furnished out of packing cases, +butter tubs, and egg-boxes. My friend earns his twenty +pounds a week, but it was the old father’s hobby, so he +explained to me, the making of these monstrosities; and of them +he was as proud as though they were specimen furniture out of the +South Kensington Museum.</p> +<p>He took me into the dining-room to show me the latest +outrage—a new book-case. A greater disfigurement to +the room, which was otherwise prettily furnished, could hardly be +imagined. There was no need for him to assure me, as he +did, that it had been made out of nothing but egg-boxes. +One could see at a glance that it was made out of egg-boxes, and +badly constructed egg-boxes at that—egg-boxes that were a +disgrace to the firm that had turned them out; egg-boxes not +worthy the storage of “shop ’uns” at eighteen +the shilling.</p> +<p>We went upstairs to my friend’s bedroom. He opened +the door as a man might open the door of a museum of gems.</p> +<p>“The old boy,” he said, as he stood with his hand +upon the door-knob, “made everything you see here, +everything,” and we entered. He drew my attention to +the wardrobe. “Now I will hold it up,” he said, +“while you pull the door open; I think the floor must be a +bit uneven, it wobbles if you are not careful.” It +wobbled notwithstanding, but by coaxing and humouring we +succeeded without mishap. I was surprised to notice a very +small supply of clothes within, although my friend is a dressy +man.</p> +<p>“You see,” he explained, “I dare not use it +more than I can help. I am a clumsy chap, and as likely as +not, if I happened to be in a hurry, I’d have the whole +thing over:” which seemed probable.</p> +<p>I asked him how he contrived. “I dress in the +bath-room as a rule,” he replied; “I keep most of my +things there. Of course the old boy doesn’t +know.”</p> +<p>He showed me a chest of drawers. One drawer stood half +open.</p> +<p>“I’m bound to leave that drawer open,” he +said; “I keep the things I use in that. They +don’t shut quite easily, these drawers; or rather, they +shut all right, but then they won’t open. It is the +weather, I think. They will open and shut all right in the +summer, I dare say.” He is of a hopeful +disposition.</p> +<p>But the pride of the room was the washstand.</p> +<p>“What do you think of this?” cried he +enthusiastically, “real marble top—”</p> +<p>He did not expatiate further. In his excitement he had +laid his hand upon the thing, with the natural result that it +collapsed. More by accident than design I caught the jug in +my arms. I also caught the water it contained. The +basin rolled on its edge and little damage was done, except to me +and the soap-box.</p> +<p>I could not pump up much admiration for this washstand; I was +feeling too wet.</p> +<p>“What do you do when you want to wash?” I asked, +as together we reset the trap.</p> +<p>There fell upon him the manner of a conspirator revealing +secrets. He glanced guiltily round the room; then, creeping +on tip-toe, he opened a cupboard behind the bed. Within was +a tin basin and a small can.</p> +<p>“Don’t tell the old boy,” he said. +“I keep these things here, and wash on the +floor.”</p> +<p>That was the best thing I myself ever got out of +egg-boxes—that picture of a deceitful son stealthily +washing himself upon the floor behind the bed, trembling at every +footstep lest it might be the “old boy” coming to the +door.</p> +<p>One wonders whether the Ten Commandments are so all-sufficient +as we good folk deem them—whether the eleventh is not worth +the whole pack of them: “that ye love one another” +with just a common-place, human, practical love. Could not +the other ten be comfortably stowed away into a corner of +that! One is inclined, in one’s anarchic moments, to +agree with Louis Stevenson, that to be amiable and cheerful is a +good religion for a work-a-day world. We are so busy +<i>not</i> killing, <i>not</i> stealing, <i>not</i> coveting our +neighbour’s wife, we have not time to be even just to one +another for the little while we are together here. Need we +be so cocksure that our present list of virtues and vices is the +only possibly correct and complete one? Is the kind, +unselfish man necessarily a villain because he does not always +succeed in suppressing his natural instincts? Is the +narrow-hearted, sour-souled man, incapable of a generous thought +or act, necessarily a saint because he has none? Have we +not—we unco guid—arrived at a wrong method of +estimating our frailer brothers and sisters? We judge them, +as critics judge books, not by the good that is in them, but by +their faults. Poor King David! What would the local +Vigilance Society have had to say to him? Noah, according +to our plan, would be denounced from every teetotal platform in +the country, and Ham would head the Local Vestry poll as a reward +for having exposed him. And St. Peter! weak, frail St. +Peter, how lucky for him that his fellow-disciples and their +Master were not as strict in their notions of virtue as are we +to-day.</p> +<p>Have we not forgotten the meaning of the word +“virtue”? Once it stood for the good that was +in a man, irrespective of the evil that might lie there also, as +tares among the wheat. We have abolished virtue, and for it +substituted virtues. Not the hero—he was too full of +faults—but the blameless valet; not the man who does any +good, but the man who has not been found out in any evil, is our +modern ideal. The most virtuous thing in nature, according +to this new theory, should be the oyster. He is always at +home, and always sober. He is not noisy. He gives no +trouble to the police. I cannot think of a single one of +the Ten Commandments that he ever breaks. He never enjoys +himself, and he never, so long as he lives, gives a +moment’s pleasure to any other living thing.</p> +<p>I can imagine the oyster lecturing a lion on the subject of +morality.</p> +<p>“You never hear me,” the oyster might say, +“howling round camps and villages, making night hideous, +frightening quiet folk out of their lives. Why don’t +you go to bed early, as I do? I never prowl round the +oyster-bed, fighting other gentlemen oysters, making love to lady +oysters already married. I never kill antelopes or +missionaries. Why can’t you live as I do on salt +water and germs, or whatever it is that I do live on? Why +don’t you try to be more like me?”</p> +<p>An oyster has no evil passions, therefore we say he is a +virtuous fish. We never ask ourselves—“Has he +any good passions?” A lion’s behaviour is often +such as no just man could condone. Has he not his good +points also?</p> +<p>Will the fat, sleek, “virtuous” man be as Welcome +at the gate of heaven as he supposes?</p> +<p>“Well,” St. Peter may say to him, opening the door +a little way and looking him up and down, “what is it +now?”</p> +<p>“It’s me,” the virtuous man will reply, with +an oily, self-satisfied smile; “I should say, +I—I’ve come.”</p> +<p>“Yes, I see you have come; but what is your claim to +admittance? What have you done with your three score years +and ten?”</p> +<p>“Done!” the virtuous man will answer, “I +have done nothing, I assure you.”</p> +<p>“Nothing!”</p> +<p>“Nothing; that is my strong point; that is why I am +here. I have never done any wrong.”</p> +<p>“And what good have you done?”</p> +<p>“What good!”</p> +<p>“Aye, what good? Do not you even know the meaning +of the word? What human creature is the better for your +having eaten and drunk and slept these years? You have done +no harm—no harm to yourself. Perhaps, if you had you +might have done some good with it; the two are generally to be +found together down below, I remember. What good have you +done that you should enter here? This is no mummy chamber; +this is the place of men and women who have lived, who have +wrought good—and evil also, alas!—for the sinners who +fight for the right, not the righteous who run with their souls +from the fight.”</p> +<p>It was not, however, to speak of these things that I +remembered <i>The Amateur</i> and its lessons. My intention +was but to lead up to the story of a certain small boy, who in +the doing of tasks not required of him was exceedingly +clever. I wish to tell you his story, because, as do most +true tales, it possesses a moral, and stories without a moral I +deem to be but foolish literature, resembling roads that lead to +nowhere, such as sick folk tramp for exercise.</p> +<p>I have known this little boy to take an expensive eight-day +clock to pieces, and make of it a toy steamboat. True, it +was not, when made, very much of a steamboat; but taking into +consideration all the difficulties—the inadaptability of +eight-day clock machinery to steamboat requirements, the +necessity of getting the work accomplished quickly, before +conservatively-minded people with no enthusiasm for science could +interfere—a good enough steamboat. With merely an +ironing-board and a few dozen meat-skewers, he +would—provided the ironing-board was not missed in +time—turn out quite a practicable rabbit-hutch. He +could make a gun out of an umbrella and a gas-bracket, which, if +not so accurate as a Martini-Henry, was, at all events, more +deadly. With half the garden-hose, a copper scalding-pan +out of the dairy, and a few Dresden china ornaments off the +drawing-room mantelpiece, he would build a fountain for the +garden. He could make bookshelves out of kitchen tables, +and crossbows out of crinolines. He could dam you a stream +so that all the water would flow over the croquet lawn. He +knew how to make red paint and oxygen gas, together with many +other suchlike commodities handy to have about a house. +Among other things he learned how to make fireworks, and after a +few explosions of an unimportant character, came to make them +very well indeed. The boy who can play a good game of +cricket is liked. The boy who can fight well is +respected. The boy who can cheek a master is loved. +But the boy who can make fireworks is revered above all others as +a boy belonging to a superior order of beings. The fifth of +November was at hand, and with the consent of an indulgent +mother, he determined to give to the world a proof of his +powers. A large party of friends, relatives, and +school-mates was invited, and for a fortnight beforehand the +scullery was converted into a manufactory for fireworks. +The female servants went about in hourly terror of their lives, +and the villa, did we judge exclusively by smell, one might have +imagined had been taken over by Satan, his main premises being +inconveniently crowded, as an annex. By the evening of the +fourth all was in readiness, and samples were tested to make sure +that no contretemps should occur the following night. All +was found to be perfect.</p> +<p>The rockets rushed heavenward and descended in stars, the +Roman candles tossed their fiery balls into the darkness, the +Catherine wheels sparkled and whirled, the crackers cracked, and +the squibs banged. That night he went to bed a proud and +happy boy, and dreamed of fame. He stood surrounded by +blazing fireworks, and the vast crowd cheered him. His +relations, most of whom, he knew, regarded him as the coming +idiot of the family, were there to witness his triumph; so too +was Dickey Bowles, who laughed at him because he could not throw +straight. The girl at the bun-shop, she also was there, and +saw that he was clever.</p> +<p>The night of the festival arrived, and with it the +guests. They sat, wrapped up in shawls and cloaks, outside +the hall door—uncles, cousins, aunts, little boys and big +boys, little girls and big girls, with, as the theatre posters +say, villagers and retainers, some forty of them in all, and +waited.</p> +<p>But the fireworks did not go off. Why they did not go +off I cannot explain; nobody ever <i>could</i> explain. The +laws of nature seemed to be suspended for that night only. +The rockets fell down and died where they stood. No human +agency seemed able to ignite the squibs. The crackers gave +one bang and collapsed. The Roman candles might have been +English rushlights. The Catherine wheels became mere +revolving glow-worms. The fiery serpents could not collect +among them the spirit of a tortoise. The set piece, a ship +at sea, showed one mast and the captain, and then went out. +One or two items did their duty, but this only served to render +the foolishness of the whole more striking. The little +girls giggled, the little boys chaffed, the aunts and cousins +said it was beautiful, the uncles inquired if it was all over, +and talked about supper and trains, the “villagers and +retainers” dispersed laughing, the indulgent mother said +“never mind,” and explained how well everything had +gone off yesterday; the clever little boy crept upstairs to his +room, and blubbered his heart out in the dark.</p> +<p>Hours later, when the crowd had forgotten him, he stole out +again into the garden. He sat down amid the ruins of his +hope, and wondered what could have caused the fiasco. Still +puzzled, he drew from his pocket a box of matches, and, lighting +one, he held it to the seared end of a rocket he had tried in +vain to light four hours ago. It smouldered for an instant, +then shot with a swish into the air and broke into a hundred +points of fire. He tried another and another with the same +result. He made a fresh attempt to fire the set +piece. Point by point the whole picture—minus the +captain and one mast—came out of the night, and stood +revealed in all the majesty of flame. Its sparks fell upon +the piled-up heap of candles, wheels, and rockets that a little +while before had obstinately refused to burn, and that, one after +another, had been thrown aside as useless. Now with the +night frost upon them, they leaped to light in one grand volcanic +eruption. And in front of the gorgeous spectacle he stood +with only one consolation—his mother’s hand in +his.</p> +<p>The whole thing was a mystery to him at the time, but, as he +learned to know life better, he came to understand that it was +only one example of a solid but inexplicable fact, ruling all +human affairs—<i>your fireworks won’t go off while +the crowd is around</i>.</p> +<p>Our brilliant repartees do not occur to us till the door is +closed upon us and we are alone in the street, or, as the French +would say, are coming down the stairs. Our after-dinner +oratory, that sounded so telling as we delivered it before the +looking-glass, falls strangely flat amidst the clinking of the +glasses. The passionate torrent of words we meant to pour +into her ear becomes a halting rigmarole, at which—small +blame to her—she only laughs.</p> +<p>I would, gentle Reader, you could hear the stories that I +meant to tell you. You judge me, of course, by the stories +of mine that you have read—by this sort of thing, perhaps; +but that is not just to me. The stories I have not told +you, that I am going to tell you one day, I would that you judge +me by those.</p> +<p>They are so beautiful; you will say so; over them, you will +laugh and cry with me.</p> +<p>They come into my brain unbidden, they clamour to be written, +yet when I take my pen in hand they are gone. It is as +though they were shy of publicity, as though they would say to +me—“You alone, you shall read us, but you must not +write us; we are too real, too true. We are like the +thoughts you cannot speak. Perhaps a little later, when you +know more of life, then you shall tell us.”</p> +<p>Next to these in merit I would place, were I writing a +critical essay on myself, the stories I have begun to write and +that remain unfinished, why I cannot explain to myself. +They are good stories, most of them; better far than the stories +I have accomplished. Another time, perhaps, if you care to +listen, I will tell you the beginning of one or two and you shall +judge. Strangely enough, for I have always regarded myself +as a practical, commonsensed man, so many of these still-born +children of my mind I find, on looking through the cupboard where +their thin bodies lie, are ghost stories. I suppose the +hope of ghosts is with us all. The world grows somewhat +interesting to us heirs of all the ages. Year by year, +Science with broom and duster tears down the moth-worn tapestry, +forces the doors of the locked chambers, lets light into the +secret stairways, cleans out the dungeons, explores the hidden +passages—finding everywhere only dust. This echoing +old castle, the world, so full of mystery in the days when we +were children, is losing somewhat its charm for us as we grow +older. The king sleeps no longer in the hollow of the +hills. We have tunnelled through his mountain +chamber. We have shivered his beard with our pick. We +have driven the gods from Olympus. No wanderer through the +moonlit groves now fears or hopes the sweet, death-giving gleam +of Aphrodite’s face. Thor’s hammer echoes not +among the peaks—’tis but the thunder of the excursion +train. We have swept the woods of the fairies. We +have filtered the sea of its nymphs. Even the ghosts are +leaving us, chased by the Psychical Research Society.</p> +<p>Perhaps of all, they are the least, however, to be +regretted. They were dull old fellows, clanking their rusty +chains and groaning and sighing. Let them go.</p> +<p>And yet how interesting they might be, if only they +would. The old gentleman in the coat of mail, who lived in +King John’s reign, who was murdered, so they say, on the +outskirts of the very wood I can see from my window as I +write—stabbed in the back, poor gentleman, as he was riding +home, his body flung into the moat that to this day is called +Tor’s tomb. Dry enough it is now, and the primroses +love its steep banks; but a gloomy enough place in those days, no +doubt, with its twenty feet of stagnant water. Why does he +haunt the forest paths at night, as they tell me he does, +frightening the children out of their wits, blanching the faces +and stilling the laughter of the peasant lads and lasses, +slouching home from the village dance? Instead, why does he +not come up here and talk to me? He should have my +easy-chair and welcome, would he only be cheerful and +companionable.</p> +<p>What brave tales could he not tell me. He fought in the +first Crusade, heard the clarion voice of Peter, met the great +Godfrey face to face, stood, hand on sword-hilt, at Runny-mede, +perhaps. Better than a whole library of historical novels +would an evening’s chat be with such a ghost. What +has he done with his eight hundred years of death? where has he +been? what has he seen? Maybe he has visited Mars; has +spoken to the strange spirits who can live in the liquid fires of +Jupiter. What has he learned of the great secret? Has +he found the truth? or is he, even as I, a wanderer still seeking +the unknown?</p> +<p>You, poor, pale, grey nun—they tell me that of midnights +one may see your white face peering from the ruined belfry +window, hear the clash of sword and shield among the cedar-trees +beneath.</p> +<p>It was very sad, I quite understand, my dear lady. Your +lovers both were killed, and you retired to a convent. +Believe me, I am sincerely sorry for you, but why waste every +night renewing the whole painful experience? Would it not +be better forgotten? Good Heavens, madam, suppose we living +folk were to spend our lives wailing and wringing our hands +because of the wrongs done to us when we were children? It +is all over now. Had he lived, and had you married him, you +might not have been happy. I do not wish to say anything +unkind, but marriages founded upon the sincerest mutual love have +sometimes turned out unfortunately, as you must surely know.</p> +<p>Do take my advice. Talk the matter over with the young +men themselves. Persuade them to shake hands and be +friends. Come in, all of you, out of the cold, and let us +have some reasonable talk.</p> +<p>Why seek you to trouble us, you poor pale ghosts? Are we +not your children? Be our wise friends. Tell me, how +loved the young men in your young days? how answered the +maidens? Has the world changed much, do you think? +Had you not new women even then? girls who hated the everlasting +tapestry frame and spinning-wheel? Your father’s +servants, were they so much worse off than the freemen who live +in our East-end slums and sew slippers for fourteen hours a day +at a wage of nine shillings a week? Do you think Society +much improved during the last thousand years? Is it worse? +is it better? or is it, on the whole, about the same, save that +we call things by other names? Tell me, what have +<i>you</i> learned?</p> +<p>Yet might not familiarity breed contempt, even for ghosts.</p> +<p>One has had a tiring day’s shooting. One is +looking forward to one’s bed. As one opens the door, +however, a ghostly laugh comes from behind the bed-curtains, and +one groans inwardly, knowing what is in store for one: a two or +three hours’ talk with rowdy old Sir Lanval—he of the +lance. We know all his tales by heart, and he will shout +them. Suppose our aunt, from whom we have expectations, and +who sleeps in the next room, should wake and overhear! They +were fit and proper enough stories, no doubt, for the Round +Table, but we feel sure our aunt would not appreciate +them:—that story about Sir Agravain and the cooper’s +wife! and he always will tell that story.</p> +<p>Or imagine the maid entering after dinner to say—</p> +<p>“Oh, if you please, sir, here is the veiled +lady.”</p> +<p>“What, again!” says your wife, looking up from her +work.</p> +<p>“Yes, ma’am; shall I show her up into the +bedroom?”</p> +<p>“You had better ask your master,” is the +reply. The tone is suggestive of an unpleasant five minutes +so soon as the girl shall have withdrawn, but what are you to +do?</p> +<p>“Yes, yes, show her up,” you say, and the girl +goes out, closing the door.</p> +<p>Your wife gathers her work together, and rises.</p> +<p>“Where are you going?” you ask.</p> +<p>“To sleep with the children,” is the frigid +answer.</p> +<p>“It will look so rude,” you urge. “We +must be civil to the poor thing; and you see it really is her +room, as one might say. She has always haunted +it.”</p> +<p>“It is very curious,” returns the wife of your +bosom, still more icily, “that she never haunts it except +when you are down here. Where she goes when you are in town +I’m sure I don’t know.”</p> +<p>This is unjust. You cannot restrain your +indignation.</p> +<p>“What nonsense you talk, Elizabeth,” you reply; +“I am only barely polite to her.”</p> +<p>“Some men have such curious notions of +politeness,” returns Elizabeth. “But pray do +not let us quarrel. I am only anxious not to disturb +you. Two are company, you know. I don’t choose +to be the third, that’s all.” With which she +goes out.</p> +<p>And the veiled lady is still waiting for you up-stairs. +You wonder how long she will stop, also what will happen after +she is gone.</p> +<p>I fear there is no room for you, ghosts, in this our +world. You remember how they came to Hiawatha—the +ghosts of the departed loved ones. He had prayed to them +that they would come back to him to comfort him, so one day they +crept into his wigwam, sat in silence round his fireside, chilled +the air for Hiawatha, froze the smiles of Laughing Water.</p> +<p>There is no room for you, oh you poor pale ghosts, in this our +world. Do not trouble us. Let us forget. You, +stout elderly matron, your thin locks turning grey, your eyes +grown weak, your chin more ample, your voice harsh with much +scolding and complaining, needful, alas! to household management, +I pray you leave me. I loved you while you lived. How +sweet, how beautiful you were. I see you now in your white +frock among the apple-blossom. But you are dead, and your +ghost disturbs my dreams. I would it haunted me not.</p> +<p>You, dull old fellow, looking out at me from the glass at +which I shave, why do you haunt me? You are the ghost of a +bright lad I once knew well. He might have done much, had +he lived. I always had faith in him. Why do you haunt +me? I would rather think of him as I remember him. I +never imagined he would make such a poor ghost.</p> +<h2><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>ON THE +PREPARATION AND EMPLOYMENT OF LOVE PHILTRES</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Occasionally</span> a friend will ask me +some such question as this, Do you prefer dark women or +fair? Another will say, Do you like tall women or +short? A third, Do you think light-hearted women, or +serious, the more agreeable company? I find myself in the +position that, once upon a time, overtook a certain charming +young lady of taste who was asked by an anxious parent, the years +mounting, and the family expenditure not decreasing, which of the +numerous and eligible young men, then paying court to her, she +liked the best. She replied, that was her difficulty. +She could not make up her mind which she liked the best. +They were all so nice. She could not possibly select one to +the exclusion of all the others. What she would have liked +would have been to marry the lot, but that, she presumed, was +impracticable.</p> +<p>I feel I resemble that young lady, not so much, perhaps, in +charm and beauty as indecision of mind, when questions such as +the above are put to me. It is as if one were asked +one’s favourite food. There are times when one +fancies an egg with one’s tea. On other occasions one +dreams of a kipper. To-day one clamours for lobsters. +To-morrow one feels one never wishes to see a lobster again; one +determines to settle down, for a time, to a diet of bread and +milk and rice-pudding. Asked suddenly to say whether I +preferred ices to soup, or beefsteaks to caviare, I should be +nonplussed.</p> +<p>I like tall women and short, dark women and fair, merry women +and grave.</p> +<p>Do not blame me, Ladies, the fault lies with you. Every +right-thinking man is an universal lover; how could it be +otherwise? You are so diverse, yet each so charming of your +kind; and a man’s heart is large. You have no idea, +fair Reader, how large a man’s heart is: that is his +trouble—sometimes yours.</p> +<p>May I not admire the daring tulip, because I love also the +modest lily? May I not press a kiss upon the sweet violet, +because the scent of the queenly rose is precious to me?</p> +<p>“Certainly not,” I hear the Rose reply. +“If you can see anything in her, you shall have nothing to +do with me.”</p> +<p>“If you care for that bold creature,” says the +Lily, trembling, “you are not the man I took you for. +Good-bye.”</p> +<p>“Go to your baby-faced Violet,” cries the Tulip, +with a toss of her haughty head. “You are just fitted +for each other.”</p> +<p>And when I return to the Lily, she tells me that she cannot +trust me. She has watched me with those others. She +knows me for a gad-about. Her gentle face is full of +pain.</p> +<p>So I must live unloved merely because I love too much.</p> +<p>My wonder is that young men ever marry. The difficulty +of selection must be appalling. I walked the other evening +in Hyde Park. The band of the Life Guards played +heart-lifting music, and the vast crowd were basking in a sweet +enjoyment such as rarely woos the English toiler. I +strolled among them, and my attention was chiefly drawn towards +the women. The great majority of them were, I suppose, +shop-girls, milliners, and others belonging to the lower +middle-class. They had put on their best frocks, their +bonniest hats, their newest gloves. They sat or walked in +twos and threes, chattering and preening, as happy as young +sparrows on a clothes line. And what a handsome crowd they +made! I have seen German crowds, I have seen French crowds, +I have seen Italian crowds; but nowhere do you find such a +proportion of pretty women as among the English +middle-class. Three women out of every four were worth +looking at, every other woman was pretty, while every fourth, one +might say without exaggeration, was beautiful. As I passed +to and fro the idea occurred to me: suppose I were an +unprejudiced young bachelor, free from predilection, looking for +a wife; and let me suppose—it is only a fancy—that +all these girls were ready and willing to accept me. I have +only to choose! I grew bewildered. There were fair +girls, to look at whom was fatal; dark girls that set one’s +heart aflame; girls with red gold hair and grave grey eyes, whom +one would follow to the confines of the universe; baby-faced +girls that one longed to love and cherish; girls with noble +faces, whom a man might worship; laughing girls, with whom one +could dance through life gaily; serious girls, with whom life +would be sweet and good, domestic-looking girls—one felt +such would make delightful wives; they would cook, and sew, and +make of home a pleasant, peaceful place. Then +wicked-looking girls came by, at the stab of whose bold eyes all +orthodox thoughts were put to a flight, whose laughter turned the +world into a mad carnival; girls one could mould; girls from whom +one could learn; sad girls one wanted to comfort; merry girls who +would cheer one; little girls, big girls, queenly girls, +fairy-like girls.</p> +<p>Suppose a young man had to select his wife in this fashion +from some twenty or thirty thousand; or that a girl were suddenly +confronted with eighteen thousand eligible young bachelors, and +told to take the one she wanted and be quick about it? +Neither boy nor girl would ever marry. Fate is kinder to +us. She understands, and assists us. In the hall of a +Paris hotel I once overheard one lady asking another to recommend +her a milliner’s shop.</p> +<p>“Go to the Maison Nouvelle,” advised the +questioned lady, with enthusiasm. “They have the +largest selection there of any place in Paris.”</p> +<p>“I know they have,” replied the first lady, +“that is just why I don’t mean to go there. It +confuses me. If I see six bonnets I can tell the one I want +in five minutes. If I see six hundred I come away without +any bonnet at all. Don’t you know a little +shop?”</p> +<p>Fate takes the young man or the young woman aside.</p> +<p>“Come into this village, my dear,” says Fate; +“into this by-street of this salubrious suburb, into this +social circle, into this church, into this chapel. Now, my +dear boy, out of these seventeen young ladies, which will you +have?—out of these thirteen young men, which would you like +for your very own, my dear?”</p> +<p>“No, miss, I am sorry, but I am not able to show you our +up-stairs department to-day, the lift is not working. But I +am sure we shall be able to find something in this room to suit +you. Just look round, my dear, perhaps you will see +something.”</p> +<p>“No, sir, I cannot show you the stock in the next room, +we never take that out except for our very special +customers. We keep our most expensive goods in that +room. (Draw that curtain, Miss Circumstance, please. +I have told you of that before.) Now, sir, wouldn’t +you like this one? This colour is quite the rage this +season; we are getting rid of quite a lot of these.”</p> +<p>“<i>No</i>, sir! Well, of course, it would not do +for every one’s taste to be the same. Perhaps +something dark would suit you better. Bring out those two +brunettes, Miss Circumstance. Charming girls both of them, +don’t you think so, sir? I should say the taller one +for you, sir. Just one moment, sir, allow me. Now, +what do you think of that, sir? might have been made to fit you, +I’m sure. <i>You prefer the shorter one</i>. +Certainly, sir, no difference to us at all. Both are the +same price. There’s nothing like having one’s +own fancy, I always say. <i>No</i>, sir, I cannot put her +aside for you, we never do that. Indeed, there’s +rather a run on brunettes just at present. I had a +gentleman in only this morning, looking at this particular one, +and he is going to call again to-night. Indeed, I am not at +all sure—Oh, of course, sir, if you like to settle on this +one now, that ends the matter. (Put those others away, Miss +Circumstance, please, and mark this one sold.) I feel sure +you’ll like her, sir, when you get her home. Thank +<i>you</i>, sir. Good-morning!”</p> +<p>“Now, miss, have <i>you</i> seen anything you +fancy? <i>Yes</i>, miss, this is all we have at anything +near your price. (Shut those other cupboards, Miss +Circumstance; never show more stock than you are obliged to, it +only confuses customers. How often am I to tell you +that?) <i>Yes</i>, miss, you are quite right, there +<i>is</i> a slight blemish. They all have some slight +flaw. The makers say they can’t help +it—it’s in the material. It’s not once in +a season we get a perfect specimen; and when we do ladies +don’t seem to care for it. Most of our customers +prefer a little faultiness. They say it gives +character. Now, look at this, miss. This sort of +thing wears very well, warm and quiet. You’d like one +with more colour in it? Certainly. Miss Circumstance, +reach me down the art patterns. <i>No</i>, miss, we +don’t guarantee any of them over the year, so much depends +on how you use them. <i>Oh yes</i>, miss, they’ll +stand a fair amount of wear. People do tell you the quieter +patterns last longer; but my experience is that one is much the +same as another. There’s really no telling any of +them until you come to try them. We never recommend one +more than another. There’s a lot of chance about +these goods, it’s in the nature of them. What I +always say to ladies is—‘Please yourself, it’s +you who have got to wear it; and it’s no good having an +article you start by not liking.’ <i>Yes</i>, miss, +it <i>is</i> pretty and it looks well against you: it does +indeed. Thank you, miss. Put that one aside, Miss +Circumstance, please. See that it doesn’t get mixed +up with the unsold stock.”</p> +<p>It is a useful philtre, the juice of that small western +flower, that Oberon drops upon our eyelids as we sleep. It +solves all difficulties in a trice. Why of course Helena is +the fairer. Compare her with Hermia! Compare the +raven with the dove! How could we ever have doubted for a +moment? Bottom is an angel, Bottom is as wise as he is +handsome. Oh, Oberon, we thank you for that drug. +Matilda Jane is a goddess; Matilda Jane is a queen; no woman ever +born of Eve was like Matilda Jane. The little pimple on her +nose—her little, sweet, tip-tilted nose—how beautiful +it is. Her bright eyes flash with temper now and then; how +piquant is a temper in a woman. William is a dear old +stupid, how lovable stupid men can be—especially when wise +enough to love us. William does not shine in conversation; +how we hate a magpie of a man. William’s chin is what +is called receding, just the sort of chin a beard looks well +on. Bless you, Oberon darling, for that drug; rub it on our +eyelids once again. Better let us have a bottle, Oberon, to +keep by us.</p> +<p>Oberon, Oberon, what are you thinking of? You have given +the bottle to Puck. Take it away from him, quick. +Lord help us all if that Imp has the bottle. Lord save us +from Puck while we sleep.</p> +<p>Or may we, fairy Oberon, regard your lotion as an eye-opener, +rather than as an eye-closer? You remember the story the +storks told the children, of the little girl who was a toad by +day, only her sweet dark eyes being left to her. But at +night, when the Prince clasped her close to his breast, lo! again +she became the king’s daughter, fairest and fondest of +women. There be many royal ladies in Marshland, with bad +complexion and thin straight hair, and the silly princes sneer +and ride away to woo some kitchen wench decked out in +queen’s apparel. Lucky the prince upon whose eyelids +Oberon has dropped the magic philtre.</p> +<p>In the gallery of a minor Continental town I have forgotten, +hangs a picture that lives with me. The painting I cannot +recall, whether good or bad; artists must forgive me for +remembering only the subject. It shows a man, crucified by +the roadside. No martyr he. If ever a man deserved +hanging it was this one. So much the artist has made +clear. The face, even under its mask of agony, is an evil, +treacherous face. A peasant girl clings to the cross; she +stands tip-toe upon a patient donkey, straining her face upward +for the half-dead man to stoop and kiss her lips.</p> +<p>Thief, coward, blackguard, they are stamped upon his face, but +<i>under</i> the face, under the evil outside? Is there no +remnant of manhood—nothing tender, nothing, true? A +woman has crept to the cross to kiss him: no evidence in his +favour, my Lord? Love is blind-aye, to our faults. +Heaven help us all; Love’s eyes would be sore indeed if it +were not so. But for the good that is in us her eyes are +keen. You, crucified blackguard, stand forth. A +hundred witnesses have given their evidence against you. +Are there none to give evidence for him? A woman, great +Judge, who loved him. Let her speak.</p> +<p>But I am wandering far from Hyde Park and its show of +girls.</p> +<p>They passed and re-passed me, laughing, smiling, +talking. Their eyes were bright with merry thoughts; their +voices soft and musical. They were pleased, and they wanted +to please. Some were married, some had evidently reasonable +expectations of being married; the rest hoped to be. And +we, myself, and some ten thousand other young men. I repeat +it—myself and some ten thousand other young men; for who +among us ever thinks of himself but as a young man? It is +the world that ages, not we. The children cease their +playing and grow grave, the lasses’ eyes are dimmer. +The hills are a little steeper, the milestones, surely, further +apart. The songs the young men sing are less merry than the +songs we used to sing. The days have grown a little colder, +the wind a little keener. The wine has lost its flavour +somewhat; the new humour is not like the old. The other +boys are becoming dull and prosy; but we are not changed. +It is the world that is growing old. Therefore, I brave +your thoughtless laughter, youthful Reader, and repeat that we, +myself and some ten thousand other young men, walked among these +sweet girls; and, using our boyish eyes, were fascinated, +charmed, and captivated. How delightful to spend our lives +with them, to do little services for them that would call up +these bright smiles. How pleasant to jest with them, and +hear their flute-like laughter, to console them and read their +grateful eyes. Really life is a pleasant thing, and the +idea of marriage undoubtedly originated in the brain of a kindly +Providence.</p> +<p>We smiled back at them, and we made way for them; we rose from +our chairs with a polite, “Allow me, miss,” +“Don’t mention it, I prefer standing.” +“It is a delightful evening, is it not?” And +perhaps—for what harm was there?—we dropped into +conversation with these chance fellow-passengers upon the stream +of life. There were those among us—bold daring +spirits—who even went to the length of mild +flirtation. Some of us knew some of them, and in such happy +case there followed interchange of pretty pleasantries. +Your English middle-class young man and woman are not adepts at +the game of flirtation. I will confess that our methods +were, perhaps, elephantine, that we may have grown a trifle noisy +as the evening wore on. But we meant no evil; we did but +our best to enjoy ourselves, to give enjoyment, to make the too +brief time, pass gaily.</p> +<p>And then my thoughts travelled to small homes in distant +suburbs, and these bright lads and lasses round me came to look +older and more careworn. But what of that? Are not +old faces sweet when looked at by old eyes a little dimmed by +love, and are not care and toil but the parents of peace and +joy?</p> +<p>But as I drew nearer, I saw that many of the faces were seared +with sour and angry looks, and the voices that rose round me +sounded surly and captious. The pretty compliment and +praise had changed to sneers and scoldings. The dimpled +smile had wrinkled to a frown. There seemed so little +desire to please, so great a determination not to be pleased.</p> +<p>And the flirtations! Ah me, they had forgotten how to +flirt! Oh, the pity of it! All the jests were bitter, +all the little services were given grudgingly. The air +seemed to have grown chilly. A darkness had come over all +things.</p> +<p>And then I awoke to reality, and found I had been sitting in +my chair longer than I had intended. The band-stand was +empty, the sun had set; I rose and made my way home through the +scattered crowd.</p> +<p>Nature is so callous. The Dame irritates one at times by +her devotion to her one idea, the propagation of the species.</p> +<p>“Multiply and be fruitful; let my world be ever more and +more peopled.”</p> +<p>For this she trains and fashions her young girls, models them +with cunning hand, paints them with her wonderful red and white, +crowns them with her glorious hair, teaches them to smile and +laugh, trains their voices into music, sends them out into the +world to captivate, to enslave us.</p> +<p>“See how beautiful she is, my lad,” says the +cunning old woman. “Take her; build your little nest +with her in your pretty suburb; work for her and live for her; +enable her to keep the little ones that I will send.”</p> +<p>And to her, old hundred-breasted Artemis whispers, “Is +he not a bonny lad? See how he loves you, how devoted he is +to you! He will work for you and make you happy; he will +build your home for you. You will be the mother of his +children.”</p> +<p>So we take each other by the hand, full of hope and love, and +from that hour Mother Nature has done with us. Let the +wrinkles come; let our voices grow harsh; let the fire she +lighted in our hearts die out; let the foolish selfishness we +both thought we had put behind us for ever creep back to us, +bringing unkindness and indifference, angry thoughts and cruel +words into our lives. What cares she? She has caught +us, and chained us to her work. She is our universal +mother-in-law. She has done the match-making; for the rest, +she leaves it to ourselves. We can love or we can fight; it +is all one to her, confound her.</p> +<p>I wonder sometimes if good temper might not be taught. +In business we use no harsh language, say no unkind things to one +another. The shopkeeper, leaning across the counter, is all +smiles and affability, he might put up his shutters were he +otherwise. The commercial gent, no doubt, thinks the +ponderous shopwalker an ass, but refrains from telling him +so. Hasty tempers are banished from the City. Can we +not see that it is just as much to our interest to banish them +from Tooting and Hampstead?</p> +<p>The young man who sat in the chair next to me, how carefully +he wrapped the cloak round the shoulders of the little milliner +beside him. And when she said she was tired of sitting +still, how readily he sprang from his chair to walk with her, +though it was evident he was very comfortable where he was. +And she! She had laughed at his jokes; they were not very +clever jokes, they were not very new. She had probably read +them herself months before in her own particular weekly +journal. Yet the harmless humbug made him happy. I +wonder if ten years hence she will laugh at such old humour, if +ten years hence he will take such clumsy pains to put her cape +about her. Experience shakes her head, and is amused at my +question.</p> +<p>I would have evening classes for the teaching of temper to +married couples, only I fear the institution would languish for +lack of pupils. The husbands would recommend their wives to +attend, generously offering to pay the fee as a birthday +present. The wife would be indignant at the suggestion of +good money being thus wasted. “No, John, dear,” +she would unselfishly reply, “you need the lessons more +than I do. It would be a shame for me to take them away +from you,” and they would wrangle upon the subject for the +rest of the day.</p> +<p>Oh! the folly of it. We pack our hamper for life’s +picnic with such pains. We spend so much, we work so +hard. We make choice pies, we cook prime joints, we prepare +so carefully the mayonnaise, we mix with loving hands the salad, +we cram the basket to the lid with every delicacy we can think +of. Everything to make the picnic a success is there except +the salt. Ah! woe is me, we forget the salt. We slave +at our desks, in our workshops, to make a home for those we love; +we give up our pleasures, we give up our rest. We toil in +our kitchen from morning till night, and we render the whole +feast tasteless for want of a ha’porth of salt—for +want of a soupcon of amiability, for want of a handful of kindly +words, a touch of caress, a pinch of courtesy.</p> +<p>Who does not know that estimable housewife, working from eight +till twelve to keep the house in what she calls order? She +is so good a woman, so untiring, so unselfish, so conscientious, +so irritating. Her rooms are so clean, her servants so well +managed, her children so well dressed, her dinners so well +cooked; the whole house so uninviting. Everything about her +is in apple-pie order, and everybody wretched.</p> +<p>My good Madam, you polish your tables, you scour your kettles, +but the most valuable piece of furniture in the whole house you +are letting to rack and ruin for want of a little pains. +You will find it in your own room, my dear Lady, in front of your +own mirror. It is getting shabby and dingy, old-looking +before its time; the polish is rubbed off it, Madam, it is losing +its brightness and charm. Do you remember when he first +brought it home, how proud he was of it? Do you think you +have used it well, knowing how he valued it? A little less +care of your pots and your pans, Madam, a little more of yourself +were wiser. Polish yourself up, Madam; you had a pretty wit +once, a pleasant laugh, a conversation that was not confined +exclusively to the short-comings of servants, the wrong-doings of +tradesmen. My dear Madam, we do not live on spotless linen, +and crumbless carpets. Hunt out that bundle of old letters +you keep tied up in faded ribbon at the back of your bureau +drawer—a pity you don’t read them oftener. He +did not enthuse about your cuffs and collars, gush over the +neatness of your darning. It was your tangled hair he raved +about, your sunny smile (we have not seen it for some years, +Madam—the fault of the Cook and the Butcher, I presume), +your little hands, your rosebud mouth—it has lost its +shape, Madam, of late. Try a little less scolding of Mary +Ann, and practise a laugh once a day: you might get back the +dainty curves. It would be worth trying. It was a +pretty mouth once.</p> +<p>Who invented that mischievous falsehood that the way to a +man’s heart was through his stomach? How many a silly +woman, taking it for truth, has let love slip out of the parlour, +while she was busy in the kitchen. Of course, if you were +foolish enough to marry a pig, I suppose you must be content to +devote your life to the preparation of hog’s-wash. +But are you sure that he <i>is</i> a pig? If by any chance +he be not?—then, Madam, you are making a grievous +mistake. My dear Lady, you are too modest. If I may +say so without making you unduly conceited, even at the +dinner-table itself, you are of much more importance than the +mutton. Courage, Madam, be not afraid to tilt a lance even +with your own cook. You can be more piquant than the sauce +<i>à la Tartare</i>, more soothing surely than the melted +butter. There was a time when he would not have known +whether he was eating beef or pork with you the other side of the +table. Whose fault is it? Don’t think so poorly +of us. We are not ascetics, neither are we all gourmets: +most of us plain men, fond of our dinner, as a healthy man should +be, but fonder still of our sweethearts and wives, let us +hope. Try us. A moderately-cooked dinner—let us +even say a not-too-well-cooked dinner, with you looking your +best, laughing and talking gaily and cleverly—as you can, +you know—makes a pleasanter meal for us, after the +day’s work is done, than that same dinner, cooked to +perfection, with you silent, jaded, and anxious, your pretty hair +untidy, your pretty face wrinkled with care concerning the sole, +with anxiety regarding the omelette.</p> +<p>My poor Martha, be not troubled about so many things. +<i>You</i> are the one thing needful—if the bricks and +mortar are to be a home. See to it that <i>you</i> are well +served up, that <i>you</i> are done to perfection, that +<i>you</i> are tender and satisfying, that <i>you</i> are worth +sitting down to. We wanted a wife, a comrade, a friend; not +a cook and a nurse on the cheap.</p> +<p>But of what use is it to talk? the world will ever follow its +own folly. When I think of all the good advice that I have +given it, and of the small result achieved, I confess I grow +discouraged. I was giving good advice to a lady only the +other day. I was instructing her as to the proper treatment +of aunts. She was sucking a lead-pencil, a thing I am +always telling her not to do. She took it out of her mouth +to speak.</p> +<p>“I suppose you know how everybody ought to do +everything,” she said.</p> +<p>There are times when it is necessary to sacrifice one’s +modesty to one’s duty.</p> +<p>“Of course I do,” I replied.</p> +<p>“And does Mama know how everybody ought to do +everything?” was the second question.</p> +<p>My conviction on this point was by no means so strong, but for +domestic reasons I again sacrificed myself to expediency.</p> +<p>“Certainly,” I answered; “and take that +pencil out of your mouth. I’ve told you of that +before. You’ll swallow it one day, and then +you’ll get perichondritis and die.”</p> +<p>She appeared to be solving a problem.</p> +<p>“All grown-up people seem to know everything,” she +summarized.</p> +<p>There are times when I doubt if children are as simple as they +look. If it be sheer stupidity that prompts them to make +remarks of this character, one should pity them, and seek to +improve them. But if it be not stupidity? well then, one +should still seek to improve them, but by a different method.</p> +<p>The other morning I overheard the nurse talking to this +particular specimen. The woman is a most worthy creature, +and she was imparting to the child some really sound +advice. She was in the middle of an unexceptional +exhortation concerning the virtue of silence, when Dorothea +interrupted her with—</p> +<p>“Oh, do be quiet, Nurse. I never get a +moment’s peace from your chatter.”</p> +<p>Such an interruption discourages a woman who is trying to do +her duty.</p> +<p>Last Tuesday evening she was unhappy. Myself, I think +that rhubarb should never be eaten before April, and then never +with lemonade. Her mother read her a homily upon the +subject of pain. It was impressed upon her that we must be +patient, that we must put up with the trouble that God sends +us. Dorothea would descend to details, as children +will.</p> +<p>“Must we put up with the cod-liver oil that God sends +us?”</p> +<p>“Yes, decidedly.”</p> +<p>“And with the nurses that God sends us?”</p> +<p>“Certainly; and be thankful that you’ve got them, +some little girls haven’t any nurse. And don’t +talk so much.”</p> +<p>On Friday I found the mother in tears.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Oh, nothing,” was the answer; “only +Baby. She’s such a strange child. I can’t +make her out at all.”</p> +<p>“What has she been up to now?”</p> +<p>“Oh, she will argue, you know.”</p> +<p>She has that failing. I don’t know where she gets +it from, but she’s got it.</p> +<p>“Well?”</p> +<p>“Well, she made me cross; and, to punish her, I told her +she shouldn’t take her doll’s perambulator out with +her.”</p> +<p>“Yes?”</p> +<p>“Well, she didn’t say anything then, but so soon +as I was outside the door, I heard her talking to +herself—you know her way?”</p> +<p>“Yes?”</p> +<p>“She said—”</p> +<p>“Yes, she said?”</p> +<p>“She said, ‘I must be patient. I must put up +with the mother God has sent me.’”</p> +<p>She lunches down-stairs on Sundays. We have her with us +once a week to give her the opportunity of studying manners and +behaviour. Milson had dropped in, and we were discussing +politics. I was interested, and, pushing my plate aside, +leant forward with my elbows on the table. Dorothea has a +habit of talking to herself in a high-pitched whisper capable of +being heard above an Adelphi love scene. I heard her +say—</p> +<p>“I must sit up straight. I mustn’t sprawl +with my elbows on the table. It is only common, vulgar +people behave that way.”</p> +<p>I looked across at her; she was sitting most correctly, and +appeared to be contemplating something a thousand miles +away. We had all of us been lounging! We sat up +stiffly, and conversation flagged.</p> +<p>Of course we made a joke of it after the child was gone. +But somehow it didn’t seem to be <i>our</i> joke.</p> +<p>I wish I could recollect my childhood. I should so like +to know if children are as simple as they can look.</p> +<h2><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>ON +THE DELIGHTS AND BENEFITS OF SLAVERY</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">My</span> study window looks down upon +Hyde Park, and often, to quote the familiar promise of each new +magazine, it amuses and instructs me to watch from my tower the +epitome of human life that passes to and fro beneath. At +the opening of the gates, creeps in the woman of the +streets. Her pitiful work for the time being is over. +Shivering in the chill dawn, she passes to her brief rest. +Poor Slave! Lured to the galley’s lowest deck, then +chained there. Civilization, tricked fool, they say has +need of such. You serve as the dogs of Eastern towns. +But at least, it seems to me, we need not spit on you. Home +to your kennel! Perchance, if the Gods be kind, they may +send you dreams of a cleanly hearth, where you lie with a silver +collar round your neck.</p> +<p>Next comes the labourer—the hewer of wood, the drawer of +water—slouching wearily to his toil; sleep clinging still +about his leaden eyes, his pittance of food carried tied up in a +dish-clout. The first stroke of the hour clangs from Big +Ben. Haste thee, fellow-slave, lest the overseer’s +whip, “Out, we will have no lie-a-beds here,” descend +upon thy patient back.</p> +<p>Later, the artisan, with his bag of tools across his +shoulder. He, too, listens fearfully to the chiming of the +bells. For him also there hangs ready the whip.</p> +<p>After him, the shop boy and the shop girl, making love as they +walk, not to waste time. And after these the slaves of the +desk and of the warehouse, employers and employed, clerks and +tradesmen, office boys and merchants. To your places, +slaves of all ranks. Get you unto your burdens.</p> +<p>Now, laughing and shouting as they run, the children, the sons +and daughters of the slaves. Be industrious, little +children, and learn your lessons, that when the time comes you +may be ready to take from our hands the creaking oar, to slip +into our seat at the roaring loom. For we shall not be +slaves for ever, little children. It is the good law of the +land. So many years in the galleys, so many years in the +fields; then we can claim our freedom. Then we shall go, +little children, back to the land of our birth. And you we +must leave behind us to take up the tale of our work. So, +off to your schools, little children, and learn to be good little +slaves.</p> +<p>Next, pompous and sleek, come the educated +slaves—journalists, doctors, judges, and poets; the +attorney, the artist, the player, the priest. They likewise +scurry across the Park, looking anxiously from time to time at +their watches, lest they be late for their appointments; thinking +of the rates and taxes to be earned, of the bonnets to be paid +for, the bills to be met. The best scourged, perhaps, of +all, these slaves. The cat reserved for them has fifty +tails in place of merely two or three. Work, you higher +middle-class slave, or you shall come down to the smoking of +twopenny cigars; harder yet, or you shall drink shilling claret; +harder, or you shall lose your carriage and ride in a penny bus; +your wife’s frocks shall be of last year’s fashion; +your trousers shall bag at the knees; from Kensington you shall +be banished to Kilburn, if the tale of your bricks run +short. Oh, a many-thonged whip is yours, my genteel +brother.</p> +<p>The slaves of fashion are the next to pass beneath me in +review. They are dressed and curled with infinite +pains. The liveried, pampered footman these, kept more for +show than use; but their senseless tasks none the less labour to +them. Here must they come every day, merry or sad. By +this gravel path and no other must they walk; these phrases shall +they use when they speak to one another. For an hour they +must go slowly up and down upon a bicycle from Hyde Park Corner +to the Magazine and back. And these clothes must they wear; +their gloves of this colour, their neck-ties of this +pattern. In the afternoon they must return again, this time +in a carriage, dressed in another livery, and for an hour they +must pass slowly to and fro in foolish procession. For +dinner they must don yet another livery, and after dinner they +must stand about at dreary social functions till with weariness +and boredom their heads feel dropping from their shoulders.</p> +<p>With the evening come the slaves back from their work: +barristers, thinking out their eloquent appeals; school-boys, +conning their dog-eared grammars; City men, planning their +schemes; the wearers of motley, cudgelling their poor brains for +fresh wit with which to please their master; shop boys and shop +girls, silent now as, together, they plod homeward; the artisan; +the labourer. Two or three hours you shall have to +yourselves, slaves, to think and love and play, if you be not too +tired to think, or love, or play. Then to your litter, that +you may be ready for the morrow’s task.</p> +<p>The twilight deepens into dark; there comes back the woman of +the streets. As the shadows, she rounds the City’s +day. Work strikes its tent. Evil creeps from its +peering place.</p> +<p>So we labour, driven by the whip of necessity, an army of +slaves. If we do not our work, the whip descends upon us; +only the pain we feel in our stomach instead of on our +back. And because of that, we call ourselves free men.</p> +<p>Some few among us bravely struggle to be really free: they are +our tramps and outcasts. We well-behaved slaves shrink from +them, for the wages of freedom in this world are vermin and +starvation. We can live lives worth living only by placing +the collar round our neck.</p> +<p>There are times when one asks oneself: Why this endless +labour? Why this building of houses, this cooking of food, +this making of clothes? Is the ant so much more to be +envied than the grasshopper, because she spends her life in +grubbing and storing, and can spare no time for singing? +Why this complex instinct, driving us to a thousand labours to +satisfy a thousand desires? We have turned the world into a +workshop to provide ourselves with toys. To purchase luxury +we have sold our ease.</p> +<p>Oh, Children of Israel! why were ye not content in your +wilderness? It seems to have been a pattern +wilderness. For you, a simple wholesome food, ready cooked, +was provided. You took no thought for rent and taxes; you +had no poor among you—no poor-rate collectors. You +suffered not from indigestion, nor the hundred ills that follow +over-feeding; an omer for every man was your portion, neither +more nor less. You knew not you had a liver. Doctors +wearied you not with their theories, their physics, and their +bills. You were neither landowners nor leaseholders, +neither shareholders nor debenture holders. The weather and +the market reports troubled you not. The lawyer was unknown +to you; you wanted no advice; you had nought to quarrel about +with your neighbour. No riches were yours for the moth and +rust to damage. Your yearly income and expenditure you knew +would balance to a fraction. Your wife and children were +provided for. Your old age caused you no anxiety; you knew +you would always have enough to live upon in comfort. Your +funeral, a simple and tasteful affair, would be furnished by the +tribe. And yet, poor, foolish child, fresh from the +Egyptian brickfield, you could not rest satisfied. You +hungered for the fleshpots, knowing well what flesh-pots entail: +the cleaning of the flesh-pots, the forging of the flesh-pots, +the hewing of wood to make the fires for the boiling of the +flesh-pots, the breeding of beasts to fill the pots, the growing +of fodder to feed the beasts to fill the pots.</p> +<p>All the labour of our life is centred round our +flesh-pots. On the altar of the flesh-pot we sacrifice our +leisure, our peace of mind. For a mess of pottage we sell +our birthright.</p> +<p>Oh! Children of Israel, saw you not the long punishment you +were preparing for yourselves, when in your wilderness you set up +the image of the Calf, and fell before it, +crying—“This shall be our God.”</p> +<p>You would have veal. Thought you never of the price man +pays for Veal? The servants of the Golden Calf! I see +them, stretched before my eyes, a weary, endless throng. I +see them toiling in the mines, the black sweat on their +faces. I see them in sunless cities, silent, and grimy, and +bent. I see them, ague-twisted, in the rain-soaked +fields. I see them, panting by the furnace doors. I +see them, in loin-cloth and necklace, the load upon their +head. I see them in blue coats and red coats, marching to +pour their blood as an offering on the altar of the Calf. I +see them in homespun and broadcloth, I see them in smock and +gaiters, I see them in cap and apron, the servants of the +Calf. They swarm on the land and they dot the sea. +They are chained to the anvil and counter; they are chained to +the bench and the desk. They make ready the soil, they till +the fields where the Golden Calf is born. They build the +ship, and they sail the ship that carries the Golden Calf. +They fashion the pots, they mould the pans, they carve the +tables, they turn the chairs, they dream of the sauces, they dig +for the salt, they weave the damask, they mould the dish to serve +the Golden Calf.</p> +<p>The work of the world is to this end, that we eat of the +Calf. War and Commerce, Science and Law! what are they but +the four pillars supporting the Golden Calf? He is our +God. It is on his back that we have journeyed from the +primeval forest, where our ancestors ate nuts and fruit. He +is our God. His temple is in every street. His +blue-robed priest stands ever at the door, calling to the people +to worship. Hark! his voice rises on the gas-tainted +air—“Now’s your time! Now’s your +time! Buy! Buy! ye people. Bring hither the +sweat of your brow, the sweat of your brain, the ache of your +heart, buy Veal with it. Bring me the best years of your +life. Bring me your thoughts, your hopes, your loves; ye +shall have Veal for them. Now’s your time! +Now’s your time! Buy! Buy!”</p> +<p>Oh! Children of Israel, was Veal, even with all its trimmings, +quite worth the price?</p> +<p>And we! what wisdom have we learned, during the +centuries? I talked with a rich man only the other +evening. He calls himself a Financier, whatever that may +mean. He leaves his beautiful house, some twenty miles out +of London, at a quarter to eight, summer and winter, after a +hurried breakfast by himself, while his guests still sleep, and +he gets back just in time to dress for an elaborate dinner he +himself is too weary or too preoccupied to more than touch. +If ever he is persuaded to give himself a holiday it is for a +fortnight in Ostend, when it is most crowded and +uncomfortable. He takes his secretary with him, receives +and despatches a hundred telegrams a day, and has a private +telephone, through which he can speak direct to London, brought +up into his bedroom.</p> +<p>I suppose the telephone is really a useful invention. +Business men tell me they wonder how they contrived to conduct +their affairs without it. My own wonder always is, how any +human being with the ordinary passions of his race can conduct +his business, or even himself, creditably, within a hundred yards +of the invention. I can imagine Job, or Griselda, or +Socrates liking to have a telephone about them as exercise. +Socrates, in particular, would have made quite a reputation for +himself out of a three months’ subscription to a +telephone. Myself, I am, perhaps, too sensitive. I +once lived for a month in an office with a telephone, if one +could call it life. I was told that if I had stuck to the +thing for two or three months longer, I should have got used to +it. I know friends of mine, men once fearless and +high-spirited, who now stand in front of their own telephone for +a quarter of an hour at a time, and never so much as answer it +back. They tell me that at first they used to swear and +shout at it as I did; but now their spirit seems crushed. +That is what happens: you either break the telephone, or the +telephone breaks you. You want to see a man two streets +off. You might put on your hat, and be round at his office +in five minutes. You are on the point of starting when the +telephone catches your eye. You think you will ring him up +to make sure he is in. You commence by ringing up some +half-dozen times before anybody takes any notice of you +whatever. You are burning with indignation at this neglect, +and have left the instrument to sit down and pen a stinging +letter of complaint to the Company when the ring-back re-calls +you. You seize the ear trumpets, and shout—</p> +<p>“How is it that I can never get an answer when I +ring? Here have I been ringing for the last +half-hour. I have rung twenty times.” (This is +a falsehood. You have rung only six times, and the +“half-hour” is an absurd exaggeration; but you feel +the mere truth would not be adequate to the occasion.) +“I think it disgraceful,” you continue, “and I +shall complain to the Company. What is the use of my having +a telephone if I can’t get any answer when I ring? +Here I pay a large sum for having this thing, and I can’t +get any notice taken. I’ve been ringing all the +morning. Why is it?”</p> +<p>Then you wait for the answer.</p> +<p>“What—what do you say? I can’t hear +what you say.”</p> +<p>“I say I’ve been ringing here for over an hour, +and I can’t get any reply,” you call back. +“I shall complain to the Company.”</p> +<p>“You want what? Don’t stand so near the +tube. I can’t hear what you say. What +number?”</p> +<p>“Bother the number; I say why is it I don’t get an +answer when I ring?”</p> +<p>“Eight hundred and what?”</p> +<p>You can’t argue any more, after that. The machine +would give way under the language you want to make use of. +Half of what you feel would probably cause an explosion at some +point where the wire was weak. Indeed, mere language of any +kind would fall short of the requirements of the case. A +hatchet and a gun are the only intermediaries through which you +could convey your meaning by this time. So you give up all +attempt to answer back, and meekly mention that you want to be +put in communication with four-five-seven-six.</p> +<p>“Four-nine-seven-six?” says the girl.</p> +<p>“No; four-five-seven-six.”</p> +<p>“Did you say seven-six or six-seven?”</p> +<p>“Six-seven—no! I mean seven-six: +no—wait a minute. I don’t know what I do mean +now.”</p> +<p>“Well, I wish you’d find out,” says the +young lady severely. “You are keeping me here all the +morning.”</p> +<p>So you look up the number in the book again, and at last she +tells you that you are in connection; and then, ramming the +trumpet tight against your ear, you stand waiting.</p> +<p>And if there is one thing more than another likely to make a +man feel ridiculous it is standing on tip-toe in a corner, +holding a machine to his head, and listening intently to +nothing. Your back aches and your head aches, your very +hair aches. You hear the door open behind you and somebody +enter the room. You can’t turn your head. You +swear at them, and hear the door close with a bang. It +immediately occurs to you that in all probability it was +Henrietta. She promised to call for you at half-past +twelve: you were to take her to lunch. It was twelve +o’clock when you were fool enough to mix yourself up with +this infernal machine, and it probably is half-past twelve by +now. Your past life rises before you, accompanied by dim +memories of your grandmother. You are wondering how much +longer you can bear the strain of this attitude, and whether +after all you do really want to see the man in the next street +but two, when the girl in the exchange-room calls up to know if +you’re done.</p> +<p>“Done!” you retort bitterly; “why, I +haven’t begun yet.”</p> +<p>“Well, be quick,” she says, “because +you’re wasting time.”</p> +<p>Thus admonished, you attack the thing again. +“<i>Are</i> you there?” you cry in tones that ought +to move the heart of a Charity Commissioner; and then, oh joy! oh +rapture! you hear a faint human voice replying—</p> +<p>“Yes, what is it?”</p> +<p>“Oh! Are you four-five-seven-six?”</p> +<p>“What?”</p> +<p>“Are you four-five-seven-six, Williamson?”</p> +<p>“What! who are you?”</p> +<p>“Eight-one-nine, Jones.”</p> +<p>“Bones?”</p> +<p>“No, <i>J</i>ones. Are you +four-five-seven-six?”</p> +<p>“Yes; what is it?”</p> +<p>“Is Mr. Williamson in?”</p> +<p>“Will I what—who are you?”</p> +<p>“Jones! Is Mr. Williamson in?”</p> +<p>“Who?”</p> +<p>“Williamson. Will-i-am-son!”</p> +<p>“You’re the son of what? I can’t hear +what you say.”</p> +<p>Then you gather yourself for one final effort, and succeed, by +superhuman patience, in getting the fool to understand that you +wish to know if Mr. Williamson is in, and he says, so it sounds +to you, “Be in all the morning.”</p> +<p>So you snatch up your hat and run round.</p> +<p>“Oh, I’ve come to see Mr. Williamson,” you +say.</p> +<p>“Very sorry, sir,” is the polite reply, “but +he’s out.”</p> +<p>“Out? Why, you just now told me through the +telephone that he’d be in all the morning.”</p> +<p>“No, I said, he ‘<i>won’t</i> be in all the +morning.’”</p> +<p>You go back to the office, and sit down in front of that +telephone and look at it. There it hangs, calm and +imperturbable. Were it an ordinary instrument, that would +be its last hour. You would go straight down-stairs, get +the coal-hammer and the kitchen-poker, and divide it into +sufficient pieces to give a bit to every man in London. But +you feel nervous of these electrical affairs, and there is a +something about that telephone, with its black hole and curly +wires, that cows you. You have a notion that if you +don’t handle it properly something may come and shock you, +and then there will be an inquest, and bother of that sort, so +you only curse it.</p> +<p>That is what happens when you want to use the telephone from +your end. But that is not the worst that the telephone can +do. A sensible man, after a little experience, can learn to +leave the thing alone. Your worst troubles are not of your +own making. You are working against time; you have given +instructions not to be disturbed. Perhaps it is after +lunch, and you are thinking with your eyes closed, so that your +thoughts shall not be distracted by the objects about the +room. In either case you are anxious not to leave your +chair, when off goes that telephone bell and you spring from your +chair, uncertain, for the moment, whether you have been shot, or +blown up with dynamite. It occurs to you in your weakness +that if you persist in taking no notice, they will get tired, and +leave you alone. But that is not their method. The +bell rings violently at ten-second intervals. You have +nothing to wrap your head up in. You think it will be +better to get this business over and done with. You go to +your fate and call back savagely—</p> +<p>“What is it? What do you want?”</p> +<p>No answer, only a confused murmur, prominent out of which come +the voices of two men swearing at one another. The language +they are making use of is disgraceful. The telephone seems +peculiarly adapted for the conveyance of blasphemy. +Ordinary language sounds indistinct through it; but every word +those two men are saying can be heard by all the telephone +subscribers in London.</p> +<p>It is useless attempting to listen till they have done. +When they are exhausted, you apply to the tube again. No +answer is obtainable. You get mad, and become sarcastic; +only being sarcastic when you are not sure that anybody is at the +other end to hear you is unsatisfying.</p> +<p>At last, after a quarter of an hour or so of saying, +“Are you there?” “Yes, I’m +here,” “Well?” the young lady at the +Exchange asks what you want.</p> +<p>“I don’t want anything,” you reply.</p> +<p>“Then why do you keep talking?” she retorts; +“you mustn’t play with the thing.”</p> +<p>This renders you speechless with indignation for a while, upon +recovering from which you explain that somebody rang you up.</p> +<p>“<i>Who</i> rang you up?” she asks.</p> +<p>“I don’t know.”</p> +<p>“I wish you did,” she observes.</p> +<p>Generally disgusted, you slam the trumpet up and return to +your chair. The instant you are seated the bell clangs +again; and you fly up and demand to know what the thunder they +want, and who the thunder they are.</p> +<p>“Don’t speak so loud, we can’t hear +you. What do you want?” is the answer.</p> +<p>“I don’t want anything. What do you +want? Why do you ring me up, and then not answer me? +Do leave me alone, if you can!”</p> +<p>“We can’t get Hong Kongs at +seventy-four.”</p> +<p>“Well, I don’t care if you can’t.”</p> +<p>“Would you like Zulus?”</p> +<p>“What are you talking about?” you reply; “I +don’t know what you mean.”</p> +<p>“Would you like Zulus—Zulus at seventy-three and a +half?”</p> +<p>“I wouldn’t have ’em at six a penny. +What are you talking about?”</p> +<p>“Hong Kongs—we can’t get them at +seventy-four. Oh, half-a-minute” (the half-a-minute +passes). “Are you there?”</p> +<p>“Yes, but you are talking to the wrong man.”</p> +<p>“We can get you Hong Kongs at seventy-four and +seven-eights.”</p> +<p>“Bother Hong Kongs, and you too. I tell you, you +are talking to the wrong man. I’ve told you +once.”</p> +<p>“Once what?”</p> +<p>“Why, that I am the wrong man—I mean that you are +talking to the wrong man.”</p> +<p>“Who are you?”</p> +<p>“Eight-one-nine, Jones.”</p> +<p>“Oh, aren’t you one-nine-eight?”</p> +<p>“No.”</p> +<p>“Oh, good-bye.”</p> +<p>“Good-bye.”</p> +<p>How can a man after that sit down and write pleasantly of the +European crisis? And, if it were needed, herein lies +another indictment against the telephone. I was engaged in +an argument, which, if not in itself serious, was at least +concerned with a serious enough subject, the unsatisfactory +nature of human riches; and from that highly moral discussion +have I been lured, by the accidental sight of the word +“telephone,” into the writing of matter which can +have the effect only of exciting to frenzy all critics of the New +Humour into whose hands, for their sins, this book may +come. Let me forget my transgression and return to my +sermon, or rather to the sermon of my millionaire +acquaintance.</p> +<p>It was one day after dinner, we sat together in his +magnificently furnished dining-room. We had lighted our +cigars at the silver lamp. The butler had withdrawn.</p> +<p>“These cigars we are smoking,” my friend suddenly +remarked, <i>à propos</i> apparently of nothing, +“they cost me five shillings apiece, taking them by the +thousand.”</p> +<p>“I can quite believe it,” I answered; “they +are worth it.”</p> +<p>“Yes, to you,” he replied, almost savagely. +“What do you usually pay for your cigars?”</p> +<p>We had known each other years ago. When I first met him +his offices consisted of a back room up three flights of stairs +in a dingy by-street off the Strand, which has since +disappeared. We occasionally dined together, in those days, +at a restaurant in Great Portland Street, for one and nine. +Our acquaintanceship was of sufficient standing to allow of such +a question.</p> +<p>“Threepence,” I answered. “They work +out at about twopence three-farthings by the box.”</p> +<p>“Just so,” he growled; “and your +twopenny-three-farthing weed gives you precisely the same amount +of satisfaction that this five shilling cigar affords me. +That means four and ninepence farthing wasted every time I +smoke. I pay my cook two hundred a year. I +don’t enjoy my dinner as much as when it cost me four +shillings, including a quarter flask of Chianti. What is +the difference, personally, to me whether I drive to my office in +a carriage and pair, or in an omnibus? I often do ride in a +bus: it saves trouble. It is absurd wasting time looking +for one’s coachman, when the conductor of an omnibus that +passes one’s door is hailing one a few yards off. +Before I could afford even buses—when I used to walk every +morning to the office from Hammersmith—I was +healthier. It irritates me to think how hard I work for no +earthly benefit to myself. My money pleases a lot of people +I don’t care two straws about, and who are only my friends +in the hope of making something out of me. If I could eat a +hundred-guinea dinner myself every night, and enjoy it four +hundred times as much as I used to enjoy a five-shilling dinner, +there would be some sense in it. Why do I do it?”</p> +<p>I had never heard him talk like this before. In his +excitement he rose from the table, and commenced pacing the +room.</p> +<p>“Why don’t I invest my money in the two and a half +per cents?” he continued. “At the very worst I +should be safe for five thousand a year. What, in the name +of common sense, does a man want with more? I am always +saying to myself, I’ll do it; why don’t I?</p> +<p>“Well, why not?” I echoed.</p> +<p>“That’s what I want you to tell me,” he +returned. “You set up for understanding human nature, +it’s a mystery to me. In my place, you would do as I +do; you know that. If somebody left you a hundred thousand +pounds to-morrow, you would start a newspaper, or build a +theatre—some damn-fool trick for getting rid of the money +and giving yourself seventeen hours’ anxiety a day; you +know you would.”</p> +<p>I hung my head in shame. I felt the justice of the +accusation. It has always been my dream to run a newspaper +and own a theatre.</p> +<p>“If we worked only for what we could spend,” he +went on, “the City might put up its shutters to-morrow +morning. What I want to get at the bottom of is this +instinct that drives us to work apparently for work’s own +sake. What is this strange thing that gets upon our back +and spurs us?”</p> +<p>A servant entered at that moment with a cablegram from the +manager of one of his Austrian mines, and he had to leave me for +his study. But, walking home, I fell to pondering on his +words. <i>Why</i> this endless work? Why each morning +do we get up and wash and dress ourselves, to undress ourselves +at night and go to bed again? Why do we work merely to earn +money to buy food; and eat food so as to gain strength that we +may work? Why do we live, merely in the end to say good-bye +to one another? Why do we labour to bring children into the +world that they may die and be buried?</p> +<p>Of what use our mad striving, our passionate desire? +Will it matter to the ages whether, once upon a time, the Union +Jack or the Tricolour floated over the battlements of +Badajoz? Yet we poured our blood into its ditches to decide +the question. Will it matter, in the days when the glacial +period shall have come again, to clothe the earth with silence, +whose foot first trod the Pole? Yet, generation after +generation, we mile its roadway with our whitening bones. +So very soon the worms come to us; does it matter whether we +love, or hate? Yet the hot blood rushes through our veins, +we wear out heart and brain for shadowy hopes that ever fade as +we press forward.</p> +<p>The flower struggles up from seed-pod, draws the sweet sap +from the ground, folds its petals each night, and sleeps. +Then love comes to it in a strange form, and it longs to mingle +its pollen with the pollen of some other flower. So it puts +forth its gay blossoms, and the wandering insect bears the +message from seed-pod to seed-pod. And the seasons pass, +bringing with them the sunshine and the rain, till the flower +withers, never having known the real purpose for which it lived, +thinking the garden was made for it, not it for the garden. +The coral insect dreams in its small soul, which is possibly its +small stomach, of home and food. So it works and strives +deep down in the dark waters, never knowing of the continents it +is fashioning.</p> +<p>But the question still remains: for what purpose is it +all? Science explains it to us. By ages of strife and +effort we improve the race; from ether, through the monkey, man +is born. So, through the labour of the coming ages, he will +free himself still further from the brute. Through sorrow +and through struggle, by the sweat of brain and brow, he will +lift himself towards the angels. He will come into his +kingdom.</p> +<p>But why the building? Why the passing of the countless +ages? Why should he not have been born the god he is to be, +imbued at birth with all the capabilities his ancestors have died +acquiring? Why the Pict and Hun that <i>I</i> may be? +Why <i>I</i>, that a descendant of my own, to whom I shall seem a +savage, shall come after me? Why, if the universe be +ordered by a Creator to whom all things are possible, the +protoplasmic cell? Why not the man that is to be? +Shall all the generations be so much human waste that he may +live? Am I but another layer of the soil preparing for +him?</p> +<p>Or, if our future be in other spheres, then why the need of +this planet? Are we labouring at some Work too vast for us +to perceive? Are our passions and desires mere whips and +traces by the help of which we are driven? Any theory seems +more hopeful than the thought that all our eager, fretful lives +are but the turning of a useless prison crank. Looking back +the little distance that our dim eyes can penetrate the past, +what do we find? Civilizations, built up with infinite +care, swept aside and lost. Beliefs for which men lived and +died, proved to be mockeries. Greek Art crushed to the dust +by Gothic bludgeons. Dreams of fraternity, drowned in blood +by a Napoleon. What is left to us, but the hope that the +work itself, not the result, is the real monument? Maybe, +we are as children, asking, “Of what use are these +lessons? What good will they ever be to us?” +But there comes a day when the lad understands why he learnt +grammar and geography, when even dates have a meaning for +him. But this is not until he has left school, and gone out +into the wider world. So, perhaps, when we are a little +more grown up, we too may begin to understand the reason for our +living.</p> +<h2><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>ON +THE CARE AND MANAGEMENT OF WOMEN</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">talked</span> to a woman once on the +subject of honeymoons. I said, “Would you recommend a +long honeymoon, or a Saturday to Monday somewhere?” A +silence fell upon her. I gathered she was looking back +rather than forward to her answer.</p> +<p>“I would advise a long honeymoon,” she replied at +length, “the old-fashioned month.”</p> +<p>“Why,” I persisted, “I thought the tendency +of the age was to cut these things shorter and +shorter.”</p> +<p>“It is the tendency of the age,” she answered, +“to seek escape from many things it would be wiser to +face. I think myself that, for good or evil, the sooner it +is over—the sooner both the man and the woman +know—the better.”</p> +<p>“The sooner what is over?” I asked.</p> +<p>If she had a fault, this woman, about which I am not sure, it +was an inclination towards enigma.</p> +<p>She crossed to the window and stood there, looking out.</p> +<p>“Was there not a custom,” she said, still gazing +down into the wet, glistening street, “among one of the +ancient peoples, I forget which, ordaining that when a man and +woman, loving one another, or thinking that they loved, had been +joined together, they should go down upon their wedding night to +the temple? And into the dark recesses of the temple, +through many winding passages, the priest led them until they +came to the great chamber where dwelt the voice of their +god. There the priest left them, clanging-to the massive +door behind him, and there, alone in silence, they made their +sacrifice; and in the night the Voice spoke to them, showing them +their future life—whether they had chosen well; whether +their love would live or die. And in the morning the priest +returned and led them back into the day; and they dwelt among +their fellows. But no one was permitted to question them, +nor they to answer should any do so. Well, do you know, our +nineteenth-century honeymoon at Brighton, Switzerland, or +Ramsgate, as the choice or necessity may be, always seems to me +merely another form of that night spent alone in the temple +before the altar of that forgotten god. Our young men and +women marry, and we kiss them and congratulate them; and, +standing on the doorstep, throw rice and old slippers, and shout +good wishes after them; and he waves his gloved hand to us, and +she flutters her little handkerchief from the carriage window; +and we watch their smiling faces and hear their laughter until +the corner hides them from our view. Then we go about our +own business, and a short time passes by; and one day we meet +them again, and their faces have grown older and graver; and I +always wonder what the Voice has told them during that little +while that they have been absent from our sight. But of +course it would not do to ask them. Nor would they answer +truly if we did.”</p> +<p>My friend laughed, and, leaving the window, took her place +beside the tea-things, and other callers dropping in, we fell to +talk of pictures, plays, and people.</p> +<p>But I felt it would be unwise to act on her sole advice, much +as I have always valued her opinion.</p> +<p>A woman takes life too seriously. It is a serious affair +to most of us, the Lord knows. That is why it is well not +to take it more seriously than need be.</p> +<p>Little Jack and little Jill fall down the hill, hurting their +little knees, and their little noses, spilling the hard-earned +water. We are very philosophical.</p> +<p>“Oh, don’t cry!” we tell them, “that +is babyish. Little boys and little girls must learn to bear +pain. Up you get, fill the pail again, and try once +more.”</p> +<p>Little Jack and little Jill rub their dirty knuckles into +their little eyes, looking ruefully at their bloody little knees, +and trot back with the pail. We laugh at them, but not +ill-naturedly.</p> +<p>“Poor little souls,” we say; “how they did +hullabaloo. One might have thought they were +half-killed. And it was only a broken crown, after +all. What a fuss children make!” We bear with +much stoicism the fall of little Jack and little Jill.</p> +<p>But when <i>we</i>—grown-up Jack with moustache turning +grey; grown-up Jill with the first faint “crow’s +feet” showing—when <i>we</i> tumble down the hill, +and <i>our</i> pail is spilt. Ye Heavens! what a tragedy +has happened. Put out the stars, turn off the sun, suspend +the laws of nature. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill, coming down the +hill—what they were doing on the hill we will not +inquire—have slipped over a stone, placed there surely by +the evil powers of the universe. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill +have bumped their silly heads. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill have +hurt their little hearts, and stand marvelling that the world can +go about its business in the face of such disaster.</p> +<p>Don’t take the matter quite so seriously, Jack and +Jill. You have spilled your happiness, you must toil up the +hill again and refill the pail. Carry it more carefully +next time. What were you doing? Playing some +fool’s trick, I’ll be bound.</p> +<p>A laugh and a sigh, a kiss and good-bye, is our life. Is +it worth so much fretting? It is a merry life on the +whole. Courage, comrade. A campaign cannot be all +drum and fife and stirrup-cup. The marching and the +fighting must come into it somewhere. There are pleasant +bivouacs among the vineyards, merry nights around the camp +fires. White hands wave a welcome to us; bright eyes dim at +our going. Would you run from the battle-music? What +have you to complain of? Forward: the medal to some, the +surgeon’s knife to others; to all of us, sooner or later, +six feet of mother earth. What are you afraid of? +Courage, comrade.</p> +<p>There is a mean between basking through life with the smiling +contentment of the alligator, and shivering through it with the +aggressive sensibility of the Lama determined to die at every +cross word. To bear it as a man we must also feel it as a +man. My philosophic friend, seek not to comfort a brother +standing by the coffin of his child with the cheery suggestion +that it will be all the same a hundred years hence, because, for +one thing, the observation is not true: the man is changed for +all eternity—possibly for the better, but don’t add +that. A soldier with a bullet in his neck is never quite +the man he was. But he can laugh and he can talk, drink his +wine and ride his horse. Now and again, towards evening, +when the weather is trying, the sickness will come upon +him. You will find him on a couch in a dark corner.</p> +<p>“Hallo! old fellow, anything up?”</p> +<p>“Oh, just a twinge, the old wound, you know. I +will be better in a little while.”</p> +<p>Shut the door of the dark room quietly. I should not +stay even to sympathize with him if I were you. The men +will be coming to screw the coffin down soon. I think he +would like to be alone with it till then. Let us leave +him. He will come back to the club later on in the +season. For a while we may have to give him another ten +points or so, but he will soon get back his old form. Now +and again, when he meets the other fellows’ boys shouting +on the towing-path; when Brown rushes up the drive, paper in +hand, to tell him how that young scapegrace Jim has won his +Cross; when he is congratulating Jones’s eldest on having +passed with honours, the old wound may give him a nasty +twinge. But the pain will pass away. He will laugh at +our stories and tell us his own; eat his dinner, play his +rubber. It is only a wound.</p> +<p>Tommy can never be ours, Jenny does not love us. We +cannot afford claret, so we will have to drink beer. Well, +what would you have us do? Yes, let us curse Fate by all +means—some one to curse is always useful. Let us cry +and wring our hands—for how long? The dinner-bell +will ring soon, and the Smiths are coming. We shall have to +talk about the opera and the picture-galleries. Quick, +where is the eau-de-Cologne? where are the curling-tongs? +Or would you we committed suicide? Is it worth while? +Only a few more years—perhaps to-morrow, by aid of a piece +of orange peel or a broken chimney-pot—and Fate will save +us all that trouble.</p> +<p>Or shall we, as sulky children, mope day after day? We +are a broken-hearted little Jack—little Jill. We will +never smile again; we will pine away and die, and be buried in +the spring. The world is sad, and life so cruel, and heaven +so cold. Oh dear! oh dear! we have hurt ourselves.</p> +<p>We whimper and whine at every pain. In old strong days +men faced real dangers, real troubles every hour; they had no +time to cry. Death and disaster stood ever at the +door. Men were contemptuous of them. Now in each snug +protected villa we set to work to make wounds out of +scratches. Every head-ache becomes an agony, every +heart-ache a tragedy. It took a murdered father, a drowned +sweetheart, a dishonoured mother, a ghost, and a slaughtered +Prime Minister to produce the emotions in Hamlet that a modern +minor poet obtains from a chorus girl’s frown, or a +temporary slump on the Stock Exchange. Like Mrs. Gummidge, +we feel it more. The lighter and easier life gets the more +seriously we go out to meet it. The boatmen of Ulysses +faced the thunder and the sunshine alike with frolic +welcome. We modern sailors have grown more sensitive. +The sunshine scorches us, the rain chills us. We meet both +with loud self-pity.</p> +<p>Thinking these thoughts, I sought a second friend—a man +whose breezy common-sense has often helped me, and him likewise I +questioned on this subject of honeymoons.</p> +<p>“My dear boy,” he replied; “take my advice, +if ever you get married, arrange it so that the honeymoon shall +only last a week, and let it be a bustling week into the +bargain. Take a Cook’s circular tour. Get +married on the Saturday morning, cut the breakfast and all that +foolishness, and catch the eleven-ten from Charing Cross to +Paris. Take her up the Eiffel Tower on Sunday. Lunch +at Fontainebleau. Dine at the Maison Doree, and show her +the Moulin Rouge in the evening. Take the night train for +Lucerne. Devote Monday and Tuesday to doing Switzerland, +and get into Rome by Thursday morning, taking the Italian lakes +<i>en route</i>. On Friday cross to Marseilles, and from +there push along to Monte Carlo. Let her have a flutter at +the tables. Start early Saturday morning for Spain, cross +the Pyrenees on mules, and rest at Bordeaux on Sunday. Get +back to Paris on Monday (Monday is always a good day for the +opera), and on Tuesday evening you will be at home, and glad to +get there. Don’t give her time to criticize you until +she has got used to you. No man will bear unprotected +exposure to a young girl’s eyes. The honeymoon is the +matrimonial microscope. Wobble it. Confuse it with +many objects. Cloud it with other interests. +Don’t sit still to be examined. Besides, remember +that a man always appears at his best when active, and a woman at +her worst. Bustle her, my dear boy, bustle her: I +don’t care who she may be. Give her plenty of luggage +to look after; make her catch trains. Let her see the +average husband sprawling comfortably over the railway cushions, +while his wife has to sit bolt upright in the corner left to +her. Let her hear how other men swear. Let her smell +other men’s tobacco. Hurry up, and get her accustomed +quickly to the sight of mankind. Then she will be less +surprised and shocked as she grows to know you. One of the +best fellows I ever knew spoilt his married life beyond repair by +a long quiet honeymoon. They went off for a month to a +lonely cottage in some heaven-forsaken spot, where never a soul +came near them, and never a thing happened but morning, +afternoon, and night. There for thirty days she overhauled +him. When he yawned—and he yawned pretty often, I +guess, during that month—she thought of the size of his +mouth, and when he put his heels upon the fender she sat and +brooded upon the shape of his feet. At meal-time, not +feeling hungry herself, having nothing to do to make her hungry, +she would occupy herself with watching him eat; and at night, not +feeling sleepy for the same reason, she would lie awake and +listen to his snoring. After the first day or two he grew +tired of talking nonsense, and she of listening to it (it sounded +nonsense now they could speak it aloud; they had fancied it +poetry when they had had to whisper it); and having no other +subject, as yet, of common interest, they would sit and stare in +front of them in silence. One day some trifle irritated him +and he swore. On a busy railway platform, or in a crowded +hotel, she would have said, ‘Oh!’ and they would both +have laughed. From that echoing desert the silly words rose +up in widening circles towards the sky, and that night she cried +herself to sleep. Bustle them, my dear boy, bustle +them. We all like each other better the less we think about +one another, and the honeymoon is an exceptionally critical +time. Bustle her, my dear boy, bustle her.”</p> +<p>My very worst honeymoon experience took place in the South of +England in eighteen hundred and—well, never mind the exact +date, let us say a few years ago. I was a shy young man at +that time. Many complain of my reserve to this day, but +then some girls expect too much from a man. We all have our +shortcomings. Even then, however, I was not so shy as +she. We had to travel from Lyndhurst in the New Forest to +Ventnor, an awkward bit of cross-country work in those days.</p> +<p>“It’s so fortunate you are going too,” said +her aunt to me on the Tuesday; “Minnie is always nervous +travelling alone. You will be able to look after her, and I +shan’t be anxious.”</p> +<p>I said it would be a pleasure, and at the time I honestly +thought it. On the Wednesday I went down to the coach +office, and booked two places for Lymington, from where we took +the steamer. I had not a suspicion of trouble.</p> +<p>The booking-clerk was an elderly man. He said—</p> +<p>“I’ve got the box seat, and the end place on the +back bench.”</p> +<p>I said—</p> +<p>“Oh, can’t I have two together?”</p> +<p>He was a kindly-looking old fellow. He winked at +me. I wondered all the way home why he had winked at +me. He said—</p> +<p>“I’ll manage it somehow.”</p> +<p>I said—</p> +<p>“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure.”</p> +<p>He laid his hand on my shoulder. He struck me as +familiar, but well-intentioned. He said—</p> +<p>“We have all of us been there.”</p> +<p>I thought he was alluding to the Isle of Wight. I +said—</p> +<p>“And this is the best time of the year for it, so +I’m told.” It was early summer time.</p> +<p>He said—“It’s all right in summer, and +it’s good enough in winter—<i>while it +lasts</i>. You make the most of it, young ’un;” +and he slapped me on the back and laughed.</p> +<p>He would have irritated me in another minute. I paid for +the seats and left him.</p> +<p>At half-past eight the next morning Minnie and I started for +the coach-office. I call her Minnie, not with any wish to +be impertinent, but because I have forgotten her surname. +It must be ten years since I last saw her. She was a pretty +girl, too, with those brown eyes that always cloud before they +laugh. Her aunt did not drive down with us as she had +intended, in consequence of a headache. She was good enough +to say she felt every confidence in me.</p> +<p>The old booking-clerk caught sight of us when we were about a +quarter of a mile away, and drew to us the attention of the +coachman, who communicated the fact of our approach to the +gathered passengers. Everybody left off talking, and waited +for us. The boots seized his horn, and blew—one could +hardly call it a blast; it would be difficult to say what he +blew. He put his heart into it, but not sufficient +wind. I think his intention was to welcome us, but it +suggested rather a feeble curse. We learnt subsequently +that he was a beginner on the instrument.</p> +<p>In some mysterious way the whole affair appeared to be our +party. The booking-clerk bustled up and helped Minnie from +the cart. I feared, for a moment, he was going to kiss +her. The coachman grinned when I said good-morning to +him. The passengers grinned, the boots grinned. Two +chamber-maids and a waiter came out from the hotel, and they +grinned. I drew Minnie aside, and whispered to her. I +said—</p> +<p>“There’s something funny about us. All these +people are grinning.”</p> +<p>She walked round me, and I walked round her, but we could +neither of us discover anything amusing about the other. +The booking-clerk said—</p> +<p>“It’s all right. I’ve got you young +people two places just behind the box-seat. We’ll +have to put five of you on that seat. You won’t mind +sitting a bit close, will you?”</p> +<p>The booking-clerk winked at the coachman, the coachman winked +at the passengers, the passengers winked at one +another—those of them who could wink—and everybody +laughed. The two chamber-maids became hysterical, and had +to cling to each other for support. With the exception of +Minnie and myself, it seemed to be the merriest coach party ever +assembled at Lyndhurst.</p> +<p>We had taken our places, and I was still busy trying to fathom +the joke, when a stout lady appeared on the scene, and demanded +to know her place.</p> +<p>The clerk explained to her that it was in the middle behind +the driver.</p> +<p>“We’ve had to put five of you on that seat,” +added the clerk.</p> +<p>The stout lady looked at the seat.</p> +<p>“Five of us can’t squeeze into that,” she +said.</p> +<p>Five of her certainly could not. Four ordinary sized +people with her would find it tight.</p> +<p>“Very well then,” said the clerk, “you can +have the end place on the back seat.”</p> +<p>“Nothing of the sort,” said the stout lady. +“I booked my seat on Monday, and you told me any of the +front places were vacant.</p> +<p>“<i>I’ll</i> take the back place,” I said, +“I don’t mind it.</p> +<p>“You stop where you are, young ’un,” said +the clerk, firmly, “and don’t be a fool. +I’ll fix <i>her</i>.”</p> +<p>I objected to his language, but his tone was kindness +itself.</p> +<p>“Oh, let <i>me</i> have the back seat,” said +Minnie, rising, “I’d so like it.”</p> +<p>For answer the coachman put both his hands on her +shoulders. He was a heavy man, and she sat down again.</p> +<p>“Now then, mum,” said the clerk, addressing the +stout lady, “are you going up there in the middle, or are +you coming up here at the back?”</p> +<p>“But why not let one of them take the back seat?” +demanded the stout lady, pointing her reticule at Minnie and +myself; “they say they’d like it. Let them have +it.”</p> +<p>The coachman rose, and addressed his remarks generally.</p> +<p>“Put her up at the back, or leave her behind,” he +directed. “Man and wife have never been separated on +this coach since I started running it fifteen year ago, and they +ain’t going to be now.”</p> +<p>A general cheer greeted this sentiment. The stout lady, +now regarded as a would-be blighter of love’s young dream, +was hustled into the back seat, the whip cracked, and away we +rolled.</p> +<p>So here was the explanation. We were in a honeymoon +district, in June—the most popular month in the whole year +for marriage. Every two out of three couples found +wandering about the New Forest in June are honeymoon couples; the +third are going to be. When they travel anywhere it is to +the Isle of Wight. We both had on new clothes. Our +bags happened to be new. By some evil chance our very +umbrellas were new. Our united ages were +thirty-seven. The wonder would have been had we <i>not</i> +been mistaken for a young married couple.</p> +<p>A day of greater misery I have rarely passed. To Minnie, +so her aunt informed me afterwards, the journey was the most +terrible experience of her life, but then her experience, up to +that time, had been limited. She was engaged, and devotedly +attached, to a young clergyman; I was madly in love with a +somewhat plump girl named Cecilia who lived with her mother at +Hampstead. I am positive as to her living at +Hampstead. I remember so distinctly my weekly walk down the +hill from Church Row to the Swiss Cottage station. When +walking down a steep hill all the weight of the body is forced +into the toe of the boot, and when the boot is two sizes too +small for you, and you have been living in it since the early +afternoon, you remember a thing like that. But all my +recollections of Cecilia are painful, and it is needless to +pursue them.</p> +<p>Our coach-load was a homely party, and some of the jokes were +broad—harmless enough in themselves, had Minnie and I +really been the married couple we were supposed to be, but even +in that case unnecessary. I can only hope that Minnie did +not understand them. Anyhow, she looked as if she +didn’t.</p> +<p>I forget where we stopped for lunch, but I remember that lamb +and mint sauce was on the table, and that the circumstance +afforded the greatest delight to all the party, with the +exception of the stout lady, who was still indignant, Minnie and +myself. About my behaviour as a bridegroom opinion appeared +to be divided. “He’s a bit standoffish with +her,” I overheard one lady remark to her husband; “I +like to see ’em a bit kittenish myself.” A +young waitress, on the other hand, I am happy to say, showed more +sense of natural reserve. “Well, I respect him for +it,” she was saying to the barmaid, as we passed through +the hall; “I’d just hate to be fuzzled over with +everybody looking on.” Nobody took the trouble to +drop their voices for our benefit. We might have been a +pair of prize love birds on exhibition, the way we were openly +discussed. By the majority we were clearly regarded as a +sulky young couple who would not go through their tricks.</p> +<p>I have often wondered since how a real married couple would +have faced the situation. Possibly, had we consented to +give a short display of marital affection, “by +desire,” we might have been left in peace for the remainder +of the journey.</p> +<p>Our reputation preceded us on to the steamboat. Minnie +begged and prayed me to let it be known we were not +married. How I was to let it be known, except by requesting +the captain to summon the whole ship’s company on deck, and +then making them a short speech, I could not think. Minnie +said she could not bear it any longer, and retired to the +ladies’ cabin. She went off crying. Her trouble +was attributed by crew and passengers to my coldness. One +fool planted himself opposite me with his legs apart, and shook +his head at me.</p> +<p>“Go down and comfort her,” he began. +“Take an old man’s advice. Put your arms around +her.” (He was one of those sentimental idiots.) +“Tell her that you love her.”</p> +<p>I told him to go and hang himself, with so much vigour that he +all but fell overboard. He was saved by a poultry crate: I +had no luck that day.</p> +<p>At Ryde the guard, by superhuman effort, contrived to keep us +a carriage to ourselves. I gave him a shilling, because I +did not know what else to do. I would have made it +half-a-sovereign if he had put eight other passengers in with +us. At every station people came to the window to look in +at us.</p> +<p>I handed Minnie over to her father on Ventnor platform; and I +took the first train the next morning, to London. I felt I +did not want to see her again for a little while; and I felt +convinced she could do without a visit from me. Our next +meeting took place the week before her marriage.</p> +<p>“Where are you going to spend your honeymoon?” I +asked her; “in the New Forest?”</p> +<p>“No,” she replied; “nor in the Isle of +Wight.”</p> +<p>To enjoy the humour of an incident one must be at some +distance from it either in time or relationship. I remember +watching an amusing scene in Whitefield Street, just off +Tottenham Court Road, one winter’s Saturday night. A +woman—a rather respectable looking woman, had her hat only +been on straight—had just been shot out of a +public-house. She was very dignified, and very drunk. +A policeman requested her to move on. She called him +“Fellow,” and demanded to know of him if he +considered that was the proper tone in which to address a +lady. She threatened to report him to her cousin, the Lord +Chancellor.</p> +<p>“Yes; this way to the Lord Chancellor,” retorted +the policeman. “You come along with me;” and he +caught hold of her by the arm.</p> +<p>She gave a lurch, and nearly fell. To save her the man +put his arm round her waist. She clasped him round the +neck, and together they spun round two or three times; while at +the very moment a piano-organ at the opposite corner struck up a +waltz.</p> +<p>“Choose your partners, gentlemen, for the next +dance,” shouted a wag, and the crowd roared.</p> +<p>I was laughing myself, for the situation was undeniably +comical, the constable’s expression of disgust being quite +Hogarthian, when the sight of a child’s face beneath the +gas-lamp stayed me. Her look was so full of terror that I +tried to comfort her.</p> +<p>“It’s only a drunken woman,” I said; +“he’s not going to hurt her.”</p> +<p>“Please, sir,” was the answer, “it’s +my mother.”</p> +<p>Our joke is generally another’s pain. The man who +sits down on the tin-tack rarely joins in the laugh.</p> +<h2><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 175</span>ON +THE MINDING OF OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">walked</span> one bright September +morning in the Strand. I love London best in the +autumn. Then only can one see the gleam of its white +pavements, the bold, unbroken outline of its streets. I +love the cool vistas one comes across of mornings in the parks, +the soft twilights that linger in the empty bye-streets. In +June the restaurant manager is off-hand with me; I feel I am but +in his way. In August he spreads for me the table by the +window, pours out for me my wine with his own fat hands. I +cannot doubt his regard for me: my foolish jealousies are +stilled. Do I care for a drive after dinner through the +caressing night air, I can climb the omnibus stair without a +preliminary fight upon the curb, can sit with easy conscience and +unsquashed body, not feeling I have deprived some hot, tired +woman of a seat. Do I desire the play, no harsh, forbidding +“House full” board repels me from the door. +During her season, London, a harassed hostess, has no time for +us, her intimates. Her rooms are overcrowded, her servants +overworked, her dinners hurriedly cooked, her tone +insincere. In the spring, to be truthful, the great lady +condescends to be somewhat vulgar—noisy and +ostentatious. Not till the guests are departed is she +herself again, the London that we, her children, love.</p> +<p>Have you, gentle Reader, ever seen London—not the London +of the waking day, coated with crawling life, as a blossom with +blight, but the London of the morning, freed from her rags, the +patient city, clad in mists? Get you up with the dawn one +Sunday in summer time. Wake none else, but creep down +stealthily into the kitchen, and make your own tea and toast.</p> +<p>Be careful you stumble not over the cat. She will worm +herself insidiously between your legs. It is her way; she +means it in friendship. Neither bark your shins against the +coal-box. Why the kitchen coal-box has its fixed place in +the direct line between the kitchen door and the gas-bracket I +cannot say. I merely know it as an universal law; and I +would that you escaped that coal-box, lest the frame of mind I +desire for you on this Sabbath morning be dissipated.</p> +<p>A spoon to stir your tea, I fear you must dispense with. +Knives and forks you will discover in plenty; blacking brushes +you will put your hand upon in every drawer; of emery paper, did +one require it, there are reams; but it is a point with every +housekeeper that the spoons be hidden in a different place each +night. If anybody excepting herself can find them in the +morning, it is a slur upon her. No matter, a stick of +firewood, sharpened at one end, makes an excellent +substitute.</p> +<p>Your breakfast done, turn out the gas, remount the stairs +quietly, open gently the front door and slip out. You will +find yourself in an unknown land. A strange city grown +round you in the night.</p> +<p>The sweet long streets lie silent in sunlight. Not a +living thing is to be seen save some lean Tom that slinks from +his gutter feast as you approach. From some tree there will +sound perhaps a fretful chirp: but the London sparrow is no early +riser; he is but talking in his sleep. The slow tramp of +unseen policeman draws near or dies away. The clatter of +your own footsteps goes with you, troubling you. You find +yourself trying to walk softly, as one does in echoing +cathedrals. A voice is everywhere about you whispering to +you “Hush.” Is this million-breasted City then +some tender Artemis, seeking to keep her babes asleep? +“Hush, you careless wayfarer; do not waken them. Walk +lighter; they are so tired, these myriad children of mine, +sleeping in my thousand arms. They are over-worked and +over-worried; so many of them are sick, so many fretful, many of +them, alas, so full of naughtiness. But all of them so +tired. Hush! they worry me with their noise and riot when +they are awake. They are so good now they are asleep. +Walk lightly, let them rest.”</p> +<p>Where the ebbing tide flows softly through worn arches to the +sea, you may hear the stone-faced City talking to the restless +waters: “Why will you never stay with me? Why come +but to go?”</p> +<p>“I cannot say, I do not understand. From the deep +sea I come, but only as a bird loosed from a child’s hand +with a cord. When she calls I must return.”</p> +<p>“It is so with these children of mine. They come +to me, I know not whence. I nurse them for a little while, +till a hand I do not see plucks them back. And others take +their place.”</p> +<p>Through the still air there passes a ripple of sound. +The sleeping City stirs with a faint sigh. A distant +milk-cart rattling by raises a thousand echoes; it is the +vanguard of a yoked army. Soon from every street there +rises the soothing cry, +“Mee’hilk—mee’hilk.”</p> +<p>London like some Gargantuan babe, is awake, crying for its +milk. These be the white-smocked nurses hastening with its +morning nourishment. The early church bells ring. +“You have had your milk, little London. Now come and +say your prayers. Another week has just begun, baby +London. God knows what will happen, say your +prayers.”</p> +<p>One by one the little creatures creep from behind the blinds +into the streets. The brooding tenderness is vanished from +the City’s face. The fretful noises of the day have +come again. Silence, her lover of the night, kisses her +stone lips, and steals away. And you, gentle Reader, return +home, garlanded with the self-sufficiency of the early riser.</p> +<p>But it was of a certain week-day morning, in the Strand that I +was thinking. I was standing outside Gatti’s +Restaurant, where I had just breakfasted, listening leisurely to +an argument between an indignant lady passenger, presumably of +Irish extraction, and an omnibus conductor.</p> +<p>“For what d’ye want thin to paint Putney on +ye’r bus, if ye don’t <i>go</i> to Putney?” +said the lady.</p> +<p>“We <i>do</i> go to Putney,” said the +conductor.</p> +<p>“Thin why did ye put me out here?”</p> +<p>“I didn’t put you out, yer got out.”</p> +<p>“Shure, didn’t the gintleman in the corner tell me +I was comin’ further away from Putney ivery +minit?”</p> +<p>“Wal, and so yer was.”</p> +<p>“Thin whoy didn’t you tell me?”</p> +<p>“How was I to know yer wanted to go to Putney? Yer +sings out Putney, and I stops and in yer jumps.”</p> +<p>“And for what d’ye think I called out Putney +thin?”</p> +<p>“’Cause it’s my name, or rayther the +bus’s name. This ’ere <i>is</i> a +Putney.”</p> +<p>“How can it be a Putney whin it isn’t goin’ +to Putney, ye gomerhawk?”</p> +<p>“Ain’t you an Hirishwoman?” retorted the +conductor. “Course yer are. But yer +aren’t always goin’ to Ireland. We’re +goin’ to Putney in time, only we’re a-going to +Liverpool Street fust. ’Igher up, Jim.”</p> +<p>The bus moved on, and I was about cross the road, when a man, +muttering savagely to himself, walked into me. He would +have swept past me had I not, recognizing him, arrested +him. It was my friend B—, a busy editor of magazines +and journals. It was some seconds before he appeared able +to struggle out of his abstraction, and remember himself. +“Halloo,” he then said, “who would have thought +of seeing <i>you</i> here?”</p> +<p>“To judge by the way you were walking,” I replied, +“one would imagine the Strand the last place in which you +expected to see any human being. Do you ever walk into a +short-tempered, muscular man?”</p> +<p>“Did I walk into you?” he asked surprised.</p> +<p>“Well, not right in,” I answered, “I if we +are to be literal. You walked on to me; if I had not +stopped you, I suppose you would have walked over me.”</p> +<p>“It is this confounded Christmas business,” he +explained. “It drives me off my head.”</p> +<p>“I have heard Christmas advanced as an excuse for many +things,” I replied, “but not early in +September.”</p> +<p>“Oh, you know what I mean,” he answered, “we +are in the middle of our Christmas number. I am working day +and night upon it. By the bye,” he added, “that +puts me in mind. I am arranging a symposium, and I want you +to join. ‘Should Christmas,’”—I +interrupted him.</p> +<p>“My dear fellow,” I said, “I commenced my +journalistic career when I was eighteen, and I have continued it +at intervals ever since. I have written about Christmas +from the sentimental point of view; I have analyzed it from the +philosophical point of view; and I have scarified it from the +sarcastic standpoint. I have treated Christmas humorously +for the Comics, and sympathetically for the Provincial +Weeklies. I have said all that is worth saying on the +subject of Christmas—maybe a trifle more. I have told +the new-fashioned Christmas story—you know the sort of +thing: your heroine tries to understand herself, and, failing, +runs off with the man who began as the hero; your good woman +turns out to be really bad when one comes to know her; while the +villain, the only decent person in the story, dies with an +enigmatic sentence on his lips that looks as if it meant +something, but which you yourself would be sorry to have to +explain. I have also written the old-fashioned Christmas +story—you know that also: you begin with a good +old-fashioned snowstorm; you have a good old-fashioned squire, +and he lives in a good old-fashioned Hall; you work in a good +old-fashioned murder; and end up with a good old-fashioned +Christmas dinner. I have gathered Christmas guests together +round the crackling logs to tell ghost stories to each other on +Christmas Eve, while without the wind howled, as it always does +on these occasions, at its proper cue. I have sent children +to Heaven on Christmas Eve—it must be quite a busy time for +St. Peter, Christmas morning, so many good children die on +Christmas Eve. It has always been a popular night with +them.—I have revivified dead lovers and brought them back +well and jolly, just in time to sit down to the Christmas +dinner. I am not ashamed of having done these things. +At the time I thought them good. I once loved currant wine +and girls with towzley hair. One’s views change as +one grows older. I have discussed Christmas as a religious +festival. I have arraigned it as a social incubus. If +there be any joke connected with Christmas that I have not +already made I should be glad to hear it. I have trotted +out the indigestion jokes till the sight of one of them gives me +indigestion myself. I have ridiculed the family +gathering. I have scoffed at the Christmas present. I +have made witty use of paterfamilias and his bills. I +have—”</p> +<p>“Did I ever show you,” I broke off to ask as we +were crossing the Haymarket, “that little parody of mine on +Poe’s poem of ‘The Bells’? It +begins—” He interrupted me in his +turn—</p> +<p>“Bills, bills, bills,” he repeated.</p> +<p>“You are quite right,” I admitted. “I +forgot I ever showed it to you.”</p> +<p>“You never did,” he replied.</p> +<p>“Then how do you know how it begins?” I asked.</p> +<p>“I don’t know for certain,” he admitted, +“but I get, on an average, sixty-five a year submitted to +me, and they all begin that way. I thought, perhaps, yours +did also.”</p> +<p>“I don’t see how else it could begin,” I +retorted. He had rather annoyed me. “Besides, +it doesn’t matter how a poem begins, it is how it goes on +that is the important thing and anyhow, I’m not going to +write you anything about Christmas. Ask me to make you a +new joke about a plumber; suggest my inventing something original +and not too shocking for a child to say about heaven; propose my +running you off a dog story that can be believed by a man of +average determination and we may come to terms. But on the +subject of Christmas I am taking a rest.”</p> +<p>By this time we had reached Piccadilly Circus.</p> +<p>“I don’t blame you,” he said, “if you +are as sick of the subject as I am. So soon as these +Christmas numbers are off my mind, and Christmas is over till +next June at the office, I shall begin it at home. The +housekeeping is gone up a pound a week already. I know what +that means. The dear little woman is saving up to give me +an expensive present that I don’t want. I think the +presents are the worst part of Christmas. Emma will give me +a water-colour that she has painted herself. She always +does. There would be no harm in that if she did not expect +me to hang it in the drawing room. Have you ever seen my +cousin Emma’s water-colours?” he asked.</p> +<p>“I think I have,” I replied.</p> +<p>“There’s no thinking about it,” he retorted +angrily. “They’re not the sort of water-colours +you forget.”</p> +<p>He apostrophized the Circus generally.</p> +<p>“Why do people do these things?” he +demanded. “Even an amateur artist must have +<i>some</i> sense. Can’t they see what is +happening? There’s that thing of hers hanging in the +passage. I put it in the passage because there’s not +much light in the passage. She’s labelled it +Reverie. If she had called it Influenza I could have +understood it. I asked her where she got the idea from, and +she said she saw the sky like that one evening in Norfolk. +Great Heavens! then why didn’t she shut her eyes or go home +and hide behind the bed-curtains? If I had seen a sky like +that in Norfolk I should have taken the first train back to +London. I suppose the poor girl can’t help seeing +these things, but why paint them?”</p> +<p>I said, “I suppose painting is a necessity to some +natures.”</p> +<p>“But why give the things to me?” he pleaded.</p> +<p>I could offer him no adequate reason.</p> +<p>“The idiotic presents that people give you!” he +continued. “I said I’d like Tennyson’s +poems one year. They had worried me to know what I did +want. I didn’t want anything really; that was the +only thing I could think of that I wasn’t dead sure I +didn’t want. Well, they clubbed together, four of +them, and gave me Tennyson in twelve volumes, illustrated with +coloured photographs. They meant kindly, of course. +If you suggest a tobacco-pouch they give you a blue velvet bag +capable of holding about a pound, embroidered with flowers, +life-size. The only way one could use it would be to put a +strap to it and wear it as a satchel. Would you believe it, +I have got a velvet smoking-jacket, ornamented with +forget-me-nots and butterflies in coloured silk; I’m not +joking. And they ask me why I never wear it. +I’ll bring it down to the Club one of these nights and wake +the place up a bit: it needs it.”</p> +<p>We had arrived by this at the steps of the +‘Devonshire.’</p> +<p>“And I’m just as bad,” he went on, +“when I give presents. I never give them what they +want. I never hit upon anything that is of any use to +anybody. If I give Jane a chinchilla tippet, you may be +certain chinchilla is the most out-of-date fur that any woman +could wear. ‘Oh! that is nice of you,’ she +says; ‘now that is just the very thing I wanted. I +will keep it by me till chinchilla comes in again.’ I +give the girls watch-chains when nobody is wearing +watch-chains. When watch-chains are all the rage I give +them ear-rings, and they thank me, and suggest my taking them to +a fancy-dress ball, that being their only chance to wear the +confounded things. I waste money on white gloves with black +backs, to find that white gloves with black backs stamp a woman +as suburban. I believe all the shop-keepers in London save +their old stock to palm it off on me at Christmas time. And +why does it always take half-a-dozen people to serve you with a +pair of gloves, I’d like to know? Only last week Jane +asked me to get her some gloves for that last Mansion House +affair. I was feeling amiable, and I thought I would do the +thing handsomely. I hate going into a draper’s shop; +everybody stares at a man as if he were forcing his way into the +ladies’ department of a Turkish bath. One of those +marionette sort of men came up to me and said it was a fine +morning. What the devil did I want to talk about the +morning to him for? I said I wanted some gloves. I +described them to the best of my recollection. I said, +‘I want them four buttons, but they are not to be +button-gloves; the buttons are in the middle and they reach up to +the elbow, if you know what I mean.’ He bowed, and +said he understood exactly what I meant, which was a damned sight +more than I did. I told him I wanted three pair cream and +three pair fawn-coloured, and the fawn-coloured were to be +swedes. He corrected me. He said I meant +‘Suede.’ I dare say he was right, but the +interruption put me off, and I had to begin over again. He +listened attentively until I had finished. I guess I was +about five minutes standing with him there close to the +door. He said, ‘Is that all you require, sir, this +morning?’ I said it was.</p> +<p>“‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied. +‘This way, please, sir.’</p> +<p>“He took me into another room, and there we met a man +named Jansen, to whom he briefly introduced me as a gentleman who +‘desired gloves.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ said +Mr. Jansen; and what sort of gloves do you desire?’</p> +<p>“I told him I wanted six pairs altogether—three +suede, fawn-coloured, and three cream-coloured—kids.</p> +<p>“He said, ‘Do you mean kid gloves, sir, or gloves +for children?’</p> +<p>“He made me angry by that. I told him I was not in +the habit of using slang. Nor am I when buying +gloves. He said he was sorry. I explained to him +about the buttons, so far as I could understand it myself, and +about the length. I asked him to see to it that the buttons +were sewn on firmly, and that the stitching everywhere was +perfect, adding that the last gloves my wife had had of his firm +had been most unsatisfactory. Jane had impressed upon me to +add that. She said it would make them more careful.</p> +<p>“He listened to me in rapt ecstacy. I might have +been music.</p> +<p>“‘And what size, sir?’ he asked.</p> +<p>“I had forgotten that. ‘Oh, sixes,’ I +answered, ‘unless they are very stretchy indeed, in which +case they had better be five and three-quarter.’</p> +<p>“‘Oh, and the stitching on the cream is to be +black,’ I added. That was another thing I had +forgotten.</p> +<p>“‘Thank you very much,’ said Mr. Jansen; +‘is there anything else that you require this +morning?’</p> +<p>“‘No, thank you,’ I replied, ‘not this +morning.’ I was beginning to like the man.</p> +<p>“He took me for quite a walk, and wherever we went +everybody left off what they were doing to stare at me. I +was getting tired when we reached the glove department. He +marched me up to a young man who was sticking pins into +himself. He said ‘Gloves,’ and disappeared +through a curtain. The young man left off sticking pins +into himself, and leant across the counter.</p> +<p>“‘Ladies’ gloves or gentlemen’s +gloves?’ he said.</p> +<p>“Well, I was pretty mad by this time, as you can +guess. It is funny when you come to think of it afterwards, +but the wonder then was that I didn’t punch his head.</p> +<p>“I said, ‘Are you ever busy in this shop? +Does there ever come a time when you feel you would like to get +your work done, instead of lingering over it and spinning it out +for pure love of the thing?’</p> +<p>“He did not appear to understand me. I said, +‘I met a man at your door a quarter of an hour ago, and we +talked about these gloves that I want, and I told him all my +ideas on the subject. He took me to your Mr. Jansen, and +Mr. Jansen and I went over the whole business again. Now +Mr. Jansen leaves it with you—you who do not even know +whether I want ladies’ or gentlemen’s gloves. +Before I go over this story for the third time, I want to know +whether you are the man who is going to serve me, or whether you +are merely a listener, because personally I am tired of the +subject?’</p> +<p>“Well, this was the right man at last, and I got my +gloves from him. But what is the explanation—what is +the idea? I was in that shop from first to last +five-and-thirty minutes. And then a fool took me out the +wrong way to show me a special line in sleeping-socks. I +told him I was not requiring any. He said he didn’t +want me to buy, he only wanted me to see them. No wonder +the drapers have had to start luncheon and tea-rooms. +They’ll fix up small furnished flats soon, where a woman +can live for a week.”</p> +<p>I said it was very trying, shopping. I also said, as he +invited me, and as he appeared determined to go on talking, that +I would have a brandy-and-soda. We were in the smoke-room +by this time.</p> +<p>“There ought to be an association,” he continued, +“a kind of clearing-house for the collection and +distribution of Christmas presents. One would give them a +list of the people from whom to collect presents, and of the +people to whom to send. Suppose they collected on my +account twenty Christmas presents, value, say, ten pounds, while +on the other hand they sent out for me thirty presents at a cost +of fifteen pounds. They would debit me with the balance of +five pounds, together with a small commission. I should pay +it cheerfully, and there would be no further trouble. +Perhaps one might even make a profit. The idea might +include birthdays and weddings. A firm would do the +business thoroughly. They would see that all your friends +paid up—I mean sent presents; and they would not forget to +send to your most important relative. There is only one +member of our family capable of leaving a shilling; and of course +if I forget to send to any one it is to him. When I +remember him I generally make a muddle of the business. Two +years ago I gave him a bath—I don’t mean I washed +him—an india-rubber thing, that he could pack in his +portmanteau. I thought he would find it useful for +travelling. Would you believe it, he took it as a personal +affront, and wouldn’t speak to me for a month, the snuffy +old idiot.”</p> +<p>“I suppose the children enjoy it,” I said.</p> +<p>“Enjoy what?” he asked.</p> +<p>“Why, Christmas,” I explained.</p> +<p>“I don’t believe they do,” he snapped; +“nobody enjoys it. We excite them for three weeks +beforehand, telling them what a good time they are going to have, +over-feed them for two or three days, take them to something they +do not want to see, but which we do, and then bully them for a +fortnight to get them back into their normal condition. I +was always taken to the Crystal Palace and Madame Tussaud’s +when I was a child, I remember. How I did hate that Crystal +Palace! Aunt used to superintend. It was always a +bitterly cold day, and we always got into the wrong train, and +travelled half the day before we got there. We never had +any dinner. It never occurs to a woman that anybody can +want their meals while away from home. She seems to think +that nature is in suspense from the time you leave the house till +the time you get back to it. A bun and a glass of milk was +her idea of lunch for a school-boy. Half her time was taken +up in losing us, and the other half in slapping us when she had +found us. The only thing we really enjoyed was the row with +the cabman coming home.”</p> +<p>I rose to go.</p> +<p>“Then you won’t join that symposium?” said +B—. “It would be an easy enough thing to knock +off—‘Why Christmas should be +abolished.’”</p> +<p>“It sounds simple,” I answered. “But +how do you propose to abolish it?” The lady editor of +an “advanced” American magazine once set the +discussion—“Should sex be abolished?” and +eleven ladies and gentlemen seriously argued the question.</p> +<p>“Leave it to die of inanition,” said B—; +“the first step is to arouse public opinion. Convince +the public that it should be abolished.”</p> +<p>“But why should it be abolished?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Great Scott! man,” he exclaimed; +“don’t you want it abolished?”</p> +<p>“I’m not sure that I do,” I replied.</p> +<p>“Not sure,” he retorted; “you call yourself +a journalist, and admit there is a subject under Heaven of which +you are not sure!”</p> +<p>“It has come over me of late years,” I +replied. “It used not to be my failing, as you +know.”</p> +<p>He glanced round to make sure we were out of earshot, then +sunk his voice to a whisper.</p> +<p>“Between ourselves,” he said, “I’m not +so sure of everything myself as I used to be. Why is +it?”</p> +<p>“Perhaps we are getting older,” I suggested.</p> +<p>He said—“I started golf last year, and the first +time I took the club in my hand I sent the ball a furlong. +‘It seems an easy game,’ I said to the man who was +teaching me. ‘Yes, most people find it easy at the +beginning,’ he replied dryly. He was an old golfer +himself; I thought he was jealous. I stuck well to the +game, and for about three weeks I was immensely pleased with +myself. Then, gradually, I began to find out the +difficulties. I feel I shall never make a good +player. Have you ever gone through that +experience?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” I replied; “I suppose that is the +explanation. The game seems so easy at the +beginning.”</p> +<p>I left him to his lunch, and strolled westward, musing on the +time when I should have answered that question of his about +Christmas, or any other question, off-hand. That good youth +time when I knew everything, when life presented no problems, +dangled no doubts before me!</p> +<p>In those days, wishful to give the world the benefit of my +wisdom, and seeking for a candle-stick wherefrom my brilliancy +might be visible and helpful unto men, I arrived before a dingy +portal in Chequers Street, St. Luke’s, behind which a +conclave of young men, together with a few old enough to have +known better, met every Friday evening for the purpose of +discussing and arranging the affairs of the universe. +“Speaking members” were charged ten-and-sixpence per +annum, which must have worked out at an extremely moderate rate +per word; and “gentlemen whose subscriptions were more than +three months in arrear,” became, by Rule seven, powerless +for good or evil. We called ourselves “The Stormy +Petrels,” and, under the sympathetic shadow of those wings, +I laboured two seasons towards the reformation of the human race; +until, indeed, our treasurer, an earnest young man, and a +tireless foe of all that was conventional, departed for the East, +leaving behind him a balance sheet, showing that the club owed +forty-two pounds fifteen and fourpence, and that the +subscriptions for the current year, amounting to a little over +thirty-eight pounds, had been “carried forward,” but +as to where, the report afforded no indication. Whereupon +our landlord, a man utterly without ideals, seized our furniture, +offering to sell it back to us for fifteen pounds. We +pointed out to him that this was an extravagant price, and +tendered him five.</p> +<p>The negotiations terminated with ungentlemanly language on his +part, and “The Stormy Petrels” scattered, never to be +foregathered together again above the troubled waters of +humanity. Now-a-days, listening to the feeble plans of +modern reformers, I cannot help but smile, remembering what was +done in Chequers Street, St. Luke’s, in an age when Mrs. +Grundy still gave the law to literature, while yet the British +matron was the guide to British art. I am informed that +there is abroad the question of abolishing the House of +Lords! Why, “The Stormy Petrels” abolished the +aristocracy and the Crown in one evening, and then only adjourned +for the purpose of appointing a committee to draw up and have +ready a Republican Constitution by the following Friday +evening. They talk of Empire lounges! We closed the +doors of every music-hall in London eighteen years ago by +twenty-nine votes to seventeen. They had a patient hearing, +and were ably defended; but we found that the tendency of such +amusements was anti-progressive, and against the best interests +of an intellectually advancing democracy. I met the mover +of the condemnatory resolution at the old “Pav” the +following evening, and we continued the discussion over a bottle +of Bass. He strengthened his argument by persuading me to +sit out the whole of the three songs sung by the “Lion +Comique”; but I subsequently retorted successfully, by +bringing under his notice the dancing of a lady in blue tights +and flaxen hair. I forget her name but never shall I cease +to remember her exquisite charm and beauty. Ah, me! how +charming and how beautiful “artistes” were in those +golden days! Whence have they vanished? Ladies in +blue tights and flaxen hair dance before my eyes to-day, but move +me not, unless it be towards boredom. Where be the tripping +witches of twenty years ago, whom to see once was to dream of for +a week, to touch whose white hand would have been joy, to kiss +whose red lips would have been to foretaste Heaven. I heard +only the other day that the son of an old friend of mine had +secretly married a lady from the front row of the ballet, and +involuntarily I exclaimed, “Poor devil!” There +was a time when my first thought would have been, “Lucky +beggar! is he worthy of her?” For then the ladies of +the ballet were angels. How could one gaze at +them—from the shilling pit—and doubt it? They +danced to keep a widowed mother in comfort, or to send a younger +brother to school. Then they were glorious creatures a +young man did well to worship; but now-a-days—</p> +<p>It is an old jest. The eyes of youth see through +rose-tinted glasses. The eyes of age are dim behind +smoke-clouded spectacles. My flaxen friend, you are not the +angel I dreamed you, nor the exceptional sinner some would paint +you; but under your feathers, just a woman—a bundle of +follies and failings, tied up with some sweetness and +strength. You keep a brougham I am sure you cannot afford +on your thirty shillings a week. There are ladies I know, +in Mayfair, who have paid an extravagant price for theirs. +You paint and you dye, I am told: it is even hinted you +pad. Don’t we all of us deck ourselves out in virtues +that are not our own? When the paint and the powder, my +sister, is stripped both from you and from me, we shall know +which of us is entitled to look down on the other in scorn.</p> +<p>Forgive me, gentle Reader, for digressing. The lady led +me astray. I was speaking of “The Stormy +Petrels,” and of the reforms they accomplished, which were +many. We abolished, I remember, capital punishment and war; +we were excellent young men at heart. Christmas we reformed +altogether, along with Bank Holidays, by a majority of +twelve. I never recollect any proposal to abolish anything +ever being lost when put to the vote. There were few things +that we “Stormy Petrels” did not abolish. We +attacked Christmas on grounds of expediency, and killed it by +ridicule. We exposed the hollow mockery of Christmas +sentiment; we abused the indigestible Christmas dinner, the +tiresome Christmas party, the silly Christmas pantomime. +Our funny member was side-splitting on the subject of Christmas +Waits; our social reformer bitter upon Christmas drunkenness; our +economist indignant upon Christmas charities. Only one +argument of any weight with us was advanced in favour of the +festival, and that was our leading cynic’s suggestion that +it was worth enduring the miseries of Christmas, to enjoy the +soul-satisfying comfort of the after reflection that it was all +over, and could not occur again for another year.</p> +<p>But since those days when I was prepared to put this old world +of ours to rights upon all matters, I have seen many sights and +heard many sounds, and I am not quite so sure as I once was that +my particular views are the only possibly correct ones. +Christmas seems to me somewhat meaningless; but I have looked +through windows in poverty-stricken streets, and have seen dingy +parlours gay with many chains of coloured paper. They +stretched from corner to corner of the smoke-grimed ceiling, they +fell in clumsy festoons from the cheap gasalier, they framed the +fly-blown mirror and the tawdry pictures; and I know tired hands +and eyes worked many hours to fashion and fix those foolish +chains, saying, “It will please him—she will like to +see the room look pretty;” and as I have looked at them +they have grown, in some mysterious manner, beautiful to +me. The gaudy-coloured child and dog irritates me, I +confess; but I have watched a grimy, inartistic personage, +smoothing it affectionately with toil-stained hand, while eager +faces crowded round to admire and wonder at its blatant +crudity. It hangs to this day in its cheap frame above the +chimney-piece, the one bright spot relieving those damp-stained +walls; dull eyes stare and stare again at it, catching a vista, +through its flashy tints, of the far-off land of art. +Christmas Waits annoy me, and I yearn to throw open the window +and fling coal at them—as once from the window of a high +flat in Chelsea I did. I doubted their being genuine +Waits. I was inclined to the opinion they were young men +seeking excuse for making a noise. One of them appeared to +know a hymn with a chorus, another played the concertina, while a +third accompanied with a step dance. Instinctively I felt +no respect for them; they disturbed me in my work, and the desire +grew upon me to injure them. It occurred to me it would be +good sport if I turned out the light, softly opened the window, +and threw coal at them. It would be impossible for them to +tell from which window in the block the coal came, and thus +subsequent unpleasantness would be avoided. They were a +compact little group, and with average luck I was bound to hit +one of them.</p> +<p>I adopted the plan. I could not see them very +clearly. I aimed rather at the noise; and I had thrown +about twenty choice lumps without effect, and was feeling +somewhat discouraged, when a yell, followed by language +singularly unappropriate to the season, told me that Providence +had aided my arm. The music ceased suddenly, and the party +dispersed, apparently in high glee—which struck me as +curious.</p> +<p>One man I noticed remained behind. He stood under the +lamp-post, and shook his fist at the block generally.</p> +<p>“Who threw that lump of coal?” he demanded in +stentorian tones.</p> +<p>To my horror, it was the voice of the man at Eighty-eight, an +Irish gentleman, a journalist like myself. I saw it all, as +the unfortunate hero always exclaims, too late, in the +play. He—number Eighty-eight—also disturbed by +the noise, had evidently gone out to expostulate with the +rioters. Of course my lump of coal had hit him—him +the innocent, the peaceful (up till then), the virtuous. +That is the justice Fate deals out to us mortals here +below. There were ten to fourteen young men in that crowd, +each one of whom fully deserved that lump of coal; he, the one +guiltless, got it—seemingly, so far as the dim light from +the gas lamp enabled me to judge, full in the eye.</p> +<p>As the block remained silent in answer to his demand, he +crossed the road and mounted the stairs. On each landing he +stopped and shouted—</p> +<p>“Who threw that lump of coal? I want the man who +threw that lump of coal. Out you come.”</p> +<p>Now a good man in my place would have waited till number +Eighty-eight arrived on his landing, and then, throwing open the +door would have said with manly candour—</p> +<p>“<i>I</i> threw that lump of coal. I +was—,” He would not have got further, because +at that point, I feel confident, number Eighty—eight would +have punched his head. There would have been an unseemly +fracas on the staircase, to the annoyance of all the other +tenants and later, there would have issued a summons and a +cross-summons. Angry passions would have been roused, +bitter feeling engendered which might have lasted for years.</p> +<p>I do not pretend to be a good man. I doubt if the +pretence would be of any use were I to try: I am not a +sufficiently good actor. I said to myself, as I took off my +boots in the study, preparatory to retiring to my +bedroom—“Number Eighty-eight is evidently not in a +frame of mind to listen to my story. It will be better to +let him shout himself cool; after which he will return to his own +flat, bathe his eye, and obtain some refreshing sleep. In +the morning, when we shall probably meet as usual on our way to +Fleet Street, I will refer to the incident casually, and +sympathize with him. I will suggest to him the +truth—that in all probability some fellow-tenant, irritated +also by the noise, had aimed coal at the Waits, hitting him +instead by a regrettable but pure accident. With tact I may +even be able to make him see the humour of the incident. +Later on, in March or April, choosing my moment with judgment, I +will, perhaps, confess that I was that fellow-tenant, and over a +friendly brandy-and-soda we will laugh the whole trouble +away.”</p> +<p>As a matter of fact, that is what happened. Said number +Eighty-eight—he was a big man, as good a fellow at heart as +ever lived, but impulsive—“Damned lucky for you, old +man, you did not tell me at the time.”</p> +<p>“I felt,” I replied, “instinctively that it +was a case for delay.”</p> +<p>There are times when one should control one’s passion +for candour; and as I was saying, Christmas waits excite no +emotion in my breast save that of irritation. But I have +known “Hark, the herald angels sing,” wheezily +chanted by fog-filled throats, and accompanied, hopelessly out of +tune, by a cornet and a flute, bring a great look of gladness to +a work-worn face. To her it was a message of hope and love, +making the hard life taste sweet. The mere thought of +family gatherings, so customary at Christmas time, bores us +superior people; but I think of an incident told me by a certain +man, a friend of mine. One Christmas, my friend, visiting +in the country, came face to face with a woman whom in town he +had often met amid very different surroundings. The door of +the little farmhouse was open; she and an older woman were +ironing at a table, and as her soft white hands passed to and +fro, folding and smoothing the rumpled heap, she laughed and +talked, concerning simple homely things. My friend’s +shadow fell across her work, and she looking up, their eyes met; +but her face said plainly, “I do not know you here, and +here you do not know me. Here I am a woman loved and +respected.” My friend passed in and spoke to the +older woman, the wife of one of his host’s tenants, and she +turned towards, and introduced the younger—“My +daughter, sir. We do not see her very often. She is +in a place in London, and cannot get away. But she always +spends a few days with us at Christmas.”</p> +<p>“It is the season for family re-unions,” answered +my friend with just the suggestion of a sneer, for which he hated +himself.</p> +<p>“Yes, sir,” said the woman, not noticing; +“she has never missed her Christmas with us, have you, +Bess?”</p> +<p>“No, mother,” replied the girl simply, and bent +her head again over her work.</p> +<p>So for these few days every year this woman left her furs and +jewels, her fine clothes and dainty foods, behind her, and lived +for a little space with what was clean and wholesome. It +was the one anchor holding her to womanhood; and one likes to +think that it was, perhaps, in the end strong enough to save her +from the drifting waters. All which arguments in favour of +Christmas and of Christmas customs are, I admit, purely +sentimental ones, but I have lived long enough to doubt whether +sentiment has not its legitimate place in the economy of +life.</p> +<h2><a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 215</span>ON +THE TIME WASTED IN LOOKING BEFORE ONE LEAPS</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Have</span> you ever noticed the going out +of a woman?</p> +<p>When a man goes out, he says—“I’m going out, +shan’t be long.”</p> +<p>“Oh, George,” cries his wife from the other end of +the house, “don’t go for a moment. I want you +to—” She hears a falling of hats, followed by +the slamming of the front door.</p> +<p>“Oh, George, you’re not gone!” she +wails. It is but the voice of despair. As a matter of +fact, she knows he is gone. She reaches the hall, +breathless.</p> +<p>“He might have waited a minute,” she mutters to +herself, as she picks up the hats, “there were so many +things I wanted him to do.”</p> +<p>She does not open the door and attempt to stop him, she knows +he is already half-way down the street. It is a mean, +paltry way of going out, she thinks; so like a man.</p> +<p>When a woman, on the other hand, goes out, people know about +it. She does not sneak out. She says she is going +out. She says it, generally, on the afternoon of the day +before; and she repeats it, at intervals, until tea-time. +At tea, she suddenly decides that she won’t, that she will +leave it till the day after to-morrow instead. An hour +later she thinks she will go to-morrow, after all, and makes +arrangements to wash her hair overnight. For the next hour +or so she alternates between fits of exaltation, during which she +looks forward to going out, and moments of despondency, when a +sense of foreboding falls upon her. At dinner she persuades +some other woman to go with her; the other woman, once persuaded, +is enthusiastic about going, until she recollects that she +cannot. The first woman, however, convinces her that she +can.</p> +<p>“Yes,” replies the second woman, “but then, +how about you, dear? You are forgetting the +Joneses.”</p> +<p>“So I was,” answers the first woman, completely +non-plussed. “How very awkward, and I can’t go +on Wednesday. I shall have to leave it till Thursday, +now.”</p> +<p>“But <i>I</i> can’t go Thursday,” says the +second woman.</p> +<p>“Well, you go without me, dear,” says the first +woman, in the tone of one who is sacrificing a life’s +ambition.</p> +<p>“Oh no, dear, I should not think of it,” nobly +exclaims the second woman. “We will wait and go +together, Friday!”</p> +<p>“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” says +the first woman. “We will start early” (this is +an inspiration), “and be back before the Joneses +arrive.”</p> +<p>They agree to sleep together; there is a lurking suspicion in +both their minds that this may be their last sleep on +earth. They retire early with a can of hot water. At +intervals, during the night, one overhears them splashing water, +and talking.</p> +<p>They come down very late for breakfast, and both very +cross. Each seems to have argued herself into the belief +that she has been lured into this piece of nonsense, against her +better judgment, by the persistent folly of the other one. +During the meal each one asks the other, every five minutes, if +she is quite ready. Each one, it appears, has only her hat +to put on. They talk about the weather, and wonder what it +is going to do. They wish it would make up its mind, one +way or the other. They are very bitter on weather that +cannot make up its mind. After breakfast it still looks +cloudy, and they decide to abandon the scheme altogether. +The first woman then remembers that it is absolutely necessary +for her, at all events, to go.</p> +<p>“But there is no need for you to come, dear,” she +says.</p> +<p>Up to that point the second woman was evidently not sure +whether she wished to go or whether she didn’t. Now +she knows.</p> +<p>“Oh yes, I’ll come,” she says, “then +it will be over!”</p> +<p>“I am sure you don’t want to go,” urges the +first woman, “and I shall be quicker by myself. I am +ready to start now.”</p> +<p>The second woman bridles.</p> +<p>“<i>I</i> shan’t be a couple of minutes,” +she retorts. “You know, dear, it’s generally +<i>I</i> who have to wait for <i>you</i>.”</p> +<p>“But you’ve not got your boots on,” the +first woman reminds her.</p> +<p>“Well, they won’t take <i>any</i> time,” is +the answer. “But of course, dear, if you’d +really rather I did not come, say so.” By this time +she is on the verge of tears.</p> +<p>“Of course, I would like you to come, dear,” +explains the first in a resigned tone. “I thought +perhaps you were only coming to please me.”</p> +<p>“Oh no, I’d <i>like</i> to come,” says the +second woman.</p> +<p>“Well, we must hurry up,” says the first; “I +shan’t be more than a minute myself, I’ve merely got +to change my skirt.”</p> +<p>Half-an-hour later you hear them calling to each other, from +different parts of the house, to know if the other one is +ready. It appears they have both been ready for quite a +long while, waiting only for the other one.</p> +<p>“I’m afraid,” calls out the one whose turn +it is to be down-stairs, “it’s going to +rain.”</p> +<p>“Oh, don’t say that,” calls back the other +one.</p> +<p>“Well, it looks very like it.”</p> +<p>“What a nuisance,” answers the up-stairs woman; +“shall we put it off?”</p> +<p>“Well, what do <i>you</i> think, dear?” replies +the down-stairs.</p> +<p>They decide they will go, only now they will have to change +their boots, and put on different hats.</p> +<p>For the next ten minutes they are still shouting and running +about. Then it seems as if they really were ready, nothing +remaining but for them to say “Good-bye,” and go.</p> +<p>They begin by kissing the children. A woman never leaves +her house without secret misgivings that she will never return to +it alive. One child cannot be found. When it is found +it wishes it hadn’t been. It has to be washed, +preparatory to being kissed. After that, the dog has to be +found and kissed, and final instructions given to the cook.</p> +<p>Then they open the front door.</p> +<p>“Oh, George,” calls out the first woman, turning +round again. “Are you there?”</p> +<p>“Hullo,” answers a voice from the distance. +“Do you want me?”</p> +<p>“No, dear, only to say good-bye. I’m +going.”</p> +<p>“Oh, good-bye.”</p> +<p>“Good-bye, dear. Do you think it’s going to +rain?”</p> +<p>“Oh no, I should not say so.”</p> +<p>“George.”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Have you got any money?”</p> +<p>Five minutes later they come running back; the one has +forgotten her parasol, the other her purse.</p> +<p>And speaking of purses, reminds one of another essential +difference between the male and female human animal. A man +carries his money in his pocket. When he wants to use it, +he takes it out and lays it down. This is a crude way of +doing things, a woman displays more subtlety. Say she is +standing in the street, and wants fourpence to pay for a bunch of +violets she has purchased from a flower-girl. She has two +parcels in one hand, and a parasol in the other. With the +remaining two fingers of the left hand she secures the +violets. The question then arises, how to pay the +girl? She flutters for a few minutes, evidently not quite +understanding why it is she cannot do it. The reason then +occurs to her: she has only two hands and both these are +occupied. First she thinks she will put the parcels and the +flowers into her right hand, then she thinks she will put the +parasol into her left. Then she looks round for a table or +even a chair, but there is not such a thing in the whole +street. Her difficulty is solved by her dropping the +parcels and the flowers. The girl picks them up for her and +holds them. This enables her to feel for her pocket with +her right hand, while waving her open parasol about with her +left. She knocks an old gentleman’s hat off into the +gutter, and nearly blinds the flower-girl before it occurs to her +to close it. This done, she leans it up against the +flower-girl’s basket, and sets to work in earnest with both +hands. She seizes herself firmly by the back, and turns the +upper part of her body round till her hair is in front and her +eyes behind. Still holding herself firmly with her left +hand—did she let herself go, goodness knows where she would +spin to;—with her right she prospects herself. The +purse is there, she can feel it, the problem is how to get at +it. The quickest way would, of course, be to take off the +skirt, sit down on the kerb, turn it inside out, and work from +the bottom of the pocket upwards. But this simple idea +never seems to occur to her. There are some thirty folds at +the back of the dress, between two of these folds commences the +secret passage. At last, purely by chance, she suddenly +discovers it, nearly upsetting herself in the process, and the +purse is brought up to the surface. The difficulty of +opening it still remains. She knows it opens with a spring, +but the secret of that spring she has never mastered, and she +never will. Her plan is to worry it generally until it does +open. Five minutes will always do it, provided she is not +flustered.</p> +<p>At last it does open. It would be incorrect to say that +she opens it. It opens because it is sick of being mauled +about; and, as likely as not, it opens at the moment when she is +holding it upside down. If you happen to be near enough to +look over her shoulder, you will notice that the gold and silver +lies loose within it. In an inner sanctuary, carefully +secured with a second secret spring, she keeps her coppers, +together with a postage-stamp and a draper’s receipt, nine +months old, for elevenpence three-farthings.</p> +<p>I remember the indignation of an old Bus-conductor, +once. Inside we were nine women and two men. I sat +next the door, and his remarks therefore he addressed to +me. It was certainly taking him some time to collect the +fares, but I think he would have got on better had he been less +bustling; he worried them, and made them nervous.</p> +<p>“Look at that,” he said, drawing my attention to a +poor lady opposite, who was diving in the customary manner for +her purse, “they sit on their money, women do. Blest +if you wouldn’t think they was trying to ’atch +it.”</p> +<p>At length the lady drew from underneath herself an exceedingly +fat purse.</p> +<p>“Fancy riding in a bumpby bus, perched up on that +thing,” he continued. “Think what a stamina +they must have.” He grew confidential. +“I’ve seen one woman,” he said, “pull out +from underneath ’er a street doorkey, a tin box of +lozengers, a pencil-case, a whopping big purse, a packet of +hair-pins, and a smelling-bottle. Why, you or me would be +wretched, sitting on a plain door-knob, and them women goes about +like that all day. I suppose they gets used to it. +Drop ’em on an eider-down pillow, and they’d +scream. The time it takes me to get tuppence out of them, +why, it’s ’eart-breaking. First they tries one +side, then they tries the other. Then they gets up and +shakes theirselves till the bus jerks them back again, and there +they are, a more ’opeless ’eap than ever. If I +’ad my way I’d make every bus carry a female searcher +as could over’aul ’em one at a time, and take the +money from ’em. Talk about the poor pickpocket. +What I say is, that a man as finds his way into a woman’s +pocket—well, he deserves what he gets.”</p> +<p>But it was the thought of more serious matters that lured me +into reflections concerning the over-carefulness of women. +It is a theory of mine—wrong possibly; indeed I have so +been informed—that we pick our way through life with too +much care. We are for ever looking down upon the +ground. Maybe, we do avoid a stumble or two over a stone or +a brier, but also we miss the blue of the sky, the glory of the +hills. These books that good men write, telling us that +what they call “success” in life depends on our +flinging aside our youth and wasting our manhood in order that we +may have the means when we are eighty of spending a rollicking +old age, annoy me. We save all our lives to invest in a +South Sea Bubble; and in skimping and scheming, we have grown +mean, and narrow, and hard. We will put off the gathering +of the roses till to-morrow, to-day it shall be all work, all +bargain-driving, all plotting. Lo, when to-morrow comes, +the roses are blown; nor do we care for roses, idle things of +small marketable value; cabbages are more to our fancy by the +time to-morrow comes.</p> +<p>Life is a thing to be lived, not spent, to be faced, not +ordered. Life is not a game of chess, the victory to the +most knowing; it is a game of cards, one’s hand by skill to +be made the best of. Is it the wisest who is always the +most successful? I think not. The luckiest +whist-player I ever came across was a man who was never +<i>quite</i> certain what were trumps, and whose most frequent +observation during the game was “I really beg your +pardon,” addressed to his partner; a remark which generally +elicited the reply, “Oh, don’t apologize. +All’s well that ends well.” The man I knew who +made the most rapid fortune was a builder in the outskirts of +Birmingham, who could not write his name, and who, for thirty +years of his life, never went to bed sober. I do not say +that forgetfulness of trumps should be cultivated by +whist-players. I think my builder friend might have been +even more successful had he learned to write his name, and had he +occasionally—not overdoing it—enjoyed a sober +evening. All I wish to impress is, that virtue is not the +road to success—of the kind we are dealing with. We +must find other reasons for being virtuous; maybe, there are +some. The truth is, life is a gamble pure and simple, and +the rules we lay down for success are akin to the infallible +systems with which a certain class of idiot goes armed each +season to Monte Carlo. We can play the game with coolness +and judgment, decide when to plunge and when to stake small; but +to think that wisdom will decide it, is to imagine that we have +discovered the law of chance. Let us play the game of life +as sportsmen, pocketing our winnings with a smile, leaving our +losings with a shrug. Perhaps that is why we have been +summoned to the board and the cards dealt round: that we may +learn some of the virtues of the good gambler; his self-control, +his courage under misfortune, his modesty under the strain of +success, his firmness, his alertness, his general indifference to +fate. Good lessons these, all of them. If by the game +we learn some of them our time on the green earth has not been +wasted. If we rise from the table having learned only +fretfulness and self-pity I fear it has been.</p> +<p>The grim Hall Porter taps at the door: “Number Five +hundred billion and twenty-eight, your boatman is waiting, +sir.”</p> +<p>So! is it time already? We pick up our counters. +Of what use are they? In the country the other side of the +river they are no tender. The blood-red for gold, and the +pale-green for love, to whom shall we fling them? Here is +some poor beggar longing to play, let us give them to him as we +pass out. Poor devil! the game will amuse him—for a +while.</p> +<p>Keep your powder dry, and trust in Providence, is the motto of +the wise. Wet powder could never be of any possible use to +you. Dry, it may be, <i>with</i> the help of +Providence. We will call it Providence, it is a prettier +name than Chance—perhaps also a truer.</p> +<p>Another mistake we make when we reason out our lives is this: +we reason as though we were planning for reasonable +creatures. It is a big mistake. Well-meaning ladies +and gentlemen make it when they picture their ideal worlds. +When marriage is reformed, and the social problem solved, when +poverty and war have been abolished by acclamation, and sin and +sorrow rescinded by an overwhelming parliamentary majority! +Ah, then the world will be worthy of our living in it. You +need not wait, ladies and gentlemen, so long as you think for +that time. No social revolution is needed, no slow +education of the people is necessary. It would all come +about to-morrow, <i>if only we were reasonable creatures</i>.</p> +<p>Imagine a world of reasonable beings! The Ten +Commandments would be unnecessary: no reasoning being sins, no +reasoning creature makes mistakes. There would be no rich +men, for what reasonable man cares for luxury and +ostentation? There would be no poor: that I should eat +enough for two while my brother in the next street, as good a man +as I, starves, is not reasonable. There would be no +difference of opinion on any two points: there is only one +reason. You, dear Reader, would find, that on all subjects +you were of the same opinion as I. No novels would be +written, no plays performed; the lives of reasonable creatures do +not afford drama. No mad loves, no mad laughter, no +scalding tears, no fierce unreasoning, brief-lived joys, no +sorrows, no wild dreams—only reason, reason everywhere.</p> +<p>But for the present we remain unreasonable. If I eat +this mayonnaise, drink this champagne, I shall suffer in my +liver. Then, why do I eat it? Julia is a charming +girl, amiable, wise, and witty; also she has a share in a +brewery. Then, why does John marry Ann? who is +short-tempered, to say the least of it, who, he feels, will not +make him so good a house-wife, who has extravagant notions, who +has no little fortune. There is something about Ann’s +chin that fascinates him—he could not explain to you +what. On the whole, Julia is the better-looking of the +two. But the more he thinks of Julia, the more he is drawn +towards Ann. So Tom marries Julia and the brewery fails, +and Julia, on a holiday, contracts rheumatic fever, and is a +helpless invalid for life; while Ann comes in for ten thousand +pounds left to her by an Australian uncle no one had ever heard +of.</p> +<p>I have been told of a young man, who chose his wife with +excellent care. Said he to himself, very wisely, “In +the selection of a wife a man cannot be too +circumspect.” He convinced himself that the girl was +everything a helpmate should be. She had every virtue that +could be expected in a woman, no faults, but such as are +inseparable from a woman. Speaking practically, she was +perfection. He married her, and found she was all he had +thought her. Only one thing could he urge against +her—that he did not like her. And that, of course, +was not her fault.</p> +<p>How easy life would be did we know ourselves. Could we +always be sure that to-morrow we should think as we do +to-day. We fall in love during a summer holiday; she is +fresh, delightful, altogether charming; the blood rushes to our +head every time we think of her. Our ideal career is one of +perpetual service at her feet. It seems impossible that +Fate could bestow upon us any greater happiness than the +privilege of cleaning her boots, and kissing the hem of her +garment—if the hem be a little muddy that will please us +the more. We tell her our ambition, and at that moment +every word we utter is sincere. But the summer holiday +passes, and with it the holiday mood, and winter finds us +wondering how we are going to get out of the difficulty into +which we have landed ourselves. Or worse still, perhaps, +the mood lasts longer than is usual. We become formally +engaged. We marry—I wonder how many marriages are the +result of a passion that is burnt out before the altar-rails are +reached?—and three months afterwards the little lass is +broken-hearted to find that we consider the lacing of her boots a +bore. Her feet seem to have grown bigger. There is no +excuse for us, save that we are silly children, never sure of +what we are crying for, hurting one another in our play, crying +very loudly when hurt ourselves.</p> +<p>I knew an American lady once who used to bore me with long +accounts of the brutalities exercised upon her by her +husband. She had instituted divorce proceedings against +him. The trial came on, and she was highly +successful. We all congratulated her, and then for some +months she dropped out of my life. But there came a day +when we again found ourselves together. One of the problems +of social life is to know what to say to one another when we +meet; every man and woman’s desire is to appear sympathetic +and clever, and this makes conversation difficult, because, +taking us all round, we are neither sympathetic nor +clever—but this by the way.</p> +<p>Of course, I began to talk to her about her former +husband. I asked her how he was getting on. She +replied that she thought he was very comfortable.</p> +<p>“Married again?” I suggested.</p> +<p>“Yes,” she answered.</p> +<p>“Serve him right,” I exclaimed, “and his +wife too.” She was a pretty, bright-eyed little +woman, my American friend, and I wished to ingratiate +myself. “A woman who would marry such a man, knowing +what she must have known of him, is sure to make him wretched, +and we may trust him to be a curse to her.”</p> +<p>My friend seemed inclined to defend him.</p> +<p>“I think he is greatly improved,” she argued.</p> +<p>“Nonsense!” I returned, “a man never +improves. Once a villain, always a villain.”</p> +<p>“Oh, hush!” she pleaded, “you mustn’t +call him that.”</p> +<p>“Why not?” I answered. “I have heard +you call him a villain yourself.”</p> +<p>“It was wrong of me,” she said, flushing. +“I’m afraid he was not the only one to be blamed; we +were both foolish in those days, but I think we have both learned +a lesson.”</p> +<p>I remained silent, waiting for the necessary explanation.</p> +<p>“You had better come and see him for yourself,” +she added, with a little laugh; “to tell the truth, I am +the woman who has married him. Tuesday is my day, Number 2, +K— Mansions,” and she ran off, leaving me staring +after her.</p> +<p>I believe an enterprising clergyman who would set up a little +church in the Strand, just outside the Law Courts, might do quite +a trade, re-marrying couples who had just been divorced. A +friend of mine, a respondent, told me he had never loved his wife +more than on two occasions—the first when she refused him, +the second when she came into the witness-box to give evidence +against him.</p> +<p>“You are curious creatures, you men,” remarked a +lady once to another man in my presence. “You never +seem to know your own mind.”</p> +<p>She was feeling annoyed with men generally. I do not +blame her, I feel annoyed with them myself sometimes. There +is one man in particular I am always feeling intensely irritated +against. He says one thing, and acts another. He will +talk like a saint and behave like a fool, knows what is right and +does what is wrong. But we will not speak further of +him. He will be all he should be one day, and then we will +pack him into a nice, comfortably-lined box, and screw the lid +down tight upon him, and put him away in a quiet little spot near +a church I know of, lest he should get up and misbehave himself +again.</p> +<p>The other man, who is a wise man as men go, looked at his fair +critic with a smile.</p> +<p>“My dear madam,” he replied, “you are +blaming the wrong person. I confess I do not know my mind, +and what little I do know of it I do not like. I did not +make it, I did not select it. I am more dissatisfied with +it than you can possibly be. It is a greater mystery to me +than it is to you, and I have to live with it. You should +pity not blame me.”</p> +<p>There are moods in which I fall to envying those old hermits +who frankly, and with courageous cowardice, shirked the problem +of life. There are days when I dream of an existence +unfettered by the thousand petty strings with which our souls lie +bound to Lilliputia land. I picture myself living in some +Norwegian sater, high above the black waters of a rockbound +fiord. No other human creature disputes with me my +kingdom. I am alone with the whispering fir forests and the +stars. How I live I am not quite sure. Once a month I +could journey down into the villages and return laden. I +should not need much. For the rest, my gun and fishing-rod +would supply me. I would have with me a couple of big dogs, +who would talk to me with their eyes, so full of dumb thought, +and together we would wander over the uplands, seeking our +dinner, after the old primitive fashion of the men who dreamt not +of ten-course dinners and Savoy suppers. I would cook the +food myself, and sit down to the meal with a bottle of good wine, +such as starts a man’s thoughts (for I am inconsistent, as +I acknowledge, and that gift of civilization I would bear with me +into my hermitage). Then in the evening, with pipe in +mouth, beside my log-wood fire, I would sit and think, until new +knowledge came to me. Strengthened by those silent voices +that are drowned in the roar of Streetland, I might, perhaps, +grow into something nearer to what it was intended that a man +should be—might catch a glimpse, perhaps, of the meaning of +life.</p> +<p>No, no, my dear lady, into this life of renunciation I would +not take a companion, certainly not of the sex you are thinking +of, even would she care to come, which I doubt. There are +times when a man is better without the woman, when a woman is +better without the man. Love drags us from the depths, +makes men and women of us, but if we would climb a little nearer +to the stars we must say good-bye to it. We men and women +do not show ourselves to each other at our best; too often, I +fear, at our worst. The woman’s highest ideal of man +is the lover; to a man the woman is always the possible +beloved. We see each other’s hearts, but not each +other’s souls. In each other’s presence we +never shake ourselves free from the earth. Match-making +mother Nature is always at hand to prompt us. A woman lifts +us up into manhood, but there she would have us stay. +“Climb up to me,” she cries to the lad, walking with +soiled feet in muddy ways; “be a true man that you may be +worthy to walk by my side; be brave to protect me, kind and +tender, and true; but climb no higher, stay here by my +side.” The martyr, the prophet, the leader of the +world’s forlorn hopes, she would wake from his dream. +Her arms she would fling about his neck holding him down.</p> +<p>To the woman the man says, “You are my wife. Here +is your America, within these walls, here is your work, your +duty.” True, in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases +out of every thousand, but men and women are not made in moulds, +and the world’s work is various. Sometimes to her +sorrow, a woman’s work lies beyond the home. The duty +of Mary was not to Joseph.</p> +<p>The hero in the popular novel is the young man who says, +“I love you better than my soul.” Our favourite +heroine in fiction is the woman who cries to her lover, “I +would go down into Hell to be with you.” There are men and +women who cannot answer thus—the men who dream dreams, the +women who see visions—impracticable people from the +Bayswater point of view. But Bayswater would not be the +abode of peace it is had it not been for such.</p> +<p>Have we not placed sexual love on a pedestal higher than it +deserves? It is a noble passion, but it is not the +noblest. There is a wider love by the side of which it is +but as the lamp illumining the cottage, to the moonlight bathing +the hills and valleys. There were two women once. +This is a play I saw acted in the daylight. They had been +friends from girlhood, till there came between them the usual +trouble—a man. A weak, pretty creature not worth a +thought from either of them; but women love the unworthy; there +would be no over-population problem did they not; and this poor +specimen, ill-luck had ordained they should contend for.</p> +<p>Their rivalry brought out all that was worst in both of +them. It is a mistake to suppose love only elevates; it can +debase. It was a mean struggle for what to an onlooker must +have appeared a remarkably unsatisfying prize. The loser +might well have left the conqueror to her poor triumph, even +granting it had been gained unfairly. But the old, ugly, +primeval passions had been stirred in these women, and the +wedding-bells closed only the first act.</p> +<p>The second is not difficult to guess. It would have +ended in the Divorce Court had not the deserted wife felt that a +finer revenge would be secured to her by silence.</p> +<p>In the third, after an interval of only eighteen months, the +man died—the first piece of good fortune that seems to have +occurred to him personally throughout the play. His +position must have been an exceedingly anxious one from the +beginning. Notwithstanding his flabbiness, one cannot but +regard him with a certain amount of pity—not unmixed with +amusement. Most of life’s dramas can be viewed as +either farce or tragedy according to the whim of the +spectator. The actors invariably play them as tragedy; but +then that is the essence of good farce acting.</p> +<p>Thus was secured the triumph of legal virtue and the +punishment of irregularity, and the play might be dismissed as +uninterestingly orthodox were it not for the fourth act, showing +how the wronged wife came to the woman she had once wronged to +ask and grant forgiveness. Strangely as it may sound, they +found their love for one another unchanged. They had been +long parted: it was sweet to hold each other’s hands +again. Two lonely women, they agreed to live +together. Those who knew them well in this later time say +that their life was very beautiful, filled with graciousness and +nobility.</p> +<p>I do not say that such a story could ever be common, but it is +more probable than the world might credit. Sometimes the +man is better without the woman, the woman without the man.</p> +<h2><a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 245</span>ON +THE NOBILITY OF OURSELVES</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">An</span> old Anglicized Frenchman, I used +to meet often in my earlier journalistic days, held a theory, +concerning man’s future state, that has since come to +afford me more food for reflection than, at the time, I should +have deemed possible. He was a bright-eyed, eager little +man. One felt no Lotus land could be Paradise to him. +We build our heaven of the stones of our desires: to the old, +red-bearded Norseman, a foe to fight and a cup to drain; to the +artistic Greek, a grove of animated statuary; to the Red Indian, +his happy hunting ground; to the Turk, his harem; to the Jew, his +New Jerusalem, paved with gold; to others, according to their +taste, limited by the range of their imagination.</p> +<p>Few things had more terrors for me, when a child, than +Heaven—as pictured for me by certain of the good folks +round about me. I was told that if I were a good lad, kept +my hair tidy, and did not tease the cat, I would probably, when I +died, go to a place where all day long I would sit still and sing +hymns. (Think of it! as reward to a healthy boy for being +good.) There would be no breakfast and no dinner, no tea +and no supper. One old lady cheered me a little with a hint +that the monotony might be broken by a little manna; but the idea +of everlasting manna palled upon me, and my suggestions, +concerning the possibilities of sherbet or jumbles, were scouted +as irreverent. There would be no school, but also there +would be no cricket and no rounders. I should feel no +desire, so I was assured, to do another angel’s +“dags” by sliding down the heavenly banisters. +My only joy would be to sing.</p> +<p>“Shall we start singing the moment we get up in the +morning?” I asked.</p> +<p>“There won’t be any morning,” was the +answer. “There will be no day and no night. It +will all be one long day without end.”</p> +<p>“And shall we always be singing?” I persisted.</p> +<p>“Yes, you will be so happy, you will always want to +sing.”</p> +<p>“Shan’t I ever get tired?”</p> +<p>“No, you will never get tired, and you will never get +sleepy or hungry or thirsty.”</p> +<p>“And does it go on like that for ever?”</p> +<p>“Yes, for ever and ever.”</p> +<p>“Will it go on for a million years?”</p> +<p>“Yes, a million years, and then another million years, +and then another million years after that. There will never +be any end to it.”</p> +<p>I can remember to this day the agony of those nights, when I +would lie awake, thinking of this endless heaven, from which +there seemed to be no possible escape. For the other place +was equally eternal, or I might have been tempted to seek refuge +there.</p> +<p>We grown-up folk, our brains dulled by the slowly acquired +habit of not thinking, do wrong to torture children with these +awful themes. Eternity, Heaven, Hell are meaningless words +to us. We repeat them, as we gabble our prayers, telling +our smug, self-satisfied selves that we are miserable +sinners. But to the child, the “intelligent +stranger” in the land, seeking to know, they are fearful +realities. If you doubt me, Reader, stand by yourself, +beneath the stars, one night, and <i>solve</i> this thought, +Eternity. Your next address shall be the County Lunatic +Asylum.</p> +<p>My actively inclined French friend held cheerier views than +are common of man’s life beyond the grave. His belief +was that we were destined to constant change, to everlasting +work. We were to pass through the older planets, to labour +in the greater suns.</p> +<p>But for such advanced career a more capable being was +needed. No one of us was sufficient, he argued, to be +granted a future existence all to himself. His idea was +that two or three or four of us, according to our intrinsic +value, would be combined to make a new and more important +individuality, fitted for a higher existence. Man, he +pointed out, was already a collection of the beasts. +“You and I,” he would say, tapping first my chest and +then his own, “we have them all here—the ape, the +tiger, the pig, the motherly hen, the gamecock, the good ant; we +are all, rolled into one. So the man of the future, he will +be made up of many men—the courage of one, the wisdom of +another, the kindliness of a third.”</p> +<p>“Take a City man,” he would continue, “say +the Lord Mayor; add to him a poet, say Swinburne; mix them with a +religious enthusiast, say General Booth. There you will +have the man fit for the higher life.”</p> +<p>Garibaldi and Bismarck, he held, should make a very fine +mixture, correcting one another; if needful, extract of Ibsen +might be added, as seasoning. He thought that Irish +politicians would mix admirably with Scotch divines; that Oxford +Dons would go well with lady novelists. He was convinced +that Count Tolstoi, a few Gaiety Johnnies (we called them +“mashers” in those days), together with a +humourist—he was kind enough to suggest myself—would +produce something very choice. Queen Elizabeth, he fancied, +was probably being reserved to go—let us hope in the long +distant future—with Ouida. It sounds a whimsical +theory, set down here in my words, not his; but the old fellow +was so much in earnest that few of us ever thought to laugh as he +talked. Indeed, there were moments on starry nights, as +walking home from the office, we would pause on Waterloo Bridge +to enjoy the witchery of the long line of the Embankment lights, +when I could almost believe, as I listened to him, in the not +impossibility of his dreams.</p> +<p>Even as regards this world, it would often be a gain, one +thinks, and no loss, if some half-dozen of us were rolled +together, or boiled down, or whatever the process necessary might +be, and something made out of us in that way.</p> +<p>Have not you, my fair Reader, sometimes thought to yourself +what a delightful husband Tom this, plus Harry that, plus Dick +the other, would make? Tom is always so cheerful and +good-tempered, yet you feel that in the serious moments of life +he would be lacking. A delightful hubby when you felt +merry, yes; but you would not go to him for comfort and strength +in your troubles, now would you? No, in your hour of +sorrow, how good it would be to have near you grave, earnest +Harry. He is a “good sort,” Harry. +Perhaps, after all, he is the best of the three—solid, +staunch, and true. What a pity he is just a trifle +commonplace and unambitious. Your friends, not knowing his +sterling hidden qualities, would hardly envy you; and a husband +that no other girl envies you—well, that would hardly be +satisfactory, would it? Dick, on the other hand, is clever +and brilliant. He will make his way; there will come a day, +you are convinced, when a woman will be proud to bear his +name. If only he were not so self-centred, if only he were +more sympathetic.</p> +<p>But a combination of the three, or rather of the best +qualities of the three—Tom’s good temper, +Harry’s tender strength, Dick’s brilliant +masterfulness: that is the man who would be worthy of you.</p> +<p>The woman David Copperfield wanted was Agnes and Dora rolled +into one. He had to take them one after the other, which +was not so nice. And did he really love Agnes, Mr. Dickens; +or merely feel he ought to? Forgive me, but I am doubtful +concerning that second marriage of Copperfield’s. +Come, strictly between ourselves, Mr. Dickens, was not David, +good human soul! now and again a wee bit bored by the immaculate +Agnes? She made him an excellent wife, I am sure. +<i>She</i> never ordered oysters by the barrel, unopened. +It would, on any day, have been safe to ask Traddles home to +dinner; in fact, Sophie and the whole rose-garden might have +accompanied him, Agnes would have been equal to the +occasion. The dinner would have been perfectly cooked and +served, and Agnes’ sweet smile would have pervaded the +meal. But <i>after</i> the dinner, when David and Traddles +sat smoking alone, while from the drawing-room drifted down the +notes of high-class, elevating music, played by the saintly +Agnes, did they never, glancing covertly towards the empty chair +between them, see the laughing, curl-framed face of a very +foolish little woman—one of those foolish little women that +a wise man thanks God for making—and wish, in spite of all, +that it were flesh and blood, not shadow?</p> +<p>Oh, you foolish wise folk, who would remodel human +nature! Cannot you see how great is the work given unto +childish hands? Think you that in well-ordered housekeeping +and high-class conversation lies the whole making of a man? +Foolish Dora, fashioned by clever old magician Nature, who knows +that weakness and helplessness are as a talisman calling forth +strength and tenderness in man, trouble yourself not unduly about +those oysters nor the underdone mutton, little woman. Good +plain cooks at twenty pounds a year will see to these things for +us; and, now and then, when a windfall comes our way, we will +dine together at a moderate-priced restaurant where these things +are managed even better. Your work, Dear, is to teach us +gentleness and kindliness. Lay your curls here, +child. It is from such as you that we learn wisdom. +Foolish wise folk sneer at you; foolish wise folk would pull up +the useless lilies, the needless roses, from the garden, would +plant in their places only serviceable wholesome cabbage. +But the Gardener knowing better, plants the silly short-lived +flowers; foolish wise folk, asking for what purpose.</p> +<p>As for Agnes, Mr. Dickens, do you know what she always makes +me think of? You will not mind my saying?—the woman +one reads about. Frankly, I don’t believe in +her. I do not refer to Agnes in particular, but the woman +of whom she is a type, the faultless woman we read of. +Women have many faults, but, thank God, they have one redeeming +virtue—they are none of them faultless.</p> +<p>But the heroine of fiction! oh, a terrible dragon of virtue is +she. May heaven preserve us poor men, undeserving though we +be, from a life with the heroine of fiction. She is all +soul, and heart, and intellect, with never a bit of human nature +to catch hold of her by. Her beauty, it appals one, it is +so painfully indescribable. Whence comes she, whither goes +she, why do we never meet her like? Of women I know a +goodish few, and I look among them for her prototype; but I find +it not. They are charming, they are beautiful, all these +women that I know. It would not be right for me to tell +you, Ladies, the esteem and veneration with which I regard you +all. You yourselves, blushing, would be the first to cheek +my ardour. But yet, dear Ladies, seen even through my eyes, +you come not near the ladies that I read about. You are +not—if I may be permitted an expressive vulgarism—in +the same street with them. Your beauty I can look upon, and +retain my reason—for whatever value that may be to +me. Your conversation, I admit, is clever and brilliant in +the extreme; your knowledge vast and various; your culture quite +Bostonian; yet you do not—I hardly know how to express +it—you do not shine with the sixteen full-moon-power of the +heroine of fiction. You do not—and I thank you for +it—impress me with the idea that you are the only women on +earth. You, even you, possess tempers of your own. I +am inclined to think you take an interest in your clothes. +I would not be sure, even, that you do not mingle a little of +“your own hair” (you know what I mean) with the hair +of your head. There is in your temperament a vein of +vanity, a suggestion of selfishness, a spice of laziness. I +have known you a trifle unreasonable, a little inconsiderate, +slightly exacting. Unlike the heroine of fiction, you have +a certain number of human appetites and instincts; a few human +follies, perhaps, a human fault, or shall we say two? In +short, dear Ladies, you also, even as we men, are the children of +Adam and Eve. Tell me, if you know, where I may meet with +this supernatural sister of yours, this woman that one reads +about. She never keeps any one waiting while she does her +back hair, she is never indignant with everybody else in the +house because she cannot find her own boots, she never scolds the +servants, she is never cross with the children, she never slams +the door, she is never jealous of her younger sister, she never +lingers at the gate with any cousin but the right one.</p> +<p>Dear me, where <i>do</i> they keep them, these women that one +reads about? I suppose where they keep the pretty girl of +Art. You have seen her, have you not, Reader, the pretty +girl in the picture? She leaps the six-barred gate with a +yard and a half to spare, turning round in her saddle the while +to make some smiling remark to the comic man behind, who, of +course, is standing on his head in the ditch. She floats +gracefully off Dieppe on stormy mornings. Her +<i>baigneuse</i>—generally of chiffon and old point +lace—has not lost a curve. The older ladies, bathing +round her, look wet. Their dress clings damply to their +limbs. But the pretty girl of Art dives, and never a curl +of her hair is disarranged. The pretty girl of Art stands +lightly on tip-toe and volleys a tennis-ball six feet above her +head. The pretty girl of Art keeps the head of the punt +straight against a stiff current and a strong wind. +<i>She</i> never gets the water up her sleeve, and down her back, +and all over the cushions. <i>Her</i> pole never sticks in +the mud, with the steam launch ten yards off and the man looking +the other way. The pretty girl of Art skates in high-heeled +French shoes at an angle of forty-five to the surface of the ice, +both hands in her muff. <i>She</i> never sits down plump, +with her feet a yard apart, and says “Ough.” The +pretty girl of Art drives tandem down Piccadilly, during the +height of the season, at eighteen miles an hour. It never +occurs to <i>her</i> leader that the time has now arrived for him +to turn round and get into the cart. The pretty girl of Art +rides her bicycle through the town on market day, carrying a +basket of eggs, and smiling right and left. <i>She</i> +never throws away both her handles and runs into a cow. The +pretty girl of Art goes trout fishing in open-work stockings, +under a blazing sun, with a bunch of dew-bespangled primroses in +her hair; and every time she gracefully flicks her rod she hauls +out a salmon. <i>She</i> never ties herself up to a tree, +or hooks the dog. <i>She</i> never comes home, soaked and +disagreeable, to tell you that she caught six, but put them all +back again, because they were merely two or three-pounders, and +not worth the trouble of carrying. The pretty girl of Art +plays croquet with one hand, and looks as if she enjoyed the +game. <i>She</i> never tries to accidentally kick her ball +into position when nobody is noticing, or stands it out that she +is through a hoop that she knows she isn’t.</p> +<p>She is a good, all-round sportswoman, is the pretty girl in +the picture. The only thing I have to say against her is +that she makes one dissatisfied with the girl out of the +picture—the girl who mistakes a punt for a teetotum, so +that you land feeling as if you had had a day in the Bay of +Biscay; and who, every now and again, stuns you with the thick +end of the pole: the girl who does not skate with her hands in +her muff; but who, throwing them up to heaven, says, +“I’m going,” and who goes, taking care that you +go with her: the girl who, as you brush her down, and try to +comfort her, explains to you indignantly that the horse took the +corner too sharply and never noticed the mile-stone; the girl +whose hair sea water does <i>not</i> improve.</p> +<p>There can be no doubt about it: that is where they keep the +good woman of Fiction, where they keep the pretty girl of +Art.</p> +<p>Does it not occur to you, <i>Messieurs les Auteurs</i>, that +you are sadly disturbing us? These women that are a +combination of Venus, St. Cecilia, and Elizabeth Fry! you paint +them for us in your glowing pages: it is not kind of you, +knowing, as you must, the women we have to put up with.</p> +<p>Would we not be happier, we men and women, were we to idealize +one another less? My dear young lady, you have nothing +whatever to complain to Fate about, I assure you. Unclasp +those pretty hands of yours, and come away from the darkening +window. Jack is as good a fellow as you deserve; +don’t yearn so much. Sir Galahad, my dear—Sir +Galahad rides and fights in the land that lies beyond the sunset, +far enough away from this noisy little earth where you and I +spend much of our time tittle-tattling, flirting, wearing fine +clothes, and going to shows. And besides, you must +remember, Sir Galahad was a bachelor: as an idealist he was +wise. Your Jack is by no means a bad sort of knight, as +knights go nowadays in this un-idyllic world. There is much +solid honesty about him, and he does not pose. He is not +exceptional, I grant you; but, my dear, have you ever tried the +exceptional man? Yes, he is very nice in a drawing-room, +and it is interesting to read about him in the Society papers: +you will find most of his good qualities <i>there</i>: take my +advice, don’t look into him too closely. You be +content with Jack, and thank heaven he is no worse. We are +not saints, we men—none of us, and our beautiful thoughts, +I fear, we write in poetry not action. The White Knight, my +dear young lady, with his pure soul, his heroic heart, his +life’s devotion to a noble endeavour, does not live down +here to any great extent. They have tried it, one or two of +them, and the world—you and I: the world is made up of you +and I—has generally starved, and hooted them. There +are not many of them left now: do you think you would care to be +the wife of one, supposing one were to be found for you? +Would you care to live with him in two furnished rooms in +Clerkenwell, die with him on a chair bedstead? A century +hence they will put up a statue to him, and you may be honoured +as the wife who shared with him his sufferings. Do you +think you are woman enough for that? If not, thank your +stars you have secured, for your own exclusive use, one of us +<i>un</i>exceptional men, who knows no better than to admire +you. <i>You</i> are not exceptional.</p> +<p>And in us ordinary men there is some good. It wants +finding, that is all. We are not so commonplace as you +think us. Even your Jack, fond of his dinner, his +conversation four-cornered by the Sporting Press—yes, I +agree he is not interesting, as he sits snoring in the +easy-chair; but, believe it or not, there are the makings of a +great hero in Jack, if Fate would but be kinder to him, and shake +him out of his ease.</p> +<p>Dr. Jekyll contained beneath his ample waist-coat not two +egos, but three—not only Hyde but another, a greater than +Jekyll—a man as near to the angels as Hyde was to the +demons. These well-fed City men, these Gaiety Johnnies, +these plough-boys, apothecaries, thieves! within each one lies +hidden the hero, did Fate, the sculptor, choose to use his +chisel. That little drab we have noticed now and then, our +way taking us often past the end of the court, there was nothing +by which to distinguish her. She was not over-clean, could +use coarse language on occasion—just the spawn of the +streets: take care lest the cloak of our child should brush +her.</p> +<p>One morning the district Coroner, not, generally speaking, a +poet himself, but an adept at discovering poetry buried under +unlikely rubbish-heaps, tells us more about her. She earned +six shillings a week, and upon it supported a bed-ridden mother +and three younger children. She was housewife, nurse, +mother, breadwinner, rolled into one. Yes, there are +heroines <i>out</i> of fiction.</p> +<p>So loutish Tom has won the Victoria Cross—dashed out +under a storm of bullets and rescued the riddled flag. Who +would have thought it of loutish Tom? The village alehouse +one always deemed the goal of his endeavours. Chance comes +to Tom and we find him out. To Harry the Fates were less +kind. A ne’er-do-well was Harry—drank, knocked +his wife about, they say. Bury him, we are well rid of him, +he was good for nothing. Are we sure?</p> +<p>Let us acknowledge we are sinners. We know, those of us +who dare to examine ourselves, that we are capable of every +meanness, of every wrong under the sun. It is by the +accident of circumstance, aided by the helpful watchfulness of +the policeman, that our possibilities of crime are known only to +ourselves. But having acknowledged our evil, let us also +acknowledge that we are capable of greatness. The martyrs +who faced death and torture unflinchingly for conscience’ +sake, were men and women like ourselves. They had their +wrong side. Before the small trials of daily life they no +doubt fell as we fall. By no means were they the pick of +humanity. Thieves many of them had been, and murderers, +evil-livers, and evil-doers. But the nobility was there +also, lying dormant, and their day came. Among them must +have been men who had cheated their neighbours over the counter; +men who had been cruel to their wives and children; selfish, +scandal-mongering women. In easier times their virtue might +never have been known to any but their Maker.</p> +<p>In every age and in every period, when and where Fate has +called upon men and women to play the man, human nature has not +been found wanting. They were a poor lot, those French +aristocrats that the Terror seized: cowardly, selfish, greedy had +been their lives. Yet there must have been good, even in +them. When the little things that in their little lives +they had thought so great were swept away from them, when they +found themselves face to face with the realities; then even they +played the man. Poor shuffling Charles the First, crusted +over with weakness and folly, deep down in him at last we find +the great gentleman.</p> +<p>I like to hear stories of the littleness of great men. I +like to think that Shakespeare was fond of his glass. I +even cling to the tale of that disgraceful final orgie with +friend Ben Jonson. Possibly the story may not be true, but +I hope it was. I like to think of him as poacher, as +village ne’er-do-well, denounced by the local +grammar-school master, preached at by the local J. P. of the +period. I like to reflect that Cromwell had a wart on his +nose; the thought makes me more contented with my own +features. I like to think that he put sweets upon the +chairs, to see finely-dressed ladies spoil their frocks; to tell +myself that he roared with laughter at the silly jest, like any +East End ’Arry with his Bank Holiday squirt of dirty +water. I like to read that Carlyle threw bacon at his wife +and occasionally made himself highly ridiculous over small +annoyances, that would have been smiled at by a man of +well-balanced mind. I think of the fifty foolish things a +week <i>I</i> do, and say to myself, “I, too, am a literary +man.”</p> +<p>I like to think that even Judas had his moments of nobility, +his good hours when he would willingly have laid down his life +for his Master. Perhaps even to him there came, before the +journey’s end, the memory of a voice +saying—“Thy sins be forgiven thee.” There +must have been good, even in Judas.</p> +<p>Virtue lies like the gold in quartz, there is not very much of +it, and much pains has to be spent on the extracting of it. +But Nature seems to think it worth her while to fashion these +huge useless stones, if in them she may hide away her precious +metals. Perhaps, also, in human nature, she cares little +for the mass of dross, provided that by crushing and cleansing +she can extract from it a little gold, sufficient to repay her +for the labour of the world. We wonder why she troubles to +make the stone. Why cannot the gold lie in nuggets on the +surface? But her methods are secrets to us. Perchance +there is a reason for the quartz. Perchance there is a +reason for the evil and folly, through which run, unseen to the +careless eye, the tiny veins of virtue.</p> +<p>Aye, the stone predominates, but the gold is there. We +claim to have it valued. The evil that there is in man no +tongue can tell. We are vile among the vile, a little evil +people. But we are great. Pile up the bricks of our +sins till the tower knocks at Heaven’s gate, calling for +vengeance, yet we are great—with a greatness and a virtue +that the untempted angels may not reach to. The written +history of the human race, it is one long record of cruelty, of +falsehood, of oppression. Think you the world would be +spinning round the sun unto this day, if that written record were +all? Sodom, God would have spared had there been found ten +righteous men within its walls. The world is saved by its +just men. History sees them not; she is but the newspaper, +a report of accidents. Judge you life by that? Then +you shall believe that the true Temple of Hymen is the Divorce +Court; that men are of two classes only, the thief and the +policeman; that all noble thought is but a politician’s +catchword. History sees only the destroying conflagrations, +she takes no thought of the sweet fire-sides. History notes +the wrong; but the patient suffering, the heroic endeavour, that, +slowly and silently, as the soft processes of Nature re-clothing +with verdure the passion-wasted land, obliterate that wrong, she +has no eyes for. In the days of cruelty and +oppression—not altogether yet of the past, one +fears—must have lived gentle-hearted men and women, healing +with their help and sympathy the wounds that else the world had +died of. After the thief, riding with jingle of sword and +spur, comes, mounted on his ass, the good Samaritan. The +pyramid of the world’s evil—God help us! it rises +high, shutting out almost the sun. But the record of +man’s good deeds, it lies written in the laughter of the +children, in the light of lovers’ eyes, in the dreams of +the young men; it shall not be forgotten. The fires of +persecution served as torches to show Heaven the heroism that was +in man. From the soil of tyranny sprang self-sacrifice, and +daring for the Right. Cruelty! what is it but the vile +manure, making the ground ready for the flowers of tenderness and +pity? Hate and Anger shriek to one another across the ages, +but the voices of Love and Comfort are none the less existent +that they speak in whispers, lips to ear.</p> +<p>We have done wrong, oh, ye witnessing Heavens, but we have +done good. We claim justice. We have laid down our +lives for our friends: greater love hath no man than this. +We have fought for the Right. We have died for the +Truth—as the Truth seemed to us. We have done noble +deeds; we have lived noble lives; we have comforted the +sorrowful; we have succoured the weak. Failing, falling, +making in our blindness many a false step, yet we have +striven. For the sake of the army of just men and true, for +the sake of the myriads of patient, loving women, for the sake of +the pitiful and helpful, for the sake of the good that lies +hidden within us,—spare us, O Lord.</p> +<h2><a name="page271"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 271</span>ON +THE MOTHERLINESS OF MAN</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was only a piece of broken +glass. From its shape and colour, I should say it had, in +its happier days, formed portion of a cheap scent-bottle. +Lying isolated on the grass, shone upon by the early morning sun, +it certainly appeared at its best. It attracted him.</p> +<p>He cocked his head, and looked at it with his right eye. +Then he hopped round to the other side, and looked at it with his +left eye. With either optic it seemed equally +desirable.</p> +<p>That he was an inexperienced young rook goes without +saying. An older bird would not have given a second glance +to the thing. Indeed, one would have thought his own +instinct might have told him that broken glass would be a mistake +in a bird’s nest. But its glitter drew him too +strongly for resistance. I am inclined to suspect that at +some time, during the growth of his family tree, there must have +occurred a <i>mésalliance</i>, perhaps worse. +Possibly a strain of magpie blood?—one knows the character +of magpies, or rather their lack of character—and such +things have happened. But I will not pursue further so +painful a train: I throw out the suggestion as a possible +explanation, that is all.</p> +<p>He hopped nearer. Was it a sweet illusion, this flashing +fragment of rainbow; a beautiful vision to fade upon approach, +typical of so much that is un-understandable in rook life? +He made a dart forward and tapped it with his beak. No, it +was real—as fine a lump of jagged green glass as any +newly-married rook could desire, and to be had for the +taking. <i>She</i> would be pleased with it. He was a +well-meaning bird; the mere upward inclination of his tail +suggested earnest though possibly ill-directed endeavour.</p> +<p>He turned it over. It was an awkward thing to carry; it +had so very many corners. But he succeeded at last in +getting it firmly between his beak, and in haste, lest some other +bird should seek to dispute with him its possession, at once flew +off with it.</p> +<p>A second rook who had been watching the proceedings from the +lime tree, called to a third who was passing. Even with my +limited knowledge of the language I found it easy to follow the +conversation: it was so obvious.</p> +<p>“Issachar!”</p> +<p>“Hallo!”</p> +<p>“What do you think? Zebulan’s found a piece +of broken bottle. He’s going to line his nest with +it.”</p> +<p>“No!”</p> +<p>“God’s truth. Look at him. There he +goes, he’s got it in his beak.”</p> +<p>“Well, I’m—!”</p> +<p>And they both burst into a laugh.</p> +<p>But Zebulan heeded them not. If he overheard, he +probably put down the whole dialogue to jealousy. He made +straight for his tree. By standing with my left cheek +pressed close against the window-pane, I was able to follow +him. He is building in what we call the Paddock +elms—a suburb commenced only last season, but rapidly +growing. I wanted to see what his wife would say.</p> +<p>At first she said nothing. He laid it carefully down on +the branch near the half-finished nest, and she stretched up her +head and looked at it.</p> +<p>Then she looked at him. For about a minute neither +spoke. I could see that the situation was becoming +strained. When she did open her beak, it was with a subdued +tone, that had a vein of weariness running through it.</p> +<p>“What is it?” she asked.</p> +<p>He was evidently chilled by her manner. As I have +explained, he is an inexperienced young rook. This is +clearly his first wife, and he stands somewhat in awe of her.</p> +<p>“Well, I don’t exactly know what it’s +<i>called</i>,” he answered.</p> +<p>“Oh.”</p> +<p>“No. But it’s pretty, isn’t it?” +he added. He moved it, trying to get it where the sun might +reach it. It was evident he was admitting to himself that, +seen in the shade, it lost much of its charm.</p> +<p>“Oh, yes; very pretty,” was the rejoinder; +“perhaps you’ll tell me what you’re going to do +with it.”</p> +<p>The question further discomforted him. It was growing +upon him that this thing was not going to be the success he had +anticipated. It would be necessary to proceed warily.</p> +<p>“Of course, it’s not a twig,” he began.</p> +<p>“I see it isn’t.”</p> +<p>“No. You see, the nest is nearly all twigs as it +is, and I thought—”</p> +<p>“Oh, you did think.”</p> +<p>“Yes, my dear. I thought—unless you are of +opinion that it’s too showy—I thought we might work +it in somewhere.”</p> +<p>Then she flared out.</p> +<p>“Oh, did you? You thought that a good idea. +An A1 prize idiot I seem to have married, I do. +You’ve been gone twenty minutes, and you bring me back an +eight-cornered piece of broken glass, which you think we might +‘work into’ the nest. You’d like to see +me sitting on it for a month, you would. You think it would +make a nice bed for the children to lie on. You don’t +think you could manage to find a packet of mixed pins if you went +down again, I suppose. They’d look pretty +‘worked in’ somewhere, don’t you +think?—Here, get out of my way. I’ll finish +this nest by myself.” She always had been short with +him.</p> +<p>She caught up the offending object—it was a fairly heavy +lump of glass—and flung it out of the tree with all her +force. I heard it crash through the cucumber frame. +That makes the seventh pane of glass broken in that cucumber +frame this week. The couple in the branch above are the +worst. Their plan of building is the most extravagant, the +most absurd I ever heard of. They hoist up ten times as +much material as they can possibly use; you might think they were +going to build a block, and let it out in flats to the other +rooks. Then what they don’t want they fling down +again. Suppose we built on such a principle? Suppose +a human husband and wife were to start erecting their house in +Piccadilly Circus, let us say; and suppose the man spent all the +day steadily carrying bricks up the ladder while his wife laid +them, never asking her how many she wanted, whether she +didn’t think he had brought up sufficient, but just +accumulating bricks in a senseless fashion, bringing up every +brick he could find. And then suppose, when evening came, +and looking round, they found they had some twenty cart-loads of +bricks lying unused upon the scaffold, they were to commence +flinging them down into Waterloo Place. They would get +themselves into trouble; somebody would be sure to speak to them +about it. Yet that is precisely what those birds do, and +nobody says a word to them. They are supposed to have a +President. He lives by himself in the yew tree outside the +morning-room window. What I want to know is what he is +supposed to be good for. This is the sort of thing I want +him to look into. I would like him to be worming underneath +one evening when those two birds are tidying up: perhaps he would +do something then. I have done all I can. I have +thrown stones at them, that, in the course of nature, have +returned to earth again, breaking more glass. I have blazed +at them with a revolver; but they have come to regard this +proceeding as a mere expression of light-heartedness on my part, +possibly confusing me with the Arab of the Desert, who, I am +given to understand, expresses himself thus in moments of deep +emotion. They merely retire to a safe distance to watch me; +no doubt regarding me as a poor performer, inasmuch as I do not +also dance and shout between each shot. I have no objection +to their building there, if they only would build sensibly. +I want somebody to speak to them to whom they will pay +attention.</p> +<p>You can hear them in the evening, discussing the matter of +this surplus stock.</p> +<p>“Don’t you work any more,” he says, as he +comes up with the last load, “you’ll tire +yourself.”</p> +<p>“Well, I am feeling a bit done up,” she answers, +as she hops out of the nest and straightens her back.</p> +<p>“You’re a bit peckish, too, I expect,” he +adds sympathetically. “I know I am. We will +have a scratch down, and be off.”</p> +<p>“What about all this stuff?” she asks, while +titivating herself; “we’d better not leave it about, +it looks so untidy.”</p> +<p>“Oh, we’ll soon get rid of that,” he +answers. “I’ll have that down in a +jiffy.”</p> +<p>To help him, she seizes a stick and is about to drop it. +He darts forward and snatches it from her.</p> +<p>“Don’t you waste that one,” he cries, +“that’s a rare one, that is. You see me hit the +old man with it.”</p> +<p>And he does. What the gardener says, I will leave you to +imagine.</p> +<p>Judged from its structure, the rook family is supposed to come +next in intelligence to man himself. Judging from the +intelligence displayed by members of certain human families with +whom I have come in contact, I can quite believe it. That +rooks talk I am positive. No one can spend half-an-hour +watching a rookery without being convinced of this. Whether +the talk be always wise and witty, I am not prepared to maintain; +but that there is a good deal of it is certain. A young +French gentleman of my acquaintance, who visited England to study +the language, told me that the impression made upon him by his +first social evening in London was that of a parrot-house. +Later on, when he came to comprehend, he, of course, recognized +the brilliancy and depth of the average London drawing-room talk; +but that is how, not comprehending, it impressed him at +first. Listening to the riot of a rookery is much the same +experience. The conversation to us sounds meaningless; the +rooks themselves would probably describe it as sparkling.</p> +<p>There is a Misanthrope I know who hardly ever goes into +Society. I argued the question with him one day. +“Why should I?” he replied; “I know, say, a +dozen men and women with whom intercourse is a pleasure; they +have ideas of their own which they are not afraid to voice. +To rub brains with such is a rare and goodly thing, and I thank +Heaven for their friendship; but they are sufficient for my +leisure. What more do I require? What is this +‘Society’ of which you all make so much ado? I +have sampled it, and I find it unsatisfying. Analyze it +into its elements, what is it? Some person I know very +slightly, who knows me very slightly, asks me to what you call an +‘At Home.’ The evening comes, I have done my +day’s work and I have dined. I have been to a theatre +or concert, or I have spent a pleasant hour or so with a +friend. I am more inclined for bed than anything else, but +I pull myself together, dress, and drive to the house. +While I am taking off my hat and coat in the hall, a man enters I +met a few hours ago at the Club. He is a man I have very +little opinion of, and he, probably, takes a similar view of +me. Our minds have no thought in common, but as it is +necessary to talk, I tell him it is a warm evening. Perhaps +it is a warm evening, perhaps it isn’t; in either case he +agrees with me. I ask him if he is going to Ascot. I +do not care a straw whether he is going to Ascot or not. He +says he is not quite sure, but asks me what chance Passion Flower +has for the Thousand Guineas. I know he doesn’t value +my opinion on the subject at a brass farthing—he would be a +fool if he did, but I cudgel my brains to reply to him, as though +he were going to stake his shirt on my advice. We reach the +first floor, and are mutually glad to get rid of one +another. I catch my hostess’ eye. She looks +tired and worried; she would be happier in bed, only she +doesn’t know it. She smiles sweetly, but it is clear +she has not the slightest idea who I am, and is waiting to catch +my name from the butler. I whisper it to him. Perhaps +he will get it right, perhaps he won’t; it is quite +immaterial. They have asked two hundred and forty guests, +some seventy-five of whom they know by sight, for the rest, any +chance passer-by, able, as the theatrical advertisements say, +‘to dress and behave as a gentleman,’ would do every +bit as well. Indeed, I sometimes wonder why people go to +the trouble and expense of invitation cards at all. A +sandwich-man outside the door would answer the purpose. +‘Lady Tompkins, At Home, this afternoon from three to +seven; Tea and Music. Ladies and Gentlemen admitted on +presentation of visiting card. Afternoon dress +indispensable.’ The crowd is the thing wanted; as for +the items, well, tell me, what is the difference, from the +Society point of view, between one man in a black frock-coat and +another?</p> +<p>“I remember being once invited to a party at a house in +Lancaster Gate. I had met the woman at a picnic. In +the same green frock and parasol I might have recognized her the +next time I saw her. In any other clothes I did not expect +to. My cabman took me to the house opposite, where they +were also giving a party. It made no difference to any of +us. The hostess—I never learnt her name—said it +was very good of me to come, and then shunted me off on to a +Colonial Premier (I did not catch his name, and he did not catch +mine, which was not extraordinary, seeing that my hostess did not +know it) who, she whispered to me, had come over, from wherever +it was (she did not seem to be very sure) principally to make my +acquaintance. Half through the evening, and by accident, I +discovered my mistake, but judged it too late to say anything +then. I met a couple of people I knew, had a little supper +with them, and came away. The next afternoon I met my right +hostess—the lady who should have been my hostess. She +thanked me effusively for having sacrificed the previous evening +to her and her friends; she said she knew how seldom I went out: +that made her feel my kindness all the more. She told me +that the Brazilian Minister’s wife had told her that I was +the cleverest man she had ever met. I often think I should +like to meet that man, whoever he may be, and thank him.</p> +<p>“But perhaps the butler does pronounce my name rightly, +and perhaps my hostess actually does recognize me. She +smiles, and says she was so afraid I was not coming. She +implies that all the other guests are but as a feather in her +scales of joy compared with myself. I smile in return, +wondering to myself how I look when I do smile. I have +never had the courage to face my own smile in the +looking-glass. I notice the Society smile of other men, and +it is not reassuring. I murmur something about my not +having been likely to forget this evening; in my turn, seeking to +imply that I have been looking forward to it for weeks. A +few men shine at this sort of thing, but they are a small +percentage, and without conceit I regard myself as no bigger a +fool than the average male. Not knowing what else to say, I +tell her also that it is a warm evening. She smiles archly +as though there were some hidden witticism in the remark, and I +drift away, feeling ashamed of myself. To talk as an idiot +when you <i>are</i> an idiot brings no discomfort; to behave as +an idiot when you have sufficient sense to know it, is +painful. I hide myself in the crowd, and perhaps I’ll +meet a woman I was introduced to three weeks ago at a picture +gallery. We don’t know each other’s names, but, +both of us feeling lonesome, we converse, as it is called. +If she be the ordinary type of woman, she asks me if I am going +on to the Johnsons’. I tell her no. We stand +silent for a moment, both thinking what next to say. She +asks me if I was at the Thompsons’ the day before +yesterday. I again tell her no. I begin to feel +dissatisfied with myself that I was not at the +Thompsons’. Trying to get even with her, I ask her if +she is going to the Browns’ next Monday. (There are +no Browns, she will have to say, No.) She is not, and her +tone suggests that a social stigma rests upon the Browns. I +ask her if she has been to Barnum’s Circus; she +hasn’t, but is going. I give her my impressions of +Barnum’s Circus, which are precisely the impressions of +everybody else who has seen the show.</p> +<p>“Or if luck be against me, she is possibly a smart +woman, that is to say, her conversation is a running fire of +spiteful remarks at the expense of every one she knows, and of +sneers at the expense of every one she doesn’t. I +always feel I could make a better woman myself, out of a bottle +of vinegar and a penn’orth of mixed pins. Yet it +usually takes one about ten minutes to get away from her.</p> +<p>“Even when, by chance, one meets a flesh-and-blood man +or woman at such gatherings, it is not the time or place for real +conversation; and as for the shadows, what person in their senses +would exhaust a single brain cell upon such? I remember a +discussion once concerning Tennyson, considered as a social +item. The dullest and most densely-stupid bore I ever came +across was telling how he had sat next to Tennyson at +dinner. ‘I found him a most uninteresting man,’ +so he confided to us; ‘he had nothing to say for +himself—absolutely nothing.’ I should like to +resuscitate Dr. Samuel Johnson for an evening, and throw him into +one of these ‘At Homes’ of yours.”</p> +<p>My friend is an admitted misanthrope, as I have explained; but +one cannot dismiss him as altogether unjust. That there is +a certain mystery about Society’s craving for Society must +be admitted. I stood one evening trying to force my way +into the supper room of a house in Berkeley Square. A lady, +hot and weary, a few yards in front of me was struggling to the +same goal.</p> +<p>“Why,” remarked she to her companion, “why +do we come to these places, and fight like a Bank Holiday crowd +for eighteenpenny-worth of food?”</p> +<p>“We come here,” replied the man, whom I judged to +be a philosopher, “to say we’ve been here.”</p> +<p>I met A— the other evening, and asked him to dine with +me on Monday. I don’t know why I ask A— to dine +with me, but about once a month I do. He is an +uninteresting man.</p> +<p>“I can’t,” he said, “I’ve got to +go to the B—s’; confounded nuisance, it will be +infernally dull.”</p> +<p>“Why go?” I asked.</p> +<p>“I really don’t know,” he replied.</p> +<p>A little later B— met me, and asked me to dine with him +on Monday.</p> +<p>“I can’t,” I answered, “some friends +are coming to us that evening. It’s a duty dinner, +you know the sort of thing.”</p> +<p>“I wish you could have managed it,” he said, +“I shall have no one to talk to. The A—s are +coming, and they bore me to death.”</p> +<p>“Why do you ask him?” I suggested.</p> +<p>“Upon my word, I really don’t know,” he +replied.</p> +<p>But to return to our rooks. We were speaking of their +social instincts. Some dozen of them—the +“scallywags” and bachelors of the community, I judge +them to be—have started a Club. For a month past I +have been trying to understand what the affair was. Now I +know: it is a Club.</p> +<p>And for their Club House they have chosen, of course, the tree +nearest my bedroom window. I can guess how that came about; +it was my own fault, I never thought of it. About two +months ago, a single rook—suffering from indigestion or an +unhappy marriage, I know not—chose this tree one night for +purposes of reflection. He woke me up: I felt angry. +I opened the window, and threw an empty soda-water bottle at +him. Of course it did not hit him, and finding nothing else +to throw, I shouted at him, thinking to frighten him away. +He took no notice, but went on talking to himself. I +shouted louder, and woke up my own dog. The dog barked +furiously, and woke up most things within a quarter of a +mile. I had to go down with a boot-jack—the only +thing I could find handy—to soothe the dog. Two hours +later I fell asleep from exhaustion. I left the rook still +cawing.</p> +<p>The next night he came again. I should say he was a bird +with a sense of humour. Thinking this might happen, I had, +however, taken the precaution to have a few stones ready. I +opened the window wide, and fired them one after another into the +tree. After I had closed the window, he hopped down nearer, +and cawed louder than ever. I think he wanted me to throw +more stones at him: he appeared to regard the whole proceeding as +a game. On the third night, as I heard nothing of him, I +flattered myself that, in spite of his bravado, I had discouraged +him. I might have known rooks better.</p> +<p>What happened when the Club was being formed, I take it, was +this:</p> +<p>“Where shall we fix upon for our Club House?” said +the secretary, all other points having been disposed of. +One suggested this tree, another suggested that. Then up +spoke this particular rook:</p> +<p>“I’ll tell you where,” said he, “in +the yew tree opposite the porch. And I’ll tell you +for why. Just about an hour before dawn a man comes to the +window over the porch, dressed in the most comical costume you +ever set eyes upon. I’ll tell you what he reminds me +of—those little statues that men use for decorating +fields. He opens the window, and throws a lot of things out +upon the lawn, and then he dances and sings. It’s +awfully interesting, and you can see it all from the yew +tree.”</p> +<p>That, I am convinced, is how the Club came to fix upon the +tree next my window. I have had the satisfaction of denying +them the exhibition they anticipated, and I cheer myself with the +hope that they have visited their disappointment upon their +misleader.</p> +<p>There is a difference between Rook Clubs and ours. In +our clubs the respectable members arrive early, and leave at a +reasonable hour; in Rook Clubs, it would appear, this principle +is reversed. The Mad Hatter would have liked this +Club—it would have been a club after his own heart. +It opens at half-past two in the morning, and the first to arrive +are the most disreputable members. In Rook-land the +rowdy-dowdy, randy-dandy, rollicky-ranky boys get up very early +in the morning and go to bed in the afternoon. Towards +dawn, the older, more orderly members drop in for reasonable +talk, and the Club becomes more respectable. The tree +closes about six. For the first two hours, however, the +goings-on are disgraceful. The proceedings, as often as +not, open with a fight. If no two gentlemen can be found to +oblige with a fight, the next noisiest thing to fall back upon is +held to be a song. It is no satisfaction to me to be told +that rooks cannot sing. <i>I</i> know that, without the +trouble of referring to the natural history book. It is the +rook who does not know it; <i>he</i> thinks he can; and as a +matter of fact, he does. You can criticize his singing, you +can call it what you like, but you can’t stop it—at +least, that is my experience. The song selected is sure to +be one with a chorus. Towards the end it becomes mainly +chorus, unless the soloist be an extra powerful bird, determined +to insist upon his rights.</p> +<p>The President knows nothing of this Club. He gets up +himself about seven—three hours after all the others have +finished breakfast—and then fusses round under the +impression that he is waking up the colony, the fat-headed old +fool. He is the poorest thing in Presidents I have ever +heard of. A South American Republic would supply a better +article. The rooks themselves, the married majority, +fathers of families, respectable nestholders, are as indignant as +I am. I hear complaints from all quarters.</p> +<p>Reflection comes to one as, towards the close of these chill +afternoons in early spring, one leans upon the paddock gate +watching the noisy bustling in the bare elms.</p> +<p>So the earth is growing green again, and love is come again +unto the hearts of us old sober-coated fellows. Oh, Madam, +your feathers gleam wondrous black, and your bonnie bright eye +stabs deep. Come, sit by our side, and we’ll tell you +a tale such as rook never told before. It’s the tale +of a nest in a topmost bough, that sways in the good west +wind. It’s strong without, but it’s soft +within, where the little green eggs lie safe. And there +sits in that nest a lady sweet, and she caws with joy, for, afar, +she sees the rook she loves the best. Oh, he has been east, +and he has been west, and his crop it is full of worms and slugs, +and they are all for her.</p> +<p>We are old, old rooks, so many of us. The white is +mingling with the purple black upon our breasts. We have +seen these tall elms grow from saplings; we have seen the old +trees fall and die. Yet each season come to us again the +young thoughts. So we mate and build and gather that again +our old, old hearts may quiver to the thin cry of our +newborn.</p> +<p>Mother Nature has but one care, the children. We talk of +Love as the Lord of Life: it is but the Minister. Our +novels end where Nature’s tale begins. The drama that +our curtain falls upon, is but the prologue to her play. +How the ancient Dame must laugh as she listens to the prattle of +her children. “Is Marriage a Failure?” +“Is Life worth Living?” “The New Woman +<i>versus</i> the Old.” So, perhaps, the waves of the +Atlantic discuss vehemently whether they shall flow east or +west.</p> +<p>Motherhood is the law of the Universe. The whole duty of +man is to be a mother. We labour: to what end? the +children—the woman in the home, the man in the +community. The nation takes thought for its future: +why? In a few years its statesmen, its soldiers, its +merchants, its toilers, will be gathered unto their +fathers. Why trouble we ourselves about the future? +The country pours its blood and treasure into the earth that the +children may reap. Foolish Jacques Bonhomie, his addled +brain full of dreams, rushes with bloody hands to give his blood +for Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. He will not live to see, +except in vision, the new world he gives his bones to +build—even his spinning word-whipped head knows that. +But the children! they shall live sweeter lives. The +peasant leaves his fireside to die upon the battle-field. +What is it to him, a grain in the human sand, that Russia should +conquer the East, that Germany should be united, that the English +flag should wave above new lands? the heritage his fathers left +him shall be greater for his sons. Patriotism! what is it +but the mother instinct of a people?</p> +<p>Take it that the decree has gone forth from Heaven: There +shall be no more generations, with this life the world shall +die. Think you we should move another hand? The ships +would rot in the harbours, the grain would rot in the +ground. Should we paint pictures, write books, make music? +hemmed in by that onward creeping sea of silence. Think you +with what eyes husband and wife would look on one another. +Think you of the wooing—the spring of Love dried up; love +only a pool of stagnant water.</p> +<p>How little we seem to realize this foundation of our +life. Herein, if nowhere else, lies our eternity. +This Ego shall never die—unless the human race from +beginning to end be but a passing jest of the Gods, to be swept +aside when wearied of, leaving room for new experiments. +These features of mine—we will not discuss their +æsthetic value—shall never disappear; modified, +varied, but in essential the same, they shall continue in ever +increasing circles to the end of Time. This temperament of +mine—this good and evil that is in me, it shall grow with +every age, spreading ever wider, combining, amalgamating. I +go into my children and my children’s children, I am +eternal. I am they, they are I. The tree withers and +you clear the ground, thankful if out of its dead limbs you can +make good firewood; but its spirit, its life, is in fifty +saplings. The tree dies not, it changes.</p> +<p>These men and women that pass me in the street, this one +hurrying to his office, this one to his club, another to his +love, they are the mothers of the world to come.</p> +<p>This greedy trickster in stocks and shares, he cheats, he +lies, he wrongs all men—for what? Follow him to his +luxurious home in the suburbs: what do you find? A man with +children on his knee, telling them stories, promising them +toys. His anxious, sordid life, for what object is it +lived? That these children may possess the things that he +thinks good for them. Our very vices, side by side with our +virtues, spring from this one root, Motherhood. It is the +one seed of the Universe. The planets are but children of +the sun, the moon but an offspring of the earth, stone of her +stone, iron of her iron. What is the Great Centre of us +all, life animate and inanimate—if any life <i>be</i> +inanimate? Is the eternal universe one dim figure, +Motherhood, filling all space?</p> +<p>This scheming Mother of Mayfair, angling for a rich +son-in-law! Not a pleasing portrait to look upon, from one +point of view. Let us look at it, for a moment, from +another. How weary she must be! This is her third +“function” to-night; the paint is running off her +poor face. She has been snubbed a dozen times by her social +superiors, openly insulted by a Duchess; yet she bears it with a +patient smile. It is a pitiful ambition, hers: it is that +her child shall marry money, shall have carriages and many +servants, live in Park Lane, wear diamonds, see her name in the +Society Papers. At whatever cost to herself, her daughter +shall, if possible, enjoy these things. She could so much +more comfortably go to bed, and leave the child to marry some +well-to-do commercial traveller. Justice, Reader, even for +such. Her sordid scheming is but the deformed child of +Motherhood.</p> +<p>Motherhood! it is the gamut of God’s orchestra, +savageness and cruelty at the one end, tenderness and +self-sacrifice at the other.</p> +<p>The sparrow-hawk fights the hen: he seeking food for his +brood, she defending hers with her life. The spider sucks +the fly to feed its myriad young; the cat tortures the mouse to +give its still throbbing carcase to her kittens, and man wrongs +man for children’s sake. Perhaps when the riot of the +world reaches us whole, not broken, we shall learn it is a +harmony, each jangling discord fallen into its place around the +central theme, Motherhood.</p> +<h2><a name="page301"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 301</span>ON +THE INADVISABILITY OF FOLLOWING ADVICE</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">was</span> pacing the Euston platform +late one winter’s night, waiting for the last train to +Watford, when I noticed a man cursing an automatic machine. +Twice he shook his fist at it. I expected every moment to +see him strike it. Naturally curious, I drew near +softly. I wanted to catch what he was saying. +However, he heard my approaching footsteps, and turned on +me. “Are you the man,” said he, “who was +here just now?”</p> +<p>“Just where?” I replied. I had been pacing +up and down the platform for about five minutes.</p> +<p>“Why here, where we are standing,” he snapped +out. “Where do you think ‘here’ +is—over there?” He seemed irritable.</p> +<p>“I may have passed this spot in the course of my +peregrinations, if that is what you mean,” I replied. +I spoke with studied politeness; my idea was to rebuke his +rudeness.</p> +<p>“I mean,” he answered, “are you the man that +spoke to me, just a minute ago?”</p> +<p>“I am not that man,” I said; +“good-night.”</p> +<p>“Are you sure?” he persisted.</p> +<p>“One is not likely to forget talking to you,” I +retorted.</p> +<p>His tone had been most offensive. “I beg your +pardon,” he replied grudgingly. “I thought you +looked like the man who spoke to me a minute or so +ago.”</p> +<p>I felt mollified; he was the only other man on the platform, +and I had a quarter of an hour to wait. “No, it +certainly wasn’t me,” I returned genially, but +ungrammatically. “Why, did you want him?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I did,” he answered. “I put a +penny in the slot here,” he continued, feeling apparently +the need of unburdening himself: “wanted a box of +matches. I couldn’t get anything put, and I was +shaking the machine, and swearing at it, as one does, when there +came along a man, about your size, and—you’re +<i>sure</i> it wasn’t you?”</p> +<p>“Positive,” I again ungrammatically replied; +“I would tell you if it had been. What did he +do?”</p> +<p>“Well, he saw what had happened, or guessed it. He +said, ‘They are troublesome things, those machines; they +want understanding.’ I said, ‘They want taking +up and flinging into the sea, that’s what they +want!’ I was feeling mad because I hadn’t a +match about me, and I use a lot. He said, ‘They stick +sometimes; the thing to do is to put another penny in; the weight +of the first penny is not always sufficient. The second +penny loosens the drawer and tumbles out itself; so that you get +your purchase together with your first penny back again. I +have often succeeded that way.’ Well, it seemed a +silly explanation, but he talked as if he had been weaned by an +automatic machine, and I was sawney enough to listen to +him. I dropped in what I thought was another penny. I +have just discovered it was a two-shilling piece. The fool +was right to a certain extent; I have got something out. I +have got this.”</p> +<p>He held it towards me; I looked at it. It was a packet +of Everton toffee.</p> +<p>“Two and a penny,” he remarked, bitterly. +“I’ll sell it for a third of what it cost +me.”</p> +<p>“You have put your money into the wrong machine,” +I suggested.</p> +<p>“Well, I know that!” he answered, a little +crossly, as it seemed to me—he was not a nice man: had +there been any one else to talk to I should have left him. +“It isn’t losing the money I mind so much; it’s +getting this damn thing, that annoys me. If I could find +that idiot Id ram it down his throat.”</p> +<p>We walked to the end of the platform, side by side, in +silence.</p> +<p>“There are people like that,” he broke out, as we +turned, “people who will go about, giving advice. +I’ll be getting six months over one of them, I’m +always afraid. I remember a pony I had once.” +(I judged the man to be a small farmer; he talked in a wurzelly +tone. I don’t know if you understand what I mean, but +an atmosphere of wurzels was the thing that somehow he +suggested.) “It was a thoroughbred Welsh pony, as +sound a little beast as ever stepped. I’d had him out +to grass all the winter, and one day in the early spring I +thought I’d take him for a run. I had to go to +Amersham on business. I put him into the cart, and drove +him across; it is just ten miles from my place. He was a +bit uppish, and had lathered himself pretty freely by the time we +reached the town.</p> +<p>“A man was at the door of the hotel. He says, +‘That’s a good pony of yours.’</p> +<p>“‘Pretty middling,’ I says.</p> +<p>“‘It doesn’t do to over-drive ’em, +when they’re young,’ he says.</p> +<p>“I says, ‘He’s done ten miles, and +I’ve done most of the pulling. I reckon I’m a +jolly sight more exhausted than he is.</p> +<p>“I went inside and did my business, and when I came out +the man was still there. ‘Going back up the +hill?’ he says to me.</p> +<p>“Somehow, I didn’t cotton to him from the +beginning. ‘Well, I’ve got to get the other +side of it,’ I says, ‘and unless you know any patent +way of getting over a hill without going up it, I reckon I +am.’</p> +<p>“He says, ‘You take my advice: give him a pint of +old ale before you start.’</p> +<p>“‘Old ale,’ I says; ‘why he’s a +teetotaler.’</p> +<p>“‘Never you mind that,’ he answers; +‘you give him a pint of old ale. I know these ponies; +he’s a good ’un, but he ain’t set. A pint +of old ale, and he’ll take you up that hill like a cable +tramway, and not hurt himself.’</p> +<p>“I don’t know what it is about this class of +man. One asks oneself afterwards why one didn’t knock +his hat over his eyes and run his head into the nearest +horse-trough. But at the time one listens to them. I +got a pint of old ale in a hand-bowl, and brought it out. +About half-a-dozen chaps were standing round, and of course there +was a good deal of chaff.</p> +<p>“‘You’re starting him on the downward +course, Jim,’ says one of them. ‘He’ll +take to gambling, rob a bank, and murder his mother. +That’s always the result of a glass of ale, ’cording +to the tracts.’</p> +<p>“‘He won’t drink it like that,’ says +another; ‘it’s as flat as ditch water. Put a +head on it for him.’</p> +<p>“‘Ain’t you got a cigar for him?’ says +a third.</p> +<p>“‘A cup of coffee and a round of buttered toast +would do him a sight more good, a cold day like this,’ says +a fourth.</p> +<p>“I’d half a mind then to throw the stuff away, or +drink it myself; it seemed a piece of bally nonsense, giving good +ale to a four-year-old pony; but the moment the beggar smelt the +bowl he reached out his head, and lapped it up as though +he’d been a Christian; and I jumped into the cart and +started off, amid cheers. We got up the hill pretty +steady. Then the liquor began to work into his head. +I’ve taken home a drunken man more than once and +there’s pleasanter jobs than that. I’ve seen a +drunken woman, and they’re worse. But a drunken Welsh +pony I never want to have anything more to do with so long as I +live. Having four legs he managed to hold himself up; but +as to guiding himself, he couldn’t; and as for letting me +do it, he wouldn’t. First we were one side of the +road, and then we were the other. When we were not either +side, we were crossways in the middle. I heard a bicycle +bell behind me, but I dared not turn my head. All I could +do was to shout to the fellow to keep where he was.</p> +<p>“‘I want to pass you,’ he sang out, so soon +as he was near enough.</p> +<p>“‘Well, you can’t do it,’ I called +back.</p> +<p>“‘Why can’t I?’ he answered. +‘How much of the road do <i>you</i> want?’</p> +<p>“‘All of it and a bit over,’ I answered him, +‘for this job, and nothing in the way.’</p> +<p>“He followed me for half-a-mile, abusing me; and every +time he thought he saw a chance he tried to pass me. But +the pony was always a bit too smart for him. You might have +thought the brute was doing it on purpose.</p> +<p>“‘You’re not fit to be driving,’ he +shouted. He was quite right; I wasn’t. I was +feeling just about dead beat.</p> +<p>“‘What do you think you are?’ he continued, +‘the charge of the Light Brigade?’ (He was a +common sort of fellow.) ‘Who sent <i>you</i> home +with the washing?’</p> +<p>“Well, he was making me wild by this time. +‘What’s the good of talking to me?’ I +shouted back. ‘Come and blackguard the pony if you +want to blackguard anybody. I’ve got all I can do +without the help of that alarm clock of yours. Go away, +you’re only making him worse.’</p> +<p>“‘What’s the matter with the pony?’ he +called out.</p> +<p>“‘Can’t you see?’ I answered. +‘He’s drunk.’</p> +<p>“Well, of course it sounded foolish; the truth often +does.</p> +<p>“‘One of you’s drunk,’ he retorted; +‘for two pins I’d come and haul you out of the +cart.’</p> +<p>“I wish to goodness he had; I’d have given +something to be out of that cart. But he didn’t have +the chance. At that moment the pony gave a sudden swerve; +and I take it he must have been a bit too close. I heard a +yell and a curse, and at the same instant I was splashed from +head to foot with ditch water. Then the brute bolted. +A man was coming along, asleep on the top of a cart-load of +windsor chairs. It’s disgraceful the way those +wagoners go to sleep; I wonder there are not more +accidents. I don’t think he ever knew what had +happened to him. I couldn’t look round to see what +became of him; I only saw him start. Half-way down the hill +a policeman holla’d to me to stop. I heard him +shouting out something about furious driving. Half-a-mile +this side of Chesham we came upon a girls’ school walking +two and two—a ‘crocodile’ they call it, I +think. I bet you those girls are still talking about +it. It must have taken the old woman a good hour to collect +them together again.</p> +<p>“It was market-day in Chesham; and I guess there has not +been a busier market-day in Chesham before or since. We +went through the town at about thirty miles an hour. +I’ve never seen Chesham so lively—it’s a sleepy +hole as a rule. A mile outside the town I sighted the High +Wycombe coach. I didn’t feel I minded much; I had got +to that pass when it didn’t seem to matter to me what +happened; I only felt curious. A dozen yards off the coach +the pony stopped dead; that jerked me off the seat to the bottom +of the cart. I couldn’t get up, because the seat was +on top of me. I could see nothing but the sky, and +occasionally the head of the pony, when he stood upon his hind +legs. But I could hear what the driver of the coach said, +and I judged he was having trouble also.</p> +<p>“‘Take that damn circus out of the road,’ he +shouted. If he’d had any sense he’d have seen +how helpless I was. I could hear his cattle plunging about; +they are like that, horses—if they see one fool, then they +all want to be fools.</p> +<p>“‘Take it home, and tie it up to its organ,’ +shouted the guard.</p> +<p>“Then an old woman went into hysterics, and began +laughing like an hyena. That started the pony off again, +and, as far as I could calculate by watching the clouds, we did +about another four miles at the gallop. Then he thought +he’d try to jump a gate, and finding, I suppose, that the +cart hampered him, he started kicking it to pieces. +I’d never have thought a cart could have been separated +into so many pieces, if I hadn’t seen it done. When +he had got rid of everything but half a wheel and the splashboard +he bolted again. I remained behind with the other ruins, +and glad I was to get a little rest. He came back later in +the afternoon, and I was pleased to sell him the next week for a +five-pound-note: it cost me about another ten to repair +myself.</p> +<p>“To this day I am chaffed about that pony, and the local +temperance society made a lecture out of me. That’s +what comes of following advice.”</p> +<p>I sympathized with him. I have suffered from advice +myself. I have a friend, a City man, whom I meet +occasionally. One of his most ardent passions in life is to +make my fortune. He button-holes me in Threadneedle +Street. “The very man I wanted to see,” he +says; “I’m going to let you in for a good +thing. We are getting up a little syndicate.” +He is for ever “getting up” a little syndicate, and +for every hundred pounds you put into it you take a thousand +out. Had I gone into all his little syndicates, I could +have been worth at the present moment, I reckon, two million five +hundred thousand pounds. But I have not gone into all his +little syndicates. I went into one, years ago, when I was +younger. I am still in it; my friend is confident that my +holding, later on, will yield me thousands. Being, however, +hard-up for ready money, I am willing to part with my share to +any deserving person at a genuine reduction, upon a cash +basis. Another friend of mine knows another man who is +“in the know” as regards racing matters. I +suppose most people possess a friend of this type. He is +generally very popular just before a race, and extremely +unpopular immediately afterwards. A third benefactor of +mine is an enthusiast upon the subject of diet. One day he +brought me something in a packet, and pressed it into my hand +with the air of a man who is relieving you of all your +troubles.</p> +<p>“What is it?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Open it and see,” he answered, in the tone of a +pantomime fairy.</p> +<p>I opened it and looked, but I was no wiser.</p> +<p>“It’s tea,” he explained.</p> +<p>“Oh!” I replied; “I was wondering if it +could be snuff.”</p> +<p>“Well, it’s not exactly tea,” he continued, +“it’s a sort of tea. You take one cup of +that—one cup, and you will never care for any other kind of +tea again.”</p> +<p>He was quite right, I took one cup. After drinking it I +felt I didn’t care for any other tea. I felt I +didn’t care for anything, except to die quietly and +inoffensively. He called on me a week later.</p> +<p>“You remember that tea I gave you?” he said.</p> +<p>“Distinctly,” I answered; “I’ve got +the taste of it in my mouth now.”</p> +<p>“Did it upset you?” he asked.</p> +<p>“It annoyed me at the time,” I answered; +“but that’s all over now.”</p> +<p>He seemed thoughtful. “You were quite +correct,” he answered; “it <i>was</i> snuff, a very +special snuff, sent me all the way from India.”</p> +<p>“I can’t say I liked it,” I replied.</p> +<p>“A stupid mistake of mine,” he went +on—“I must have mixed up the packets!”</p> +<p>“Oh, accidents will happen,” I said, “and +you won’t make another mistake, I feel sure; so far as I am +concerned.”</p> +<p>We can all give advice. I had the honour once of serving +an old gentleman whose profession it was to give legal advice, +and excellent legal advice he always gave. In common with +most men who know the law, he had little respect for it. I +have heard him say to a would-be litigant—</p> +<p>“My dear sir, if a villain stopped me in the street and +demanded of me my watch and chain, I should refuse to give it to +him. If he thereupon said, ‘Then I shall take it from +you by brute force,’ I should, old as I am, I feel +convinced, reply to him, ‘Come on.’ But if, on +the other hand, he were to say to me, ‘Very well, then I +shall take proceedings against you in the Court of Queen’s +Bench to compel you to give it up to me,’ I should at once +take it from my pocket, press it into his hand, and beg of him to +say no more about the matter. And I should consider I was +getting off cheaply.”</p> +<p>Yet that same old gentleman went to law himself with his +next-door neighbour over a dead poll parrot that wasn’t +worth sixpence to anybody, and spent from first to last a hundred +pounds, if he spent a penny.</p> +<p>“I know I’m a fool,” he confessed. +“I have no positive proof that it <i>was</i> his cat; but +I’ll make him pay for calling me an Old Bailey Attorney, +hanged if I don’t!”</p> +<p>We all know how the pudding <i>ought</i> to be made. We +do not profess to be able to make it: that is not our +business. Our business is to criticize the cook. It +seems our business to criticize so many things that it is not our +business to do. We are all critics nowadays. I have +my opinion of you, Reader, and you possibly have your own opinion +of me. I do not seek to know it; personally, I prefer the +man who says what he has to say of me behind my back. I +remember, when on a lecturing tour, the ground-plan of the hall +often necessitated my mingling with the audience as they streamed +out. This never happened but I would overhear somebody in +front of me whisper to his or her companion—“Take +care, he’s just behind you.” I always felt so +grateful to that whisperer.</p> +<p>At a Bohemian Club, I was once drinking coffee with a +Novelist, who happened to be a broad-shouldered, athletic +man. A fellow-member, joining us, said to the Novelist, +“I have just finished that last book of yours; I’ll +tell you my candid opinion of it.” Promptly replied +the Novelist, “I give you fair warning—if you do, I +shall punch your head.” We never heard that candid +opinion.</p> +<p>Most of our leisure time we spend sneering at one +another. It is a wonder, going about as we do with our +noses so high in the air, we do not walk off this little round +world into space, all of us. The Masses sneer at the +Classes. The morals of the Classes are shocking. If +only the Classes would consent as a body to be taught behaviour +by a Committee of the Masses, how very much better it would be +for them. If only the Classes would neglect their own +interests and devote themselves to the welfare of the Masses, the +Masses would be more pleased with them.</p> +<p>The Classes sneer at the Masses. If only the Masses +would follow the advice given them by the Classes; if only they +would be thrifty on their ten shillings a week; if only they +would all be teetotalers, or drink old claret, which is not +intoxicating; if only all the girls would be domestic servants on +five pounds a year, and not waste their money on feathers; if +only the men would be content to work for fourteen hours a day, +and to sing in tune, “God bless the Squire and his +relations,” and would consent to be kept in their proper +stations, all things would go swimmingly—for the +Classes.</p> +<p>The New Woman pooh-poohs the Old; the Old Woman is indignant +with the New. The Chapel denounces the Stage; the Stage +ridicules Little Bethel; the Minor Poet sneers at the world; the +world laughs at the Minor Poet.</p> +<p>Man criticizes Woman. We are not altogether pleased with +woman. We discuss her shortcomings, we advise her for her +good. If only English wives would dress as French wives, +talk as American wives, cook as German wives! if only women would +be precisely what we want them to be—patient and +hard-working, brilliantly witty and exhaustively domestic, +bewitching, amenable, and less suspicious; how very much better +it would be for them—also for us. We work so hard to +teach them, but they will not listen. Instead of paying +attention to our wise counsel, the tiresome creatures are wasting +their time criticizing us. It is a popular game, this game +of school. All that is needful is a doorstep, a cane, and +six other children. The difficulty is the six other +children. Every child wants to be the schoolmaster; they +will keep jumping up, saying it is their turn.</p> +<p>Woman wants to take the stick now, and put man on the +doorstep. There are one or two things she has got to say to +him. He is not at all the man she approves of. He +must begin by getting rid of all his natural desires and +propensities; that done, she will take him in hand and make of +him—not a man, but something very much superior.</p> +<p>It would be the best of all possible worlds if everybody would +only follow our advice. I wonder, would Jerusalem have been +the cleanly city it is reported, if, instead of troubling himself +concerning his own twopenny-halfpenny doorstep, each citizen had +gone out into the road and given eloquent lectures to all the +other inhabitants on the subject of sanitation?</p> +<p>We have taken to criticizing the Creator Himself of +late. The world is wrong, we are wrong. If only He +had taken our advice, during those first six days!</p> +<p>Why do I seem to have been scooped out and filled up with +lead? Why do I hate the smell of bacon, and feel that +nobody cares for me? It is because champagne and lobsters +have been made wrong.</p> +<p>Why do Edwin and Angelina quarrel? It is because Edwin +has been given a fine, high-spirited nature that will not brook +contradiction; while Angelina, poor girl, has been cursed with +contradictory instincts.</p> +<p>Why is excellent Mr. Jones brought down next door to +beggary? Mr. Jones had an income of a thousand a year, +secured by the Funds. But there came along a wicked Company +promoter (why are wicked Company promoters permitted?) with a +prospectus, telling good Mr. Jones how to obtain a hundred per +cent. for his money by investing it in some scheme for the +swindling of Mr. Jones’s fellow-citizens.</p> +<p>The scheme does not succeed; the people swindled turn out, +contrary to the promise of the prospectus, to be Mr. Jones and +his fellow-investors. Why does Heaven allow these +wrongs?</p> +<p>Why does Mrs. Brown leave her husband and children, to run off +with the New Doctor? It is because an ill-advised Creator +has given Mrs. Brown and the New Doctor unduly strong +emotions. Neither Mrs. Brown nor the New Doctor are to be +blamed. If any human being be answerable it is, probably, +Mrs. Brown’s grandfather, or some early ancestor of the New +Doctor’s.</p> +<p>We shall criticize Heaven when we get there. I doubt if +any of us will be pleased with the arrangements; we have grown so +exceedingly critical.</p> +<p>It was once said of a very superior young man that he seemed +to be under the impression that God Almighty had made the +universe chiefly to hear what he would say about it. +Consciously or unconsciously, most of us are of this way of +thinking. It is an age of mutual improvement +societies—a delightful idea, everybody’s business +being to improve everybody else; of amateur parliaments, of +literary councils, of playgoers’ clubs.</p> +<p>First Night criticism seems to have died out of late, the +Student of the Drama having come to the conclusion, possibly, +that plays are not worth criticizing. But in my young days +we were very earnest at this work. We went to the play, +less with the selfish desire of enjoying our evening, than with +the noble aim of elevating the Stage. Maybe we did good, +maybe we were needed—let us think so. Certain it is, +many of the old absurdities have disappeared from the Theatre, +and our rough-and-ready criticism may have helped the happy +dispatch. A folly is often served by an unwise remedy.</p> +<p>The dramatist in those days had to reckon with his +audience. Gallery and Pit took an interest in his work such +as Galleries and Pits no longer take. I recollect +witnessing the production of a very blood-curdling melodrama at, +I think, the old Queen’s Theatre. The heroine had +been given by the author a quite unnecessary amount of +conversation, so we considered. The woman, whenever she +appeared on the stage, talked by the yard; she could not do a +simple little thing like cursing the Villain under about twenty +lines. When the hero asked her if she loved him she stood +up and made a speech about it that lasted three minutes by the +watch. One dreaded to see her open her mouth. In the +Third Act, somebody got hold of her and shut her up in a +dungeon. He was not a nice man, speaking generally, but we +felt he was the man for the situation, and the house cheered him +to the echo. We flattered ourselves we had got rid of her +for the rest of the evening. Then some fool of a turnkey +came along, and she appealed to him, through the grating, to let +her out for a few minutes. The turnkey, a good but +soft-hearted man, hesitated.</p> +<p>“Don’t you do it,” shouted one earnest +Student of the Drama, from the Gallery; “she’s all +right. Keep her there!”</p> +<p>The old idiot paid no attention to our advice; he argued the +matter to himself. “’Tis but a trifling +request,” he remarked; “and it will make her +happy.”</p> +<p>“Yes, but what about us?” replied the same voice +from the Gallery. “You don’t know her. +You’ve only just come on; we’ve been listening to her +all the evening. She’s quiet now, you let her +be.”</p> +<p>“Oh, let me out, if only for one moment!” shrieked +the poor woman. “I have something that I must say to +my child.”</p> +<p>“Write it on a bit of paper, and pass it out,” +suggested a voice from the Pit. “We’ll see that +he gets it.”</p> +<p>“Shall I keep a mother from her dying child?” +mused the turnkey. “No, it would be +inhuman.”</p> +<p>“No, it wouldn’t,” persisted the voice of +the Pit; “not in this instance. It’s too much +talk that has made the poor child ill.”</p> +<p>The turnkey would not be guided by us. He opened the +cell door amidst the execrations of the whole house. She +talked to her child for about five minutes, at the end of which +time it died.</p> +<p>“Ah, he is dead!” shrieked the distressed +parent.</p> +<p>“Lucky beggar!” was the unsympathetic rejoinder of +the house.</p> +<p>Sometimes the criticism of the audience would take the form of +remarks, addressed by one gentleman to another. We had been +listening one night to a play in which action seemed to be +unnecessarily subordinated to dialogue, and somewhat poor +dialogue at that. Suddenly, across the wearying talk from +the stage, came the stentorian whisper—</p> +<p>“Jim!”</p> +<p>“Hallo!”</p> +<p>“Wake me up when the play begins.”</p> +<p>This was followed by an ostentatious sound as of +snoring. Then the voice of the second speaker was +heard—</p> +<p>“Sammy!”</p> +<p>His friend appeared to awake.</p> +<p>“Eh? Yes? What’s up? Has +anything happened?”</p> +<p>“Wake you up at half-past eleven in any event, I +suppose?”</p> +<p>“Thanks, do, sonny.” And the critic slept +again.</p> +<p>Yes, we took an interest in our plays then. I wonder +shall I ever enjoy the British Drama again as I enjoyed it in +those days? Shall I ever enjoy a supper again as I enjoyed +the tripe and onions washed down with bitter beer at the bar of +the old Albion? I have tried many suppers after the theatre +since then, and some, when friends have been in generous mood, +have been expensive and elaborate. The cook may have come +from Paris, his portrait may be in the illustrated papers, his +salary may be reckoned by hundreds; but there is something wrong +with his art, for all that, I miss a flavour in his meats. +There is a sauce lacking.</p> +<p>Nature has her coinage, and demands payment in her own +currency. At Nature’s shop it is you yourself must +pay. Your unearned increment, your inherited fortune, your +luck, are not legal tenders across her counter.</p> +<p>You want a good appetite. Nature is quite willing to +supply you. “Certainly, sir,” she replies, +“I can do you a very excellent article indeed. I have +here a real genuine hunger and thirst that will make your meal a +delight to you. You shall eat heartily and with zest, and +you shall rise from the table refreshed, invigorated, and +cheerful.”</p> +<p>“Just the very thing I want,” exclaims the gourmet +delightedly. “Tell me the price.”</p> +<p>“The price,” answers Mrs. Nature, “is one +long day’s hard work.”</p> +<p>The customer’s face falls; he handles nervously his +heavy purse.</p> +<p>“Cannot I pay for it in money?” he asks. +“I don’t like work, but I am a rich man, I can afford +to keep French cooks, to purchase old wines.”</p> +<p>Nature shakes her head.</p> +<p>“I cannot take your cheques, tissue and nerve are my +charges. For these I can give you an appetite that will +make a rump-steak and a tankard of ale more delicious to you than +any dinner that the greatest <i>chef</i> in Europe could put +before you. I can even promise you that a hunk of bread and +cheese shall be a banquet to you; but you must pay my price in my +money; I do not deal in yours.”</p> +<p>And next the Dilettante enters, demanding a taste for Art and +Literature, and this also Nature is quite prepared to supply.</p> +<p>“I can give you true delight in all these things,” +she answers. “Music shall be as wings to you, lifting +you above the turmoil of the world. Through Art you shall +catch a glimpse of Truth. Along the pleasant paths of +Literature you shall walk as beside still waters.”</p> +<p>“And your charge?” cries the delighted +customer.</p> +<p>“These things are somewhat expensive,” replies +Nature. “I want from you a life lived simply, free +from all desire of worldly success, a life from which passion has +been lived out; a life to which appetite has been +subdued.”</p> +<p>“But you mistake, my dear lady,” replies the +Dilettante; “I have many friends, possessed of taste, and +they are men who do not pay this price for it. Their houses +are full of beautiful pictures, they rave about +‘nocturnes’ and ‘symphonies,’ their +shelves are packed with first editions. Yet they are men of +luxury and wealth and fashion. They trouble much concerning +the making of money, and Society is their heaven. Cannot I +be as one of these?”</p> +<p>“I do not deal in the tricks of apes,” answers +Nature coldly; “the culture of these friends of yours is a +mere pose, a fashion of the hour, their talk mere parrot +chatter. Yes, you can purchase such culture as this, and +pretty cheaply, but a passion for skittles would be of more +service to you, and bring you more genuine enjoyment. My +goods are of a different class. I fear we waste each +other’s time.”</p> +<p>And next comes the boy, asking with a blush for love, and +Nature’s motherly old heart goes out to him, for it is an +article she loves to sell, and she loves those who come to +purchase it of her. So she leans across the counter, +smiling, and tells him that she has the very thing he wants, and +he, trembling with excitement, likewise asks the figure.</p> +<p>“It costs a good deal,” explains Nature, but in no +discouraging tone; “it is the most expensive thing in all +my shop.”</p> +<p>“I am rich,” replies the lad. “My +father worked hard and saved, and he has left me all his +wealth. I have stocks and shares, and lands and factories; +and will pay any price in reason for this thing.”</p> +<p>But Nature, looking graver, lays her hand upon his arm.</p> +<p>“Put by your purse, boy,” she says, “my +price is not a price in reason, nor is gold the metal that I deal +in. There are many shops in various streets where your +bank-notes will be accepted. But if you will take an old +woman’s advice, you will not go to them. The thing +they will sell you will bring sorrow and do evil to you. It +is cheap enough, but, like all things cheap, it is not worth the +buying. No man purchases it, only the fool.”</p> +<p>“And what is the cost of the thing <i>you</i> sell +then?” asks the lad.</p> +<p>“Self-forgetfulness, tenderness, strength,” +answers the old Dame; “the love of all things that are of +good repute, the hate of all things evil—courage, sympathy, +self-respect, these things purchase love. Put by your +purse, lad, it will serve you in other ways, but it will not buy +for you the goods upon my shelves.”</p> +<p>“Then am I no better off than the poor man?” +demands the lad.</p> +<p>“I know not wealth or poverty as you understand +it,” answers Nature. “Here I exchange realities +only for realities. You ask for my treasures, I ask for +your brain and heart in exchange—yours, boy, not your +father’s, not another’s.”</p> +<p>“And this price,” he argues, “how shall I +obtain it?”</p> +<p>“Go about the world,” replies the great +Lady. “Labour, suffer, help. Come back to me +when you have earned your wages, and according to how much you +bring me so we will do business.”</p> +<p>Is real wealth so unevenly distributed as we think? Is +not Fate the true Socialist? Who is the rich man, who the +poor? Do we know? Does even the man himself +know? Are we not striving for the shadow, missing the +substance? Take life at its highest; which was the happier +man, rich Solomon or poor Socrates? Solomon seems to have +had most things that most men most desire—maybe too much of +some for his own comfort. Socrates had little beyond what +he carried about with him, but that was a good deal. +According to our scales, Solomon should have been one of the +happiest men that ever lived, Socrates one of the most +wretched. But was it so?</p> +<p>Or taking life at its lowest, with pleasure its only +goal. Is my lord Tom Noddy, in the stalls, so very much +jollier than ’Arry in the gallery? Were beer ten +shillings the bottle, and champagne fourpence a quart, which, +think you, we should clamour for? If every West End Club +had its skittle alley, and billiards could only be played in East +End pubs, which game, my lord, would you select? Is the air +of Berkeley Square so much more joy-giving than the atmosphere of +Seven Dials? I find myself a piquancy in the air of Seven +Dials, missing from Berkeley Square. Is there so vast a +difference between horse-hair and straw, when you are +tired? Is happiness multiplied by the number of rooms in +one’s house? Are Lady Ermintrude’s lips so very +much sweeter than Sally’s of the Alley? What +<i>is</i> success in life?</p> +<h2><a name="page335"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 335</span>ON +THE PLAYING OF MARCHES AT THE FUNERALS OF MARIONETTES</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">He</span> began the day badly. He +took me out and lost me. It would be so much better, would +he consent to the usual arrangement, and allow me to take him +out. I am far the abler leader: I say it without +conceit. I am older than he is, and I am less +excitable. I do not stop and talk with every person I meet, +and then forget where I am. I do less to distract myself: I +rarely fight, I never feel I want to run after cats, I take but +little pleasure in frightening children. I have nothing to +think about but the walk, and the getting home again. If, +as I say, he would give up taking me out, and let me take him +out, there would be less trouble all round. But into this I +have never been able to persuade him.</p> +<p>He had mislaid me once or twice, but in Sloane Square he lost +me entirely. When he loses me, he stands and barks for +me. If only he would remain where he first barked, I might +find my way to him; but, before I can cross the road, he is +barking half-way down the next street. I am not so young as +I was and I sometimes think he exercises me more than is good for +me. I could see him from where I was standing in the +King’s Road. Evidently he was most indignant. I +was too far off to distinguish the barks, but I could guess what +he was saying—</p> +<p>“Damn that man, he’s off again.”</p> +<p>He made inquiries of a passing dog—</p> +<p>“You haven’t smelt my man about anywhere, have +you?”</p> +<p>(A dog, of course, would never speak of <i>seeing</i> anybody +or anything, smell being his leading sense. Reaching the +top of a hill, he would say to his companion—“Lovely +smell from here, I always think; I could sit and sniff here all +the afternoon.” Or, proposing a walk, he would +say—“I like the road by the canal, don’t +you? There’s something interesting to catch your nose +at every turn.”)</p> +<p>“No, I haven’t smelt any man in particular,” +answered the other dog. “What sort of a smelling man +is yours?”</p> +<p>“Oh, an egg-and-bacony sort of a man, with a dash of +soap about him.”</p> +<p>“That’s nothing to go by,” retorted the +other; “most men would answer to that description, this +time of the morning. Where were you when you last noticed +him?”</p> +<p>At this moment he caught sight of me, and came up, pleased to +find me, but vexed with me for having got lost.</p> +<p>“Oh, here you are,” he barked; “didn’t +you see me go round the corner? Do keep closer. +Bothered if half my time isn’t taken up, finding you and +losing you again.”</p> +<p>The incident appeared to have made him bad-tempered; he was +just in the humour for a row of any sort. At the top of +Sloane Street a stout military-looking gentleman started running +after the Chelsea bus. With a “Hooroo” William +Smith was after him. Had the old gentleman taken no notice, +all would have been well. A butcher boy, driving just +behind, would—I could read it in his eye—have caught +Smith a flick as he darted into the road, which would have served +him right; the old gentleman would have captured his bus; and the +affair would have been ended. Unfortunately, he was that +type of retired military man all gout and curry and no +sense. He stopped to swear at the dog. That, of +course, was what Smith wanted. It is not often he gets a +scrimmage with a full-grown man. “They’re a +poor-spirited lot, most of them,” he thinks; “they +won’t even answer you back. I like a man who shows a +bit of pluck.” He was frenzied with delight at his +success. He flew round his victim, weaving whooping circles +and curves that paralyzed the old gentleman as though they had +been the mystic figures of a Merlin. The colonel clubbed +his umbrella, and attempted to defend himself. I called to +the dog, I gave good advice to the colonel (I judged him to be a +colonel; the louder he spoke, the less one could understand him), +but both were too excited to listen to me. A sympathetic +bus driver leaned over, and whispered hoarse counsel.</p> +<p>“Ketch ’im by the tail, sir,” he advised the +old gentleman; “don’t you be afraid of him; you ketch +’im firmly by the tail.”</p> +<p>A milkman, on the other hand, sought rather to encourage +Smith, shouting as he passed—</p> +<p>“Good dog, kill him!”</p> +<p>A child, brained within an inch by the old gentleman’s +umbrella, began to cry. The nurse told the old gentleman he +was a fool—a remark which struck me as singularly apt The +old gentleman gasped back that perambulators were illegal on the +pavement; and, between his exercises, inquired after +myself. A crowd began to collect; and a policeman strolled +up.</p> +<p>It was not the right thing: I do not defend myself; but, at +this point, the temptation came to me to desert William +Smith. He likes a street row, I don’t. These +things are matters of temperament. I have also noticed that +he has the happy instinct of knowing when to disappear from a +crisis, and the ability to do so; mysteriously turning up, +quarter of a mile off, clad in a peaceful and pre-occupied air, +and to all appearances another and a better dog.</p> +<p>Consoling myself with the reflection that I could be of no +practical assistance to him and remembering with some +satisfaction that, by a fortunate accident, he was without his +collar, which bears my name and address, I slipped round the off +side of a Vauxhall bus, making no attempt at ostentation, and +worked my way home through Lowndes Square and the Park.</p> +<p>Five minutes after I had sat down to lunch, he flung open the +dining-room door, and marched in. It is his customary +“entrance.” In a previous state of existence, his +soul was probably that of an Actor-Manager.</p> +<p>From his exuberant self-satisfaction, I was inclined to think +he must have succeeded in following the milkman’s advice; +at all events, I have not seen the colonel since. His bad +temper had disappeared, but his “uppishness” had, if +possible, increased. Previous to his return, I had given +The O’Shannon a biscuit. The O’Shannon had been +insulted; he did not want a dog biscuit; if he could not have a +grilled kidney he did not want anything. He had thrown the +biscuit on the floor. Smith saw it and made for it. +Now Smith never eats biscuits. I give him one occasionally, +and he at once proceeds to hide it. He is a thrifty dog; he +thinks of the future. “You never know what may +happen,” he says; “suppose the Guv’nor dies, or +goes mad, or bankrupt, I may be glad even of this biscuit; +I’ll put it under the door-mat—no, I won’t, +somebody will find it there. I’ll scratch a hole in +the tennis lawn, and bury it there. That’s a good +idea; perhaps it’ll grow!” Once I caught him +hiding it in my study, behind the shelf devoted to my own +books. It offended me, his doing that; the argument was so +palpable. Generally, wherever he hides it somebody finds +it. We find it under our pillows—inside our boots; no +place seems safe. This time he had said to +himself—“By Jove! a whole row of the +Guv’nor’s books. Nobody will ever want to take +these out; I’ll hide it here.” One feels a +thing like that from one’s own dog.</p> +<p>But The O’Shannon’s biscuit was another +matter. Honesty is the best policy; but dishonesty is the +better fun. He made a dash for it, and commenced to devour +it greedily; you might have thought he had not tasted food for a +week.</p> +<p>The indignation of The O’Shannon was a sight for the +gods. He has the good-nature of his race: had Smith asked +him for the biscuit he would probably have given it to him; it +was the insult—the immorality of the proceeding, that +maddened The O’Shannon.</p> +<p>For a moment he was paralyzed.</p> +<p>“Well, of all the— Did ye see that +now?” he said to me with his eyes. Then he made a +rush and snatched the biscuit out of Smith’s very +jaws. “Ye onprincipled black Saxon thief,” +growled The O’Shannon; “how dare ye take my +biscuit?”</p> +<p>“You miserable Irish cur,” growled Smith; +“how was I to know it was your biscuit? Does +everything on the floor belong to you? Perhaps you think I +belong to you, I’m on the floor. I don’t +believe it is your biscuit, you long-eared, snubbed-nosed +bog-trotter; give it me back.”</p> +<p>“I don’t require any of your argument, you +flop-eared son of a tramp with half a tail,” replied The +O’Shannon. “You come and take it, if you think +you are dog enough.”</p> +<p>He did think he was dog enough. He is half the size of +The O’Shannon, but such considerations weigh not with +him. His argument is, if a dog is too big for you to fight +the whole of him, take a bit of him and fight that. He +generally gets licked, but what is left of him invariably +swaggers about afterwards under the impression it is the +victor. When he is dead, he will say to himself, as he +settles himself in his grave—“Well, I flatter myself +I’ve laid out that old world at last. It won’t +trouble <i>me</i> any more, I’m thinking.”</p> +<p>On this occasion, <i>I</i> took a hand in the fight. It +becomes necessary at intervals to remind Master Smith that the +man, as the useful and faithful friend of dog, has his +rights. I deemed such interval had arrived. He flung +himself on to the sofa, muttering. It sounded +like—“Wish I’d never got up this morning. +Nobody understands me.”</p> +<p>Nothing, however, sobers him for long. Half-an-hour +later, he was killing the next-door cat. He will never +learn sense; he has been killing that cat for the last three +months. Why the next morning his nose is invariably twice +its natural size, while for the next week he can see objects on +one side of his head only, he never seems to grasp; I suppose he +attributes it to change in the weather.</p> +<p>He ended up the afternoon with what he no doubt regarded as a +complete and satisfying success. Dorothea had invited a +lady to take tea with her that day. I heard the sound of +laughter, and, being near the nursery, I looked in to see what +was the joke. Smith was worrying a doll. I have +rarely seen a more worried-looking doll. Its head was off, +and its sawdust strewed the floor. Both the children were +crowing with delight; Dorothea, in particular, was in an ecstasy +of amusement.</p> +<p>“Whose doll is it?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Eva’s,” answered Dorothea, between her +peals of laughter.</p> +<p>“Oh no, it isn’t,” explained Eva, in a tone +of sweet content; “here’s my doll.” She had +been sitting on it, and now drew it forth, warm but whole. +“That’s Dorry’s doll.”</p> +<p>The change from joy to grief on the part of Dorothea was +distinctly dramatic. Even Smith, accustomed to storm, was +nonplussed at the suddenness of the attack upon him.</p> +<p>Dorothea’s sorrow lasted longer than I had +expected. I promised her another doll. But it seemed +she did not want another; that was the only doll she would ever +care for so long as life lasted; no other doll could ever take +its place; no other doll would be to her what that doll had +been. These little people are so absurd: as if it could +matter whether you loved one doll or another, when all are so +much alike! They have curly hair, and pink-and-white +complexions, big eyes that open and shut, a little red mouth, two +little hands. Yet these foolish little people! they will +love one, while another they will not look upon. I find the +best plan is not to reason with them, but to sympathize. +Later on—but not too soon—introduce to them another +doll. They will not care for it at first, but in time they +will come to take an interest in it. Of course, it cannot +make them forget the first doll; no doll ever born in Lowther +Arcadia could be as that, but still— It is many weeks +before they forget entirely the first love.</p> +<p>We buried Dolly in the country under the yew tree. A +friend of mine who plays the fiddle came down on purpose to +assist. We buried her in the hot spring sunshine, while the +birds from shady nooks sang joyously of life and love. And +our chief mourner cried real tears, just for all the world as +though it were not the fate of dolls, sooner or later, to get +broken—the little fragile things, made for an hour, to be +dressed and kissed; then, paintless and stript, to be thrown +aside on the nursery floor. Poor little dolls! I +wonder do they take themselves seriously, not knowing the springs +that stir their sawdust bosoms are but clockwork, not seeing the +wires to which they dance? Poor little marionettes! do they +talk together, I wonder, when the lights of the booth are +out?</p> +<p>You, little sister doll, were the heroine. You lived in +the white-washed cottage, all honeysuckle and clematis +without—earwiggy and damp within, maybe. How pretty +you always looked in your simple, neatly-fitting print +dress. How good you were! How nobly you bore your +poverty. How patient you were under your many wrongs. +You never harboured an evil thought, a revengeful +wish—never, little doll? Were there never moments +when you longed to play the wicked woman’s part, live in a +room with many doors, be-clad in furs and jewels, with lovers +galore at your feet? In those long winter evenings? the +household work is done—the greasy dishes washed, the floor +scrubbed; the excellent child is asleep in the corner; the +one-and-elevenpenny lamp sheds its dismal light on the darned +table-cloth; you sit, busy at your coarse sewing, waiting for +Hero Dick, knowing—guessing, at least, where he +is—! Yes, dear, I remember your fine speeches, when +you told her, in stirring language the gallery cheered to the +echo, what you thought of her and of such women as she; when, +lifting your hand to heaven, you declared you were happier in +your attic, working your fingers to the bone, than she in her +gilded salon—I think “gilded salon” was the +term, was it not?—furnished by sin. But speaking of +yourself, weak little sister doll, not of your fine speeches, the +gallery listening, did you not, in your secret heart, envy +her? Did you never, before blowing out the one candle, +stand for a minute in front of the cracked glass, and think to +yourself that you, too, would look well in low-cut dresses from +Paris, the diamonds flashing on your white smooth skin? Did +you never, toiling home through the mud, bearing your bundle of +needlework, feel bitter with the wages of virtue, as she splashed +you, passing by in her carriage? Alone, over your cup of +weak tea, did you never feel tempted to pay the price for +champagne suppers, and gaiety, and admiration? Ah, yes, it +is easy for folks who have had their good time, to prepare +copybooks for weary little inkstained fingers, longing for +play. The fine maxims sound such cant when we are in that +mood, do they not? You, too, were young and handsome: did +the author of the play think you were never hungry for the good +things of life? Did he think that reading tracts to +crotchety old women was joy to a full-blooded girl in her +twenties? Why should <i>she</i> have all the love, and all +the laughter? How fortunate that the villain, the Wicked +Baronet, never opened the cottage door at that moment, eh, +dear! He always came when you were strong, when you felt +that you could denounce him, and scorn his temptations. +Would that the villain came to all of us at such time; then we +would all, perhaps, be heroes and heroines.</p> +<p>Ah well, it was only a play: it is over now. You and I, +little tired dolls, lying here side by side, waiting to know our +next part, we can look back and laugh. Where is she, this +wicked dolly, that made such a stir on our tiny stage? Ah, +here you are, Madam; I thought you could not be far; they have +thrown us all into this corner together. But how changed +you are, Dolly: your paint rubbed off, your golden hair worn to a +wisp. No wonder; it was a trying part you had to +play. How tired you must have grown of the glare and the +glitter! And even hope was denied you. The peace you +so longed for you knew you had lost the power to enjoy. +Like the girl bewitched in the fairy tale, you knew you must +dance ever faster and faster, with limbs growing palsied, with +face growing ashen, and hair growing grey, till Death should come +to release you; and your only prayer was he might come ere your +dancing grew comic.</p> +<p>Like the smell of the roses to Nancy, hawking them through the +hot streets, must the stifling atmosphere of love have been to +you. The song of passion, how monotonous in your ears, sung +now by the young and now by the old; now shouted, now whined, now +shrieked; but ever the one strident tune. Do you remember +when first you heard it? You dreamt it the morning hymn of +Heaven. You came to think it the dance music of Hell, +ground from a cracked hurdy-gurdy, lent out by the Devil on +hire.</p> +<p>An evil race we must have seemed to you, Dolly Faustine, as to +some Old Bailey lawyer. You saw but one side of us. +You lived in a world upside down, where the leaves and the +blossoms were hidden, and only the roots saw your day. You +imagined the worm-beslimed fibres the plant, and all things +beautiful you deemed cant. Chivalry, love, honour! how you +laughed at the lying words. You knew the truth—as you +thought: aye, half the truth. We were swine while your +spell was upon us, Daughter of Circe, and you, not knowing your +island secret, deemed it our natural shape.</p> +<p>No wonder, Dolly, your battered waxen face is stamped with an +angry sneer. The Hero, who eventually came into his estates +amid the plaudits of the Pit, while you were left to die in the +streets! you remembered, but the house had forgotten those +earlier scenes in always wicked Paris. The good friend of +the family, the breezy man of the world, the <i>Deus ex +Machina</i> of the play, who was so good to everybody, whom +everybody loved! aye, <i>you</i> loved him once—but that +was in the Prologue. In the Play proper, he was +respectable. (How you loathed that word, that meant to you +all you vainly longed for!) To him the Prologue was a +period past and dead; a memory, giving flavour to his life. +To you, it was the First Act of the Play, shaping all the +others. His sins the house had forgotten: at yours, they +held up their hands in horror. No wonder the sneer lies on +your waxen lips.</p> +<p>Never mind, Dolly; it was a stupid house. Next time, +perhaps, you will play a better part; and then they will cheer, +instead of hissing you. You were wasted, I am inclined to +think, on modern comedy. You should have been cast for the +heroine of some old-world tragedy. The strength of +character, the courage, the power of self-forgetfulness, the +enthusiasm were yours: it was the part that was lacking. +You might have worn the mantle of a Judith, a Boadicea, or a +Jeanne d’Arc, had such plays been popular in your +time. Perhaps they, had they played in your day, might have +had to be content with such a part as yours. They could not +have played the meek heroine, and what else would there have been +for them in modern drama? Catherine of Russia! had she been +a waiter’s daughter in the days of the Second Empire, +should we have called her Great? The Magdalene! had her +lodging in those days been in some bye-street of Rome instead of +in Jerusalem, should we mention her name in our churches?</p> +<p>You were necessary, you see, Dolly, to the piece. We +cannot all play heroes and heroines. There must be wicked +people in the play, or it would not interest. Think of it, +Dolly, a play where all the women were virtuous, all the men +honest! We might close the booth; the world would be as +dull as an oyster-bed. Without you wicked folk there would +be no good. How should we have known and honoured the +heroine’s worth, but by contrast with your +worthlessness? Where would have been her fine speeches, but +for you to listen to them? Where lay the hero’s +strength, but in resisting temptation of you? Had not you +and the Wicked Baronet between you robbed him of his estates, +falsely accused him of crime, he would have lived to the end of +the play an idle, unheroic, incomplete existence. You +brought him down to poverty; you made him earn his own +bread—a most excellent thing for him; gave him the +opportunity to play the man. But for your conduct in the +Prologue, of what value would have been that fine scene at the +end of the Third Act, that stirred the house to tears and +laughter? You and your accomplice, the Wicked Baronet, made +the play possible. How would Pit and Gallery have known +they were virtuous, but for the indignation that came to them, +watching your misdeeds? Pity, sympathy, excitement, all +that goes to the making of a play, you were necessary for. +It was ungrateful of the house to hiss you.</p> +<p>And you, Mr. Merryman, the painted grin worn from your pale +lips, you too were dissatisfied, if I remember rightly, with your +part. You wanted to make the people cry, not laugh. +Was it a higher ambition? The poor tired people! so much +happens in their life to make them weep, is it not good sport to +make them merry for awhile? Do you remember that old soul +in the front row of the Pit? How she laughed when you sat +down on the pie! I thought she would have to be carried +out. I heard her talking to her companion as they passed +the stage-door on their way home. “I have not +laughed, my dear, till to-night,” she was saying, the good, +gay tears still in her eyes, “since the day poor Sally +died.” Was not that alone worth the old stale tricks +you so hated? Aye, they were commonplace and conventional, +those antics of yours that made us laugh; are not the antics that +make us weep commonplace and conventional also? Are not all +the plays, played since the booth was opened, but of one pattern, +the plot old-fashioned now, the scenes now commonplace? +Hero, villain, cynic—are their parts so much the +fresher? The love duets, are they so very new? The +death-bed scenes, would you call them <i>un</i>commonplace? +Hate, and Evil, and Wrong—are <i>their</i> voices new to +the booth? What are you waiting for, people? a play with a +plot that is novel, with characters that have never strutted +before? It will be ready for you, perhaps, when you are +ready for it, with new tears and new laughter.</p> +<p>You, Mr. Merryman, were the true philosopher. You saved +us from forgetting the reality when the fiction grew somewhat +strenuous. How we all applauded your gag in answer to the +hero, when, bewailing his sad fate, he demanded of Heaven how +much longer he was to suffer evil fortune. “Well, +there cannot be much more of it in store for you,” you +answered him; “it’s nearly nine o’clock +already, and the show closes at ten.” And true to +your prophecy the curtain fell at the time appointed, and his +troubles were of the past. You showed us the truth behind +the mask. When pompous Lord Shallow, in ermine and wig, +went to take his seat amid the fawning crowd, you pulled the +chair from under him, and down he sat plump on the floor. +His robe flew open, his wig flew off. No longer he awed +us. His aped dignity fell from him; we saw him a +stupid-eyed, bald little man; he imposed no longer upon us. +It is your fool who is the only true wise man.</p> +<p>Yours was the best part in the play, Brother Merryman, had you +and the audience but known it. But you dreamt of a showier +part, where you loved and fought. I have heard you now and +again, when you did not know I was near, shouting with sword in +hand before your looking-glass. You had thrown your motley +aside to don a dingy red coat; you were the hero of the play, you +performed the gallant deeds, you made the noble speeches. I +wonder what the play would be like, were we all to write our own +parts. There would be no clowns, no singing +chambermaids. We would all be playing lead in the centre of +the stage, with the lime-light exclusively devoted to +ourselves. Would it not be so?</p> +<p>What grand acting parts they are, these characters we write +for ourselves alone in our dressing-rooms. We are always +brave and noble—wicked sometimes, but if so, in a great, +high-minded way; never in a mean or little way. What +wondrous deeds we do, while the house looks on and marvels. +Now we are soldiers, leading armies to victory. What if we +die: it is in the hour of triumph, and a nation is left to +mourn. Not in some forgotten skirmish do we ever fall; not +for some “affair of outposts” do we give our blood, +our very name unmentioned in the dispatches home. Now we +are passionate lovers, well losing a world for love—a very +different thing to being a laughter-provoking co-respondent in a +sordid divorce case.</p> +<p>And the house is always crowded when we play. Our fine +speeches always fall on sympathetic ears, our brave deeds are +noted and applauded. It is so different in the real +performance. So often we play our parts to empty benches, +or if a thin house be present, they misunderstand, and laugh at +the pathetic passages. And when our finest opportunity +comes, the royal box, in which <i>he</i> or <i>she</i> should be +present to watch us, is vacant.</p> +<p>Poor little dolls, how seriously we take ourselves, not +knowing the springs that stir our bosoms are but clockwork, not +seeing the wires to which we dance. Poor little +marionettes, shall we talk together, I wonder, when the lights of +the booth are out?</p> +<p>We are little wax dollies with hearts. We are little tin +soldiers with souls. Oh, King of many toys, are you merely +playing with us? <i>Is</i> it only clockwork within us, +this thing that throbs and aches? Have you wound us up but +to let us run down? Will you wind us again to-morrow, or +leave us here to rust? <i>Is</i> it only clockwork to which +we respond and quiver? Now we laugh, now we cry, now we +dance; our little arms go out to clasp one another, our little +lips kiss, then say good-bye. We strive, and we strain, and +we struggle. We reach now for gold, now for laurel. +We call it desire and ambition: are they only wires that you +play? Will you throw the clockwork aside, or use it again, +O Master?</p> +<p>The lights of the booth grow dim. The springs are broken +that kept our eyes awake. The wire that held us erect is +snapped, and helpless we fall in a heap on the stage. Oh, +brother and sister dollies we played beside, where are you? +Why is it so dark and silent? Why are we being put into +this black box? And hark! the little doll +orchestra—how far away the music sounds! what is it they +are playing:—</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p360b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"First few bars of Gounod’s Funeral March of a Marionette" +title= +"First few bars of Gounod’s Funeral March of a Marionette" + src="images/p360s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECOND THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE +FELLOW***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1915-h.htm or 1915-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/1/1915 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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