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diff --git a/2368-h/2368-h.htm b/2368-h/2368-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e23d217 --- /dev/null +++ b/2368-h/2368-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5389 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Angel and the Author - and Others</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3 { + float: left; + width: 18%; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-left: -9%; + margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + TD { vertical-align: top; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: gray;} + + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Angel and the Author - and Others, by Jerome K. Jerome</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Angel and the Author - and Others, by +Jerome K. Jerome + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + + + + +Title: The Angel and the Author - and Others + + +Author: Jerome K. Jerome + + + +Release Date: May 16, 2007 [eBook #2368] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ANGEL AND THE AUTHOR - AND +OTHERS*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1908 Hurst and Blackett edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>THE ANGEL AND THE AUTHOR<br /> +—AND OTHERS</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">by</span><br /> +JEROME K. JEROME</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Author of<br /> +“Paul Kelver,” “Idle Thoughts of an Idle +Fellow,” “The Passing<br /> +of the Third Floor Back,” and others.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">london</span>:<br /> +HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED<br /> +182, HIGH HOLBORN, W.C.<br /> +1908</p> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> +<p>I had a vexing dream one night, not long ago: it was about a +fortnight after Christmas. I dreamt I flew out of the +window in my nightshirt. I went up and up. I was glad +that I was going up. “They have been noticing +me,” I thought to myself. “If anything, I have +been a bit too good. A little less virtue and I might have +lived longer. But one cannot have everything.” +The world grew smaller and smaller. The last I saw of +London was the long line of electric lamps bordering the +Embankment; later nothing remained but a faint luminosity buried +beneath darkness. It was at this point of my journey that I +heard behind me the slow, throbbing sound of wings.</p> +<p>I turned my head. It was the Recording Angel. He +had a weary look; I judged him to be tired.</p> +<p>“Yes,” he acknowledged, “it is a trying +period for me, your Christmas time.”</p> +<p>“I am sure it must be,” I returned; “the +wonder to me is how you get through it all. You see at +Christmas time,” I went on, “all we men and women +become generous, quite suddenly. It is really a delightful +sensation.”</p> +<p>“You are to be envied,” he agreed.</p> +<p>“It is the first Christmas number that starts me +off,” I told him; “those beautiful pictures—the +sweet child looking so pretty in her furs, giving Bovril with her +own dear little hands to the shivering street arab; the good old +red-faced squire shovelling out plum pudding to the crowd of +grateful villagers. It makes me yearn to borrow a +collecting box and go round doing good myself.</p> +<p>“And it is not only me—I should say I,” I +continued; “I don’t want you to run away with the +idea that I am the only good man in the world. That’s +what I like about Christmas, it makes everybody good. The +lovely sentiments we go about repeating! the noble deeds we do! +from a little before Christmas up to, say, the end of January! +why noting them down must be a comfort to you.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” he admitted, “noble deeds are always +a great joy to me.”</p> +<p>“They are to all of us,” I said; “I love to +think of all the good deeds I myself have done. I have +often thought of keeping a diary—jotting them down each +day. It would be so nice for one’s +children.”</p> +<p>He agreed there was an idea in this.</p> +<p>“That book of yours,” I said, “I suppose, +now, it contains all the good actions that we men and women have +been doing during the last six weeks?” It was a bulky +looking volume.</p> +<p>Yes, he answered, they were all recorded in the book.</p> +<h3>The Author tells of his Good Deeds.</h3> +<p>It was more for the sake of talking of his than anything else +that I kept up with him. I did not really doubt his care +and conscientiousness, but it is always pleasant to chat about +one’s self. “My five shillings subscription to +the <i>Daily Telegraph’s</i> Sixpenny Fund for the +Unemployed—got that down all right?” I asked him.</p> +<p>Yes, he replied, it was entered.</p> +<p>“As a matter of fact, now I come to think of it,” +I added, “it was ten shillings altogether. They spelt +my name wrong the first time.”</p> +<p>Both subscriptions had been entered, he told me.</p> +<p>“Then I have been to four charity dinners,” I +reminded him; “I forget what the particular charity was +about. I know I suffered the next morning. Champagne +never does agree with me. But, then, if you don’t +order it people think you can’t afford it. Not that I +don’t like it. It’s my liver, if you +understand. If I take more—”</p> +<p>He interrupted me with the assurance that my attendance had +been noted.</p> +<p>“Last week I sent a dozen photographs of myself, signed, +to a charity bazaar.”</p> +<p>He said he remembered my doing so.</p> +<p>“Then let me see,” I continued, “I have been +to two ordinary balls. I don’t care much about +dancing, but a few of us generally play a little bridge; and to +one fancy dress affair. I went as Sir Walter Raleigh. +Some men cannot afford to show their leg. What I say is, if +a man can, why not? It isn’t often that one gets the +opportunity of really looking one’s best.”</p> +<p>He told me all three balls had been duly entered: and +commented upon.</p> +<p>“And, of course, you remember my performance of Talbot +Champneys in <i>Our Boys</i> the week before last, in aid of the +Fund for Poor Curates,” I went on. “I +don’t know whether you saw the notice in the <i>Morning +Post</i>, but—”</p> +<p>He again interrupted me to remark that what the <i>Morning +Post</i> man said would be entered, one way or the other, to the +critic of the <i>Morning Post</i>, and had nothing to do with +me. “Of course not,” I agreed; “and +between ourselves, I don’t think the charity got very +much. Expenses, when you come to add refreshments and one +thing and another, mount up. But I fancy they rather liked +my Talbot Champneys.”</p> +<p>He replied that he had been present at the performance, and +had made his own report.</p> +<p>I also reminded him of the four balcony seats I had taken for +the monster show at His Majesty’s in aid of the Fund for +the Destitute British in Johannesburg. Not all the +celebrated actors and actresses announced on the posters had +appeared, but all had sent letters full of kindly wishes; and the +others—all the celebrities one had never heard of—had +turned up to a man. Still, on the whole, the show was well +worth the money. There was nothing to grumble at.</p> +<p>There were other noble deeds of mine. I could not +remember them at the time in their entirety. I seemed to +have done a good many. But I did remember the rummage sale +to which I sent all my old clothes, including a coat that had got +mixed up with them by accident, and that I believe I could have +worn again.</p> +<p>And also the raffle I had joined for a motor-car.</p> +<p>The Angel said I really need not be alarmed, that everything +had been noted, together with other matters I, may be, had +forgotten.</p> +<h3>The Angel appears to have made a slight Mistake.</h3> +<p>I felt a certain curiosity. We had been getting on very +well together—so it had seemed to me. I asked him if +he would mind my seeing the book. He said there could be no +objection. He opened it at the page devoted to myself, and +I flew a little higher, and looked down over his shoulder. +I can hardly believe it, even now—that I could have dreamt +anything so foolish:</p> +<p>He had got it all down wrong!</p> +<p>Instead of to the credit side of my account he had put the +whole bag of tricks to my debit. He had mixed them up with +my sins—with my acts of hypocrisy, vanity, +self-indulgence. Under the head of Charity he had but one +item to my credit for the past six months: my giving up my seat +inside a tramcar, late one wet night, to a dismal-looking old +woman, who had not had even the politeness to say “thank +you,” she seemed just half asleep. According to this +idiot, all the time and money I had spent responding to these +charitable appeals had been wasted.</p> +<p>I was not angry with him, at first. I was willing to +regard what he had done as merely a clerical error.</p> +<p>“You have got the items down all right,” I said (I +spoke quite friendly), “but you have made a slight +mistake—we all do now and again; you have put them down on +the wrong side of the book. I only hope this sort of thing +doesn’t occur often.”</p> +<p>What irritated me as much as anything was the grave, +passionless face the Angel turned upon me.</p> +<p>“There is no mistake,” he answered.</p> +<p>“No mistake!” I cried. “Why, you +blundering—”</p> +<p>He closed the book with a weary sigh.</p> +<p>I felt so mad with him, I went to snatch it out of his +hand. He did not do anything that I was aware of, but at +once I began falling. The faint luminosity beneath me grew, +and then the lights of London seemed shooting up to meet +me. I was coming down on the clock tower at +Westminster. I gave myself a convulsive twist, hoping to +escape it, and fell into the river.</p> +<p>And then I awoke.</p> +<p>But it stays with me: the weary sadness of the Angel’s +face. I cannot shake remembrance from me. Would I +have done better, had I taken the money I had spent upon these +fooleries, gone down with it among the poor myself, asking +nothing in return. Is this fraction of our superfluity, +flung without further thought or care into the collection box, +likely to satisfy the Impracticable Idealist, who actually +suggested—one shrugs one’s shoulders when one thinks +of it—that one should sell all one had and give to the +poor?</p> +<h3>The Author is troubled concerning his Investments.</h3> +<p>Or is our charity but a salve to conscience—an +insurance, at decidedly moderate premium, in case, after all, +there should happen to be another world? Is Charity lending +to the Lord something we can so easily do without?</p> +<p>I remember a lady tidying up her house, clearing it of +rubbish. She called it “Giving to the Fresh Air +Fund.” Into the heap of lumber one of her daughters +flung a pair of crutches that for years had been knocking about +the house. The lady picked them out again.</p> +<p>“We won’t give those away,” she said, +“they might come in useful again. One never +knows.”</p> +<p>Another lady, I remember coming downstairs one evening dressed +for a fancy ball. I forget the title of the charity, but I +remember that every lady who sold more than ten tickets received +an autograph letter of thanks from the Duchess who was the +president. The tickets were twelve and sixpence each and +included light refreshments and a very substantial supper. +One presumes the odd sixpence reached the poor—or at least +the noisier portion of them.</p> +<p>“A little <i>décolletée</i>, isn’t +it, my dear?” suggested a lady friend, as the charitable +dancer entered the drawing-room.</p> +<p>“Perhaps it is—a little,” she admitted, +“but we all of us ought to do all we can for the +Cause. Don’t you think so, dear?”</p> +<p>Really, seeing the amount we give in charity, the wonder is +there are any poor left. It is a comfort that there +are. What should we do without them? Our fur-clad +little girls! our jolly, red-faced squires! we should never know +how good they were, but for the poor? Without the poor how +could we be virtuous? We should have to go about giving to +each other. And friends expect such expensive presents, +while a shilling here and there among the poor brings to us all +the sensations of a good Samaritan. Providence has been +very thoughtful in providing us with poor.</p> +<p>Dear Lady Bountiful! does it not ever occur to you to thank +God for the poor? The clean, grateful poor, who bob their +heads and curtsey and assure you that heaven is going to repay +you a thousandfold. One does hope you will not be +disappointed.</p> +<p>An East-End curate once told me, with a twinkle in his eye, of +a smart lady who called upon him in her carriage, and insisted on +his going round with her to show her where the poor hid +themselves. They went down many streets, and the lady +distributed her parcels. Then they came to one of the +worst, a very narrow street. The coachman gave it one +glance.</p> +<p>“Sorry, my lady,” said the coachman, “but +the carriage won’t go down.”</p> +<p>The lady sighed.</p> +<p>“I am afraid we shall have to leave it,” she +said.</p> +<p>So the gallant greys dashed past.</p> +<p>Where the real poor creep I fear there is no room for Lady +Bountiful’s fine coach. The ways are very +narrow—wide enough only for little Sister Pity, stealing +softly.</p> +<p>I put it to my friend, the curate:</p> +<p>“But if all this charity is, as you say, so useless; if +it touches but the fringe; if it makes the evil worse, what would +you do?”</p> +<h3>And questions a Man of Thought.</h3> +<p>“I would substitute Justice,” he answered; +“there would be no need for Charity.”</p> +<p><br /> + “But it is so delightful to give,” I +answered.</p> +<p>“Yes,” he agreed. “It is better to +give than to receive. I was thinking of the receiver. +And my ideal is a long way off. We shall have to work +towards it slowly.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> +<h3>Philosophy and the Dæmon.</h3> +<p>Philosophy, it has been said, is the art of bearing other +people’s troubles. The truest philosopher I ever +heard of was a woman. She was brought into the London +Hospital suffering from a poisoned leg. The house surgeon +made a hurried examination. He was a man of blunt +speech.</p> +<p>“It will have to come off,” he told her.</p> +<p>“What, not all of it?”</p> +<p>“The whole of it, I am sorry to say,” growled the +house surgeon.</p> +<p>“Nothing else for it?”</p> +<p>“No other chance for you whatever,” explained the +house surgeon.</p> +<p>“Ah, well, thank Gawd it’s not my +’ead,” observed the lady.</p> +<p>The poor have a great advantage over us better-off folk. +Providence provides them with many opportunities for the practice +of philosophy. I was present at a “high tea” +given last winter by charitable folk to a party of +char-women. After the tables were cleared we sought to +amuse them. One young lady, who was proud of herself as a +palmist, set out to study their “lines.” At +sight of the first toil-worn hand she took hold of her +sympathetic face grew sad.</p> +<p>“There is a great trouble coming to you,” she +informed the ancient dame.</p> +<p>The placid-featured dame looked up and smiled:</p> +<p>“What, only one, my dear?”</p> +<p>“Yes, only one,” asserted the kind fortune-teller, +much pleased, “after that all goes smoothly.”</p> +<p>“Ah,” murmured the old dame, quite cheerfully, +“we was all of us a short-lived family.”</p> +<p>Our skins harden to the blows of Fate. I was lunching +one Wednesday with a friend in the country. His son and +heir, aged twelve, entered and took his seat at the table.</p> +<p>“Well,” said his father, “and how did we get +on at school to-day?”</p> +<p>“Oh, all right,” answered the youngster, settling +himself down to his dinner with evident appetite.</p> +<p>“Nobody caned?” demanded his father, with—as +I noticed—a sly twinkle in his eye.</p> +<p>“No,” replied young hopeful, after reflection; +“no, I don’t think so,” adding as an +afterthought, as he tucked into beef and potatoes, +“’cepting, o’ course, me.”</p> +<h3>When the Dæmon will not work.</h3> +<p>It is a simple science, philosophy. The idea is that it +never matters what happens to you provided you don’t mind +it. The weak point in the argument is that nine times out +of ten you can’t help minding it.</p> +<p>“No misfortune can harm me,” says Marcus Aurelius, +“without the consent of the dæmon within +me.”</p> +<p>The trouble is our dæmon cannot always be relied +upon. So often he does not seem up to his work.</p> +<p>“You’ve been a naughty boy, and I’m going to +whip you,” said nurse to a four-year-old criminal.</p> +<p>“You tant,” retorted the young ruffian, gripping +with both hands the chair that he was occupying, +“I’se sittin’ on it.”</p> +<p>His dæmon was, no doubt, resolved that misfortune, as +personified by nurse, should not hurt him. The misfortune, +alas! proved stronger than the dæmon, and misfortune, he +found did hurt him.</p> +<p>The toothache cannot hurt us so long as the dæmon within +us (that is to say, our will power) holds on to the chair and +says it can’t. But, sooner or later, the dæmon +lets go, and then we howl. One sees the idea: in theory it +is excellent. One makes believe. Your bank has +suddenly stopped payment. You say to yourself.</p> +<p>“This does not really matter.”</p> +<p>Your butcher and your baker say it does, and insist on making +a row in the passage.</p> +<p>You fill yourself up with gooseberry wine. You tell +yourself it is seasoned champagne. Your liver next morning +says it is not.</p> +<p>The dæmon within us means well, but forgets it is not +the only thing there. A man I knew was an enthusiast on +vegetarianism. He argued that if the poor would adopt a +vegetarian diet the problem of existence would be simpler for +them, and maybe he was right. So one day he assembled some +twenty poor lads for the purpose of introducing to them a +vegetarian lunch. He begged them to believe that lentil +beans were steaks, that cauliflowers were chops. As a third +course he placed before them a mixture of carrots and savoury +herbs, and urged them to imagine they were eating saveloys.</p> +<p>“Now, you all like saveloys,” he said, addressing +them, “and the palate is but the creature of the +imagination. Say to yourselves, ‘I am eating +saveloys,’ and for all practical purposes these things will +be saveloys.”</p> +<p>Some of the lads professed to have done it, but one +disappointed-looking youth confessed to failure.</p> +<p>“But how can you be sure it was not a saveloy?” +the host persisted.</p> +<p>“Because,” explained the boy, “I +haven’t got the stomach-ache.”</p> +<p>It appeared that saveloys, although a dish of which he was +fond, invariably and immediately disagreed with him. If +only we were all dæmon and nothing else philosophy would be +easier. Unfortunately, there is more of us.</p> +<p>Another argument much approved by philosophy is that nothing +matters, because a hundred years hence, say, at the outside, we +shall be dead. What we really want is a philosophy that +will enable us to get along while we are still alive. I am +not worrying about my centenary; I am worrying about next +quarter-day. I feel that if other people would only go +away, and leave me—income-tax collectors, critics, men who +come round about the gas, all those sort of people—I could +be a philosopher myself. I am willing enough to make +believe that nothing matters, but they are not. They say it +is going to be cut off, and talk about judgment summonses. +I tell them it won’t trouble any of us a hundred years +hence. They answer they are not talking of a hundred years +hence, but of this thing that was due last April +twelvemonth. They won’t listen to my +dæmon. He does not interest them. Nor, to be +candid, does it comfort myself very much, this philosophical +reflection that a hundred years later on I’ll be sure to be +dead—that is, with ordinary luck. What bucks me up +much more is the hope that they will be dead. Besides, in a +hundred years things may have improved. I may not want to +be dead. If I were sure of being dead next morning, before +their threat of cutting off that water or that gas could by any +possibility be carried out, before that judgment summons they are +bragging about could be made returnable, I might—I +don’t say I should—be amused, thinking how I was +going to dish them. The wife of a very wicked man visited +him one evening in prison, and found him enjoying a supper of +toasted cheese.</p> +<p>“How foolish of you, Edward,” argued the fond +lady, “to be eating toasted cheese for supper. You +know it always affects your liver. All day long to-morrow +you will be complaining.”</p> +<p>“No, I shan’t,” interrupted Edward; +“not so foolish as you think me. They are going to +hang me to-morrow—early.”</p> +<p>There is a passage in Marcus Aurelius that used to puzzle me +until I hit upon the solution. A foot-note says the meaning +is obscure. Myself, I had gathered this before I read the +foot-note. What it is all about I defy any human being to +explain. It might mean anything; it might mean +nothing. The majority of students incline to the latter +theory, though a minority maintain there is a meaning, if only it +could be discovered. My own conviction is that once in his +life Marcus Aurelius had a real good time. He came home +feeling pleased with himself without knowing quite why.</p> +<p>“I will write it down,” he said to himself, +“now, while it is fresh in my mind.”</p> +<p>It seemed to him the most wonderful thing that anybody had +ever said. Maybe he shed a tear or two, thinking of all the +good he was doing, and later on went suddenly to sleep. In +the morning he had forgotten all about it, and by accident it got +mixed up with the rest of the book. That is the only +explanation that seems to me possible, and it comforts me.</p> +<p>We are none of us philosophers all the time.</p> +<p>Philosophy is the science of suffering the inevitable, which +most of us contrive to accomplish without the aid of +philosophy. Marcus Aurelius was an Emperor of Rome, and +Diogenes was a bachelor living rent free. I want the +philosophy of the bank clerk married on thirty shillings a week, +of the farm labourer bringing up a family of eight on a +precarious wage of twelve shillings. The troubles of Marcus +Aurelius were chiefly those of other people.</p> +<p>“Taxes will have to go up, I am afraid,” no doubt +he often sighed. “But, after all, what are +taxes? A thing in conformity with the nature of man—a +little thing that Zeus approves of, one feels sure. The +dæmon within me says taxes don’t really +matter.”</p> +<p>Maybe the paterfamilias of the period, who did the paying, +worried about new sandals for the children, his wife insisting +she hadn’t a frock fit to be seen in at the amphitheatre; +that, if there was one thing in the world she fancied, it was +seeing a Christian eaten by a lion, but now she supposed the +children would have to go without her, found that philosophy came +to his aid less readily.</p> +<p>“Bother these barbarians,” Marcus Aurelius may +have been tempted, in an unphilosophical moment, to exclaim; +“I do wish they would not burn these poor people’s +houses over their heads, toss the babies about on spears, and +carry off the older children into slavery. Why don’t +they behave themselves?”</p> +<p>But philosophy in Marcus Aurelius would eventually triumph +over passing fretfulness.</p> +<p>“But how foolish of me to be angry with them,” he +would argue with himself. “One is not vexed with the +fig-tree for yielding figs, with the cucumber for being +bitter! One must expect barbarians to behave +barbariously.”</p> +<p>Marcus Aurelius would proceed to slaughter the barbarians, and +then forgive them. We can most of us forgive our brother +his transgressions, having once got even with him. In a +tiny Swiss village, behind the angle of the school-house wall, I +came across a maiden crying bitterly, her head resting on her +arm. I asked her what had happened. Between her sobs +she explained that a school companion, a little lad about her own +age, having snatched her hat from her head, was at that moment +playing football with it the other side of the wall. I +attempted to console her with philosophy. I pointed out to +her that boys would be boys—that to expect from them at +that age reverence for feminine headgear was to seek what was not +conformable with the nature of boy. But she appeared to +have no philosophy in her. She said he was a horrid boy, +and that she hated him. It transpired it was a hat she +rather fancied herself in. He peeped round the corner while +we were talking, the hat in his hand. He held it out to +her, but she took no notice of him. I gathered the incident +was closed, and went my way, but turned a few steps further on, +curious to witness the end. Step by step he approached +nearer, looking a little ashamed of himself; but still she wept, +her face hidden in her arm.</p> +<p>He was not expecting it: to all seeming she stood there the +personification of the grief that is not to be comforted, +oblivious to all surroundings. Incautiously he took another +step. In an instant she had “landed” him over +the head with a long narrow wooden box containing, one supposes, +pencils and pens. He must have been a hard-headed +youngster, the sound of the compact echoed through the +valley. I met her again on my way back.</p> +<p>“Hat much damaged?” I inquired.</p> +<p>“Oh, no,” she answered, smiling; “besides, +it was only an old hat. I’ve got a better one for +Sundays.”</p> +<p>I often feel philosophical myself; generally over a good cigar +after a satisfactory dinner. At such times I open my Marcus +Aurelius, my pocket Epicurus, my translation of Plato’s +“Republic.” At such times I agree with +them. Man troubles himself too much about the +unessential. Let us cultivate serenity. Nothing can +happen to us that we have not been constituted by Nature to +sustain. That foolish farm labourer, on his precarious wage +of twelve shillings a week: let him dwell rather on the mercies +he enjoys. Is he not spared all anxiety concerning safe +investment of capital yielding four per cent.? Is not the +sunrise and the sunset for him also? Many of us never see +the sunrise. So many of our so-termed poorer brethen are +privileged rarely to miss that early morning festival. Let +the dæmon within them rejoice. Why should he fret +when the children cry for bread? Is it not in the nature of +things that the children of the poor should cry for bread? +The gods in their wisdom have arranged it thus. Let the +dæmon within him reflect upon the advantage to the +community of cheap labour. Let the farm labourer +contemplate the universal good.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> +<h3>Literature and the Middle Classes.</h3> +<p>I am sorry to be compelled to cast a slur upon the Literary +profession, but observation shows me that it still contains +within its ranks writers born and bred in, and moving +amidst—if, without offence, one may put it bluntly—a +purely middle-class environment: men and women to whom Park Lane +will never be anything than the shortest route between Notting +Hill and the Strand; to whom Debrett’s +Peerage—gilt-edged and bound in red, a tasteful-looking +volume—ever has been and ever will remain a drawing-room +ornament and not a social necessity. Now what is to become +of these writers—of us, if for the moment I may be allowed +to speak as representative of this rapidly-diminishing yet +nevertheless still numerous section of the world of Art and +Letters? Formerly, provided we were masters of style, +possessed imagination and insight, understood human nature, had +sympathy with and knowledge of life, and could express ourselves +with humour and distinction, our pathway was, comparatively +speaking, free from obstacle. We drew from the middle-class +life around us, passed it through our own middle-class +individuality, and presented it to a public composed of +middle-class readers.</p> +<p>But the middle-class public, for purposes of Art, has +practically disappeared. The social strata from which +George Eliot and Dickens drew their characters no longer +interests the great B. P. Hetty Sorrell, Little Em’ly, +would be pronounced “provincial;” a Deronda or a +Wilfer Family ignored as “suburban.”</p> +<p>I confess that personally the terms “provincial” +and “suburban,” as epithets of reproach, have always +puzzled me. I never met anyone more severe on what she +termed the “suburban note” in literature than a thin +lady who lived in a semi-detached villa in a by-street of +Hammersmith. Is Art merely a question of geography, and if +so what is the exact limit? Is it the four-mile cab radius +from Charing Cross? Is the cheesemonger of Tottenham Court +Road of necessity a man of taste, and the Oxford professor of +necessity a Philistine? I want to understand this +thing. I once hazarded the direct question to a critical +friend:</p> +<p>“You say a book is suburban,” I put it to him, +“and there is an end to the matter. But what do you +mean by suburban?”</p> +<p>“Well,” he replied, “I mean it is the sort +of book likely to appeal to the class that inhabits the +suburbs.” He lived himself in Chancery Lane.</p> +<h3>May a man of intelligence live, say, in Surbiton?</h3> +<p>“But there is Jones, the editor of <i>The Evening +Gentleman</i>,” I argued; “he lives at +Surbiton. It is just twelve miles from Waterloo. He +comes up every morning by the eight-fifteen and returns again by +the five-ten. Would you say that a book is bound to be bad +because it appeals to Jones? Then again, take Tomlinson: he +lives, as you are well aware, at Forest Gate which is Epping way, +and entertains you on Kakemonos whenever you call upon him. +You know what I mean, of course. I think +‘Kakemono’ is right. They are long things; they +look like coloured hieroglyphics printed on brown paper. He +gets behind them and holds them up above his head on the end of a +stick so that you can see the whole of them at once; and he tells +you the name of the Japanese artist who painted them in the year +1500 B.C., and what it is all about. He shows them to you +by the hour and forgets to give you dinner. There +isn’t an easy chair in the house. To put it vulgarly, +what is wrong with Tomlinson from a high art point of view?</p> +<p>“There’s a man I know who lives in Birmingham: you +must have heard of him. He is the great collector of +Eighteenth Century caricatures, the Rowlandson and Gilray school +of things. I don’t call them artistic myself; they +make me ill to look at them; but people who understand Art rave +about them. Why can’t a man be artistic who has got a +cottage in the country?”</p> +<p>“You don’t understand me,” retorted my +critical friend, a little irritably, as I thought.</p> +<p>“I admit it,” I returned. “It is what +I am trying to do.”</p> +<p>“Of course artistic people live in the suburbs,” +he admitted. “But they are not of the +suburbs.”</p> +<p>“Though they may dwell in Wimbledon or Hornsey,” I +suggested, “they sing with the Scotch bard: ‘My heart +is in the South-West postal district. My heart is not +here.’”</p> +<p>“You can put it that way if you like,” he +growled.</p> +<p>“I will, if you have no objection,” I +agreed. “It makes life easier for those of us with +limited incomes.”</p> +<p>The modern novel takes care, however, to avoid all doubt upon +the subject. Its personages, one and all, reside within the +half-mile square lying between Bond Street and the Park—a +neighbourhood that would appear to be somewhat densely +populated. True, a year or two ago there appeared a fairly +successful novel the heroine of which resided in Onslow +Gardens. An eminent critic observed of it that: “It +fell short only by a little way of being a serious contribution +to English literature.” Consultation with the keeper +of the cabman’s shelter at Hyde Park Corner suggested to me +that the “little way” the critic had in mind measures +exactly eleven hundred yards. When the nobility and gentry +of the modern novel do leave London they do not go into the +provinces: to do that would be vulgar. They make straight +for “Barchester Towers,” or what the Duke calls +“his little place up north”—localities, one +presumes, suspended somewhere in mid-air.</p> +<p>In every social circle exist great souls with yearnings +towards higher things. Even among the labouring classes one +meets with naturally refined natures, gentlemanly persons to whom +the loom and the plough will always appear low, whose natural +desire is towards the dignities and graces of the servants’ +hall. So in Grub Street we can always reckon upon the +superior writer whose temperament will prompt him to make +respectful study of his betters. A reasonable supply of +high-class novels might always have been depended upon; the +trouble is that the public now demands that all stories must be +of the upper ten thousand. Auld Robin Grey must be Sir +Robert Grey, South African millionaire; and Jamie, the youngest +son of the old Earl, otherwise a cultured public can take no +interest in the ballad. A modern nursery rhymester to +succeed would have to write of Little Lord Jack and Lady Jill +ascending one of the many beautiful eminences belonging to the +ancestral estates of their parents, bearing between them, on a +silver rod, an exquisitely painted Sèvres vase filled with +ottar of roses.</p> +<p>I take up my fourpenny-halfpenny magazine. The heroine +is a youthful Duchess; her husband gambles with thousand-pound +notes, with the result that they are reduced to living on the +first floor of the Carlton Hotel. The villain is a Russian +Prince. The Baronet of a simpler age has been unable, poor +fellow, to keep pace with the times. What self-respecting +heroine would abandon her husband and children for sin and a +paltry five thousand a year? To the heroine of the +past—to the clergyman’s daughter or the lady +artist—he was dangerous. The modern heroine +misbehaves herself with nothing below Cabinet rank.</p> +<p>I turn to something less pretentious, a weekly periodical that +my wife tells me is the best authority she has come across on +blouses. I find in it what once upon a time would have been +called a farce. It is now a “drawing-room +comedietta. All rights reserved.” The +<i>dramatis personæ</i> consist of the Earl of Danbury, the +Marquis of Rottenborough (with a past), and an American +heiress—a character that nowadays takes with lovers of the +simple the place formerly occupied by “Rose, the +miller’s daughter.”</p> +<p>I sometimes wonder, is it such teaching as that of Carlyle and +Tennyson that is responsible for this present tendency of +literature? Carlyle impressed upon us that the only history +worth consideration was the life of great men and women, and +Tennyson that we “needs must love the highest.” +So literature, striving ever upward, ignores plain Romola for the +Lady Ponsonby de Tompkins; the provincialisms of a Charlotte +Brontë for what a certain critic, born before his time, +would have called the “doin’s of the hupper +succles.”</p> +<p>The British Drama has advanced by even greater bounds. +It takes place now exclusively within castle walls, +and—what Messrs. Lumley & Co.’s circular would +describe as—“desirable town mansions, suitable for +gentlemen of means.” A living dramatist, who should +know, tells us that drama does not occur in the back +parlour. Dramatists have, it has been argued, occasionally +found it there, but such may have been dramatists with eyes +capable of seeing through clothes.</p> +<p>I once wrote a play which I read to a distinguished +Manager. He said it was a most interesting play: they +always say that. I waited, wondering to what other manager +he would recommend me to take it. To my surprise he told me +he would like it for himself—but with alterations.</p> +<p>“The whole thing wants lifting up,” was his +opinion. “Your hero is a barrister: my public take no +interest in plain barristers. Make him the Solicitor +General.”</p> +<p>“But he’s got to be amusing,” I +argued. “A Solicitor General is never +amusing.”</p> +<p>My Manager pondered for a moment. “Let him be +Solicitor General for Ireland,” he suggested.</p> +<p>I made a note of it.</p> +<p>“Your heroine,” he continued, “is the +daughter of a seaside lodging-house keeper. My public do +not recognize seaside lodgings. Why not the daughter of an +hotel proprietor? Even that will be risky, but we might +venture it.” An inspiration came to him. +“Or better still, let the old man be the Managing Director +of an hotel Trust: that would account for her clothes.”</p> +<p>Unfortunately I put the thing aside for a few months, and when +I was ready again the public taste had still further +advanced. The doors of the British Drama were closed for +the time being on all but members of the aristocracy, and I did +not see my comic old man as a Marquis, which was the lowest title +that just then one dared to offer to a low comedian.</p> +<p>Now how are we middle-class novelists and dramatists to +continue to live? I am aware of the obvious retort, but to +us it absolutely is necessary. We know only parlours: we +call them drawing-rooms. At the bottom of our middle-class +hearts we regard them fondly: the folding-doors thrown back, they +make rather a fine apartment. The only drama that we know +takes place in such rooms: the hero sitting in the +gentleman’s easy chair, of green repp: the heroine in the +lady’s ditto, without arms—the chair, I mean. +The scornful glances, the bitter words of our middle-class world +are hurled across these three-legged loo-tables, the wedding-cake +ornament under its glass case playing the part of white +ghost.</p> +<p>In these days, when “Imperial cement” is at a +premium, who would dare suggest that the emotions of a parlour +can by any possibility be the same as those exhibited in a salon +furnished in the style of Louis Quatorze; that the tears of +Bayswater can possibly be compared for saltness with the +lachrymal fluid distilled from South Audley Street glands; that +the laughter of Clapham can be as catching as the cultured cackle +of Curzon Street? But we, whose best clothes are exhibited +only in parlours, what are we to do? How can we lay bare +the souls of Duchesses, explain the heart-throbs of peers of the +realm? Some of my friends who, being Conservative, attend +Primrose “tourneys” (or is it “Courts of +love”? I speak as an outsider. Something +mediæval, I know it is) do, it is true, occasionally +converse with titled ladies. But the period for +conversation is always limited owing to the impatience of the man +behind; and I doubt if the interview is ever of much practical +use to them, as conveying knowledge of the workings of the +aristocratic mind. Those of us who are not Primrose Knights +miss even this poor glimpse into the world above us. We +know nothing, simply nothing, concerning the deeper feelings of +the upper ten. Personally, I once received a letter from an +Earl, but that was in connection with a dairy company of which +his lordship was chairman, and spoke only of his lordship’s +views concerning milk and the advantages of the cash +system. Of what I really wished to know—his +lordship’s passions, yearnings and general attitude to +life—the circular said nothing.</p> +<p>Year by year I find myself more and more in a minority. +One by one my literary friends enter into this charmed +aristocratic circle; after which one hears no more from them +regarding the middle-classes. At once they set to work to +describe the mental sufferings of Grooms of the Bed-chamber, the +hidden emotions of Ladies in their own right, the religious +doubts of Marquises. I want to know how they do +it—“how the devil they get there.” They +refuse to tell me.</p> +<p>Meanwhile, I see nothing before me but the workhouse. +Year by year the public grows more impatient of literature +dealing merely with the middle-classes. I know nothing +about any other class. What am I to do?</p> +<p>Commonplace people—friends of mine without conscience, +counsel me in flippant phrase to “have a shot at +it.”</p> +<p>“I expect, old fellow, you know just as much about it as +these other Johnnies do.” (I am not defending their +conversation either as regards style or matter: I am merely +quoting.) “And even if you don’t, what does it +matter? The average reader knows less. How is he to +find you out?”</p> +<p>But, as I explain to them, it is the law of literature never +to write except about what you really know. I want to mix +with the aristocracy, study them, understand them; so that I may +earn my living in the only way a literary man nowadays can earn +his living, namely, by writing about the upper circles.</p> +<p>I want to know how to get there.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> +<h3>Man and his Master.</h3> +<p>There is one thing that the Anglo-Saxon does better than the +“French, or Turk, or Rooshian,” to which add the +German or the Belgian. When the Anglo-Saxon appoints an +official, he appoints a servant: when the others put a man in +uniform, they add to their long list of masters. If among +your acquaintances you can discover an American, or Englishman, +unfamiliar with the continental official, it is worth your while +to accompany him, the first time he goes out to post a letter, +say. He advances towards the post-office a breezy, +self-confident gentleman, borne up by pride of race. While +mounting the steps he talks airily of “just getting this +letter off his mind, and then picking up Jobson and going on to +Durand’s for lunch.”</p> +<p>He talks as if he had the whole day before him. At the +top of the steps he attempts to push open the door. It will +not move. He looks about him, and discovers that is the +door of egress, not of ingress. It does not seem to him +worth while redescending the twenty steps and climbing another +twenty. So far as he is concerned he is willing to pull the +door, instead of pushing it. But a stern official bars his +way, and haughtily indicates the proper entrance. +“Oh, bother,” he says, and down he trots again, and +up the other flight.</p> +<p>“I shall not be a minute,” he remarks over his +shoulder. “You can wait for me outside.”</p> +<p>But if you know your way about, you follow him in. There +are seats within, and you have a newspaper in your pocket: the +time will pass more pleasantly. Inside he looks round, +bewildered. The German post-office, generally speaking, is +about the size of the Bank of England. Some twenty +different windows confront your troubled friend, each one bearing +its own particular legend. Starting with number one, he +sets to work to spell them out. It appears to him that the +posting of letters is not a thing that the German post-office +desires to encourage. Would he not like a dog licence +instead? is what one window suggests to him. “Oh, +never mind that letter of yours; come and talk about +bicycles,” pleads another. At last he thinks he has +found the right hole: the word “Registration” he +distinctly recognizes. He taps at the glass.</p> +<p>Nobody takes any notice of him. The foreign official is +a man whose life is saddened by a public always wanting +something. You read it in his face wherever you go. +The man who sells you tickets for the theatre! He is eating +sandwiches when you knock at his window. He turns to his +companion:</p> +<p>“Good Lord!” you can see him say, +“here’s another of ’em. If there has been +one man worrying me this morning there have been a hundred. +Always the same story: all of ’em want to come and see the +play. You listen now; bet you anything he’s going to +bother me for tickets. Really, it gets on my nerves +sometimes.”</p> +<p>At the railway station it is just the same.</p> +<p>“Another man who wants to go to Antwerp! +Don’t seem to care for rest, these people: flying here, +flying there, what’s the sense of it?” It is +this absurd craze on the part of the public for letter-writing +that is spoiling the temper of the continental post-office +official. He does his best to discourage it.</p> +<p>“Look at them,” he says to his assistant—the +thoughtful German Government is careful to provide every official +with another official for company, lest by sheer force of +<i>ennui</i> he might be reduced to taking interest in his +work—“twenty of ’em, all in a row! Some +of ’em been there for the last quarter of an +hour.”</p> +<p>“Let ’em wait another quarter of an hour,” +advises the assistant; “perhaps they’ll go +away.”</p> +<p>“My dear fellow,” he answers, “do you think +I haven’t tried that? There’s simply no getting +rid of ’em. And it’s always the same cry: +‘Stamps! stamps! stamps!’ ’Pon my word, I +think they live on stamps, some of ’em.”</p> +<p>“Well let ’em have their stamps?” suggests +the assistant, with a burst of inspiration; “perhaps it +will get rid of ’em.”</p> +<h3>Why the Man in Uniform has, generally, sad Eyes.</h3> +<p>“What’s the use?” wearily replies the older +man. “There will only come a fresh crowd when those +are gone.”</p> +<p>“Oh, well,” argues the other, “that will be +a change, anyhow. I’m tired of looking at this +lot.”</p> +<p>I put it to a German post-office clerk once—a man I had +been boring for months. I said:</p> +<p>“You think I write these letters—these short +stories, these three-act plays—on purpose to annoy +you. Do let me try to get the idea out of your head. +Personally, I hate work—hate it as much as you do. +This is a pleasant little town of yours: given a free choice, I +could spend the whole day mooning round it, never putting pen to +paper. But what am I to do? I have a wife and +children. You know what it is yourself: they clamour for +food, boots—all sorts of things. I have to prepare +these little packets for sale and bring them to you to send +off. You see, you are here. If you were not +here—if there were no post-office in this town, maybe +I’d have to train pigeons, or cork the thing up in a +bottle, fling it into the river, and trust to luck and the Gulf +Stream. But, you being here, and calling yourself a +post-office—well, it’s a temptation to a +fellow.”</p> +<p>I think it did good. Anyhow, after that he used to grin +when I opened the door, instead of greeting me as formerly with a +face the picture of despair. But to return to our +inexperienced friend.</p> +<p>At last the wicket is suddenly opened. A peremptory +official demands of him “name and address.” Not +expecting the question, he is a little doubtful of his address, +and has to correct himself once or twice. The official eyes +him suspiciously.</p> +<p>“Name of mother?” continues the official.</p> +<p>“Name of what?”</p> +<p>“Mother!” repeats the official. “Had a +mother of some sort, I suppose.”</p> +<p>He is a man who loved his mother sincerely while she lived, +but she has been dead these twenty years, and, for the life of +him he cannot recollect her name. He thinks it was Margaret +Henrietta, but is not at all sure. Besides, what on earth +has his mother got to do with this registered letter that he +wants to send to his partner in New York?</p> +<p>“When did it die?” asks the official.</p> +<p>“When did what die? Mother?”</p> +<p>“No, no, the child.”</p> +<p>“What child?” The indignation of the +official is almost picturesque.</p> +<p>“All I want to do,” explains your friend, +“is to register a letter.”</p> +<p>“A what?”</p> +<p>“This letter, I want—”</p> +<p>The window is slammed in his face. When, ten minutes +later he does reach the right wicket—the bureau for the +registration of letters, and not the bureau for the registration +of infantile deaths—it is pointed out to him that the +letter either is sealed or that it is not sealed.</p> +<p>I have never been able yet to solve this problem. If +your letter is sealed, it then appears that it ought not to have +been sealed.</p> +<p>If, on the other hand, you have omitted to seal it, that is +your fault. In any case, the letter cannot go as it +is. The continental official brings up the public on the +principle of the nurse who sent the eldest girl to see what Tommy +was doing and tell him he mustn’t. Your friend, +having wasted half an hour and mislaid his temper for the day, +decides to leave this thing over and talk to the hotel porter +about it. Next to the Burgomeister, the hotel porter is the +most influential man in the continental town: maybe because he +can swear in seven different languages. But even he is not +omnipotent.</p> +<h3>The Traveller’s one Friend.</h3> +<p>Three of us, on the point of starting for a walking tour +through the Tyrol, once sent on our luggage by post from +Constance to Innsbruck. Our idea was that, reaching +Innsbruck in the height of the season, after a week’s tramp +on two flannel shirts and a change of socks, we should be glad to +get into fresh clothes before showing ourselves in civilized +society. Our bags were waiting for us in the post-office: +we could see them through the grating. But some +informality—I have never been able to understand what it +was—had occurred at Constance. The suspicion of the +Swiss postal authorities had been aroused, and special +instructions had been sent that the bags were to be delivered up +only to their rightful owners.</p> +<p>It sounds sensible enough. Nobody wants his bag +delivered up to anyone else. But it had not been explained +to the authorities at Innsbruck how they were to know the proper +owners. Three wretched-looking creatures crawled into the +post-office and said they wanted those three +bags—“those bags, there in the +corner”—which happened to be nice, clean, +respectable-looking bags, the sort of bags that anyone might +want. One of them produced a bit of paper, it is true, +which he said had been given to him as a receipt by the +post-office people at Constance. But in the lonely passes +of the Tyrol one man, set upon by three, might easily be robbed +of his papers, and his body thrown over a precipice. The +chief clerk shook his head. He would like us to return +accompanied by someone who could identify us. The hotel +porter occurred to us, as a matter of course. Keeping to +the back streets, we returned to the hotel and fished him out of +his box.</p> +<p>“I am Mr. J.,” I said: “this is my friend +Mr. B. and this is Mr. S.”</p> +<p>The porter bowed and said he was delighted.</p> +<p>“I want you to come with us to the post-office,” I +explained, “and identify us.”</p> +<p>The hotel porter is always a practical man: his calling robs +him of all sympathy with the hide-bound formality of his +compatriots. He put on his cap and accompanied us back to +the office. He did his best: no one could say he did +not. He told them who we were: they asked him how he +knew. For reply he asked them how they thought he knew his +mother: he just knew us: it was second nature with him. He +implied that the question was a silly one, and suggested that, as +his time was valuable, they should hand us over the three bags +and have done with their nonsense.</p> +<p>They asked him how long he had known us. He threw up his +hands with an eloquent gesture: memory refused to travel back +such distance. It appeared there was never a time when he +had not known us. We had been boys together.</p> +<p>Did he know anybody else who knew us? The question +appeared to him almost insulting. Everybody in Innsbruck +knew us, honoured us, respected us—everybody, that is, +except a few post-office officials, people quite out of +society.</p> +<p>Would he kindly bring along, say; one undoubtedly respectable +citizen who could vouch for our identity? The request +caused him to forget us and our troubles. The argument +became a personal quarrel between the porter and the clerk. +If he, the porter, was not a respectable citizen of Innsbruck, +where was such an one to be found?</p> +<h3>The disadvantage of being an unknown Person.</h3> +<p>Both gentlemen became excited, and the discussion passed +beyond my understanding. But I gathered dimly from what the +clerk said, that ill-natured remarks relative to the +porter’s grandfather and a missing cow had never yet been +satisfactorily replied to: and, from observations made by the +porter, that stories were in circulation about the clerk’s +aunt and a sergeant of artillery that should suggest to a +discreet nephew of the lady the inadvisability of talking about +other people’s grandfathers.</p> +<p>Our sympathies were naturally with the porter: he was our man, +but he did not seem to be advancing our cause much. We left +them quarrelling, and persuaded the head waiter that evening to +turn out the gas at our end of the <i>table +d’hôte</i>.</p> +<p>The next morning we returned to the post-office by +ourselves. The clerk proved a reasonable man when treated +in a friendly spirit. He was a bit of a climber +himself. He admitted the possibility of our being the +rightful owners. His instructions were only not to +<i>deliver up</i> the bags, and he himself suggested a way out of +the difficulty. We might come each day and dress in the +post-office, behind the screen. It was an awkward +arrangement, even although the clerk allowed us the use of the +back door. And occasionally, in spite of the utmost care, +bits of us would show outside the screen. But for a couple +of days, until the British Consul returned from Salzburg, the +post-office had to be our dressing room. The continental +official, I am inclined to think, errs on the side of +prudence.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> +<h3>If only we had not lost our Tails!</h3> +<p>A friend of mine thinks it a pity that we have lost our +tails. He argues it would be so helpful if, like the dog, +we possessed a tail that wagged when we were pleased, that stuck +out straight when we were feeling mad.</p> +<p>“Now, do come and see us again soon,” says our +hostess; “don’t wait to be asked. Drop in +whenever you are passing.”</p> +<p>We take her at her word. The servant who answers our +knocking says she “will see.” There is a +scuffling of feet, a murmur of hushed voices, a swift opening and +closing of doors. We are shown into the drawing-room, the +maid, breathless from her search, one supposes, having discovered +that her mistress <i>is</i> at home. We stand upon the +hearthrug, clinging to our hat and stick as to things friendly +and sympathetic: the suggestion forcing itself upon us is that of +a visit to the dentist.</p> +<p>Our hostess enters wreathed in smiles. Is she really +pleased to see us, or is she saying to herself, “Drat the +man! Why must he choose the very morning I had intended to +fix up the clean curtains?”</p> +<p>But she has to pretend to be delighted, and ask us to stay to +lunch. It would save us hours of anxiety could we look +beyond her smiling face to her tail peeping out saucily from a +placket-hole. Is it wagging, or is it standing out rigid at +right angles from her skirt?</p> +<p>But I fear by this time we should have taught our tails polite +behaviour. We should have schooled them to wag +enthusiastically the while we were growling savagely to +ourselves. Man put on insincerity to hide his mind when he +made himself a garment of fig-leaves to hide his body.</p> +<p>One sometimes wonders whether he has gained so very +much. A small acquaintance of mine is being brought up on +strange principles. Whether his parents are mad or not is a +matter of opinion. Their ideas are certainly +peculiar. They encourage him rather than otherwise to tell +the truth on all occasions. I am watching the experiment +with interest. If you ask him what he thinks of you, he +tells you. Some people don’t ask him a second +time. They say:</p> +<p>“What a very rude little boy you are!”</p> +<p>“But you insisted upon it,” he explains; “I +told you I’d rather not say.”</p> +<p>It does not comfort them in the least. Yet the result +is, he is already an influence. People who have braved the +ordeal, and emerged successfully, go about with swelled head.</p> +<h3>And little Boys would always tell the Truth!</h3> +<p>Politeness would seem to have been invented for the comfort of +the undeserving. We let fall our rain of compliments upon +the unjust and the just without distinction. Every hostess +has provided us with the most charming evening of our life. +Every guest has conferred a like blessing upon us by accepting +our invitation. I remember a dear good lady in a small +south German town organizing for one winter’s day a +sleighing party to the woods. A sleighing party differs +from a picnic. The people who want each other cannot go off +together and lose themselves, leaving the bores to find only each +other. You are in close company from early morn till late +at night. We were to drive twenty miles, six in a sledge, +dine together in a lonely <i>Wirtschaft</i>, dance and sing +songs, and afterwards drive home by moonlight. Success +depends on every member of the company fitting into his place and +assisting in the general harmony. Our chieftainess was +fixing the final arrangements the evening before in the +drawing-room of the <i>pension</i>. One place was still to +spare.</p> +<p>“Tompkins!”</p> +<p>Two voices uttered the name simultaneously; three others +immediately took up the refrain. Tompkins was our +man—the cheeriest, merriest companion imaginable. +Tompkins alone could be trusted to make the affair a +success. Tompkins, who had only arrived that afternoon, was +pointed out to our chieftainess. We could hear his +good-tempered laugh from where we sat, grouped together at the +other end of the room. Our chieftainess rose, and made for +him direct.</p> +<p>Alas! she was a short-sighted lady—we had not thought of +that. She returned in triumph, followed by a dismal-looking +man I had met the year before in the Black Forest, and had hoped +never to meet again. I drew her aside.</p> +<p>“Whatever you do,” I said, “don’t ask +--- ” (I forget his name. One of these days +I’ll forget him altogether, and be happier. I will +call him Johnson.) “He would turn the whole thing +into a funeral before we were half-way there. I climbed a +mountain with him once. He makes you forget all your other +troubles; that is the only thing he is good for.”</p> +<p>“But who is Johnson?” she demanded. +“Why, that’s Johnson,” I +explained—“the thing you’ve brought over. +Why on earth didn’t you leave it alone? Where’s +your woman’s instinct?”</p> +<p>“Great heavens!” she cried, “I thought it +was Tompkins. I’ve invited him, and he’s +accepted.”</p> +<p>She was a stickler for politeness, and would not hear of his +being told that he had been mistaken for an agreeable man, but +that the error, most fortunately, had been discovered in +time. He started a row with the driver of the sledge, and +devoted the journey outwards to an argument on the fiscal +question. He told the proprietor of the hotel what he +thought of German cooking, and insisted on having the windows +open. One of our party—a German student—sang, +“Deutschland, Deutschland über +alles,”—which led to a heated discussion on the +proper place of sentiment in literature, and a general +denunciation by Johnson of Teutonic characteristics in +general. We did not dance. Johnson said that, of +course, he spoke only for himself, but the sight of middle-aged +ladies and gentlemen catching hold of each other round the middle +and jigging about like children was to him rather a saddening +spectacle, but to the young such gambolling was natural. +Let the young ones indulge themselves. Only four of our +party could claim to be under thirty with any hope of +success. They were kind enough not to impress the fact upon +us. Johnson enlivened the journey back by a searching +analysis of enjoyment: Of what did it really consist?</p> +<p>Yet, on wishing him “Good-night,” our chieftainess +thanked him for his company in precisely the same terms she would +have applied to Tompkins, who, by unflagging good humour and +tact, would have made the day worth remembering to us all for all +time.</p> +<h3>And everyone obtained his just Deserts!</h3> +<p>We pay dearly for our want of sincerity. We are denied +the payment of praise: it has ceased to have any value. +People shake me warmly by the hand and tell me that they like my +books. It only bores me. Not that I am superior to +compliment—nobody is—but because I cannot be sure +that they mean it. They would say just the same had they +never read a line I had written. If I visit a house and +find a book of mine open face downwards on the window-seat, it +sends no thrill of pride through my suspicious mind. As +likely as not, I tell myself, the following is the conversation +that has taken place between my host and hostess the day before +my arrival:</p> +<p>“Don’t forget that man J--- is coming down +to-morrow.”</p> +<p>“To-morrow! I wish you would tell me of these +things a little earlier.”</p> +<p>“I did tell you—told you last week. Your +memory gets worse every day.”</p> +<p>“You certainly never told me, or I should have +remembered it. Is he anybody important?”</p> +<p>“Oh, no; writes books.”</p> +<p>“What sort of books?—I mean, is he quite +respectable?”</p> +<p>“Of course, or I should not have invited him. +These sort of people go everywhere nowadays. By the by, +have we got any of his books about the house?”</p> +<p>“I don’t think so. I’ll look and +see. If you had let me know in time I could have ordered +one from Mudie’s.”</p> +<p>“Well, I’ve got to go to town; I’ll make +sure of it, and buy one.”</p> +<p>“Seems a pity to waste money. Won’t you be +going anywhere near Mudie’s?”</p> +<p>“Looks more appreciative to have bought a copy. It +will do for a birthday present for someone.”</p> +<p>On the other hand, the conversation may have been very +different. My hostess may have said:</p> +<p>“Oh, I <i>am</i> glad he’s coming. I have +been longing to meet him for years.”</p> +<p>She may have bought my book on the day of publication, and be +reading it through for the second time. She may, by pure +accident, have left it on her favourite seat beneath the +window. The knowledge that insincerity is our universal +garment has reduced all compliment to meaningless formula. +A lady one evening at a party drew me aside. The chief +guest—a famous writer—had just arrived.</p> +<p>“Tell me,” she said, “I have so little time +for reading, what has he done?”</p> +<p>I was on the point of replying when an inveterate wag, who had +overheard her, interposed between us.</p> +<p>“‘The Cloister and the Hearth,’” he +told her, “and ‘Adam Bede.’”</p> +<p>He happened to know the lady well. She has a good heart, +but was ever muddle-headed. She thanked that wag with a +smile, and I heard her later in the evening boring most evidently +that literary lion with elongated praise of the “Cloister +and the Hearth” and “Adam Bede.” They +were among the few books she had ever read, and talking about +them came easily to her. She told me afterwards that she +had found that literary lion a charming man, but—</p> +<p>“Well,” she laughed, “he has got a good +opinion of himself. He told me he considered both books +among the finest in the English language.”</p> +<p>It is as well always to make a note of the author’s +name. Some people never do—more particularly +playgoers. A well-known dramatic author told me he once +took a couple of colonial friends to a play of his own. It +was after a little dinner at Kettner’s; they suggested the +theatre, and he thought he would give them a treat. He did +not mention to them that he was the author, and they never looked +at the programme. Their faces as the play proceeded +lengthened; it did not seem to be their school of comedy. +At the end of the first act they sprang to their feet.</p> +<p>“Let’s chuck this rot,” suggested one.</p> +<p>“Let’s go to the Empire,” suggested the +other. The well-known dramatist followed them out. He +thinks the fault must have been with the dinner.</p> +<p>A young friend of mine—a man of good +family—contracted a <i>mésalliance</i>: that is, he +married the daughter of a Canadian farmer, a frank, amiable girl, +bewitchingly pretty, with more character in her little finger +than some girls possess in their whole body. I met him one +day, some three months after his return to London.</p> +<h3>And only people would do Parlour Tricks who do them +well!</h3> +<p>“Well,” I asked him, “how is it +shaping?”</p> +<p>“She is the dearest girl in the world,” he +answered. “She has only got one fault; she believes +what people say.”</p> +<p>“She will get over that,” I suggested.</p> +<p>“I hope she does,” he replied; “it’s +awkward at present.”</p> +<p>“I can see it leading her into difficulty,” I +agreed.</p> +<p>“She is not accomplished,” he continued. He +seemed to wish to talk about it to a sympathetic listener. +“She never pretended to be accomplished. I did not +marry her for her accomplishments. But now she is beginning +to think she must have been accomplished all the time, without +knowing it. She plays the piano like a schoolgirl on a +parents’ visiting-day. She told them she did not +play—not worth listening to—at least, she began by +telling them so. They insisted that she did, that they had +heard about her playing, and were thirsting to enjoy it. +She is good nature itself. She would stand on her head if +she thought it would give real joy to anyone. She took it +they really wanted to hear her, and so let ’em have +it. They tell her that her touch is something quite out of +the common—which is the truth, if only she could understand +it—why did she never think of taking up music as a +profession? By this time she is wondering herself that she +never did. They are not satisfied with hearing her +once. They ask for more, and they get it. The other +evening I had to keep quiet on my chair while she thumped through +four pieces one after the other, including the Beethoven +Sonata. We knew it was the Beethoven Sonata. She told +us before she started it was going to be the Beethoven Sonata, +otherwise, for all any of us could have guessed, it might have +been the ‘Battle of Prague.’ We all sat round +with wooden faces, staring at our boots. Afterwards those +of them that couldn’t get near enough to her to make a fool +of her crowded round me. Wanted to know why I had never +told them I had discovered a musical prodigy. I’ll +lose my temper one day and pull somebody’s nose, I feel I +shall. She’s got a recitation; whether intended to be +serious or comic I had never been able to make up my mind. +The way she gives it confers upon it all the disadvantages of +both. It is chiefly concerned with an angel and a +child. But a dog comes into it about the middle, and from +that point onward it is impossible to tell who is +talking—sometimes you think it is the angel, and then it +sounds more like the dog. The child is the easiest to +follow: it talks all the time through its nose. If I have +heard that recitation once I have heard it fifty times; and now +she is busy learning an encore.</p> +<h3>And all the World had Sense!</h3> +<p>“What hurts me most,” he went on, “is having +to watch her making herself ridiculous. Yet what am I to +do? If I explain things to her she will be miserable and +ashamed of herself; added to which her frankness—perhaps +her greatest charm—will be murdered. The trouble runs +through everything. She won’t take my advice about +her frocks. She laughs, and repeats to me—well, the +lies that other women tell a girl who is spoiling herself by +dressing absurdly; especially when she is a pretty girl and they +are anxious she should go on spoiling herself. She bought a +hat last week, one day when I was not with her. It only +wants the candles to look like a Christmas tree. They +insist on her taking it off so they may examine it more closely, +with the idea of having one built like it for themselves; and she +sits by delighted, and explains to them the secret of the +thing. We get to parties half an hour before the opening +time; she is afraid of being a minute late. They have told +her that the party can’t begin without +her—isn’t worth calling a party till she’s +there. We are always the last to go. The other people +don’t matter, but if she goes they will feel the whole +thing has been a failure. She is dead for want of sleep, +and they are sick and tired of us; but if I look at my watch they +talk as if their hearts were breaking, and she thinks me a brute +for wanting to leave friends so passionately attached to us.</p> +<p>“Why do we all play this silly game; what is the sense +of it?” he wanted to know.</p> +<p>I could not tell him.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> +<h3>Fire and the Foreigner.</h3> +<p>They are odd folk, these foreigners. There are moments +of despair when I almost give them up—feel I don’t +care what becomes of them—feel as if I could let them +muddle on in their own way—wash my hands of them, so to +speak, and attend exclusively to my own business: we all have our +days of feebleness. They will sit outside a café on +a freezing night, with an east wind blowing, and play +dominoes. They will stand outside a tramcar, rushing +through the icy air at fifteen miles an hour, and refuse to go +inside, even to oblige a lady. Yet in railway carriages, in +which you could grill a bloater by the simple process of laying +it underneath the seat, they will insist on the window being +closed, light cigars to keep their noses warm, and sit with the +collars of their fur coats buttoned up around their necks.</p> +<p>In their houses they keep the double windows hermetically +sealed for three or four months at a time: and the hot air +quivering about the stoves scorches your face if you venture +nearer to it than a yard. Travel can broaden the +mind. It can also suggest to the Britisher that in some +respects his countrymen are nothing near so silly as they are +supposed to be. There was a time when I used to sit with my +legs stretched out before the English coal fire and listen with +respectful attention while people who I thought knew all about it +explained to me how wicked and how wasteful were our methods.</p> +<p>All the heat from that fire, they told me, was going up the +chimney. I did not like to answer them that notwithstanding +I felt warm and cosy. I feared it might be merely British +stupidity that kept me warm and cosy, not the fire at all. +How could it be the fire? The heat from the fire was going +up the chimney. It was the glow of ignorance that was +making my toes tingle. Besides, if by sitting close in +front of the fire and looking hard at it, I did contrive, by +hypnotic suggestion, maybe, to fancy myself warm, what should I +feel like at the other end of the room?</p> +<p>It seemed like begging the question to reply that I had no +particular use for the other end of the room, that generally +speaking there was room enough about the fire for all the people +I really cared for, that sitting altogether round the fire seemed +quite as sensible as sulking by one’s self in a corner the +other end of the room, that the fire made a cheerful and +convenient focus for family and friends. They pointed out +to me how a stove, blocking up the centre of the room, with a +dingy looking fluepipe wandering round the ceiling, would enable +us to sit ranged round the walls, like patients in a hospital +waiting-room, and use up coke and potato-peelings.</p> +<p>Since then I have had practical experience of the scientific +stove. I want the old-fashioned, unsanitary, wasteful, +illogical, open fireplace. I want the heat to go up the +chimney, instead of stopping in the room and giving me a +headache, and making everything go round. When I come in +out of the snow I want to see a fire—something that says to +me with a cheerful crackle, “Hallo, old man, cold outside, +isn’t it? Come and sit down. Come quite close +and warm your hands. That’s right, put your foot +under him and persuade him to move a yard or two. +That’s all he’s been doing for the last hour, lying +there roasting himself, lazy little devil. He’ll get +softening of the spine, that’s what will happen to +him. Put your toes on the fender. The tea will be +here in a minute.”</p> +<h3>My British Stupidity.</h3> +<p>I want something that I can toast my back against, while +standing with coat tails tucked up and my hands in my pockets, +explaining things to people. I don’t want a +comfortless, staring, white thing, in a corner of the room, +behind the sofa—a thing that looks and smells like a family +tomb. It may be hygienic, and it may be hot, but it does +not seem to do me any good. It has its advantages: it +contains a cupboard into which you can put things to dry. +You can also forget them, and leave them there. Then people +complain of a smell of burning, and hope the house is not on +fire, and you ease their mind by explaining to them that it is +probably only your boots. Complicated internal arrangements +are worked by a key. If you put on too much fuel, and do +not work this key properly, the thing explodes. And if you +do not put on any coal at all and the fire goes out suddenly, +then likewise it explodes. That is the only way it knows of +calling attention to itself. On the Continent you know when +the fire wants seeing to merely by listening:</p> +<p>“Sounded like the dining-room, that last +explosion,” somebody remarks.</p> +<p>“I think not,” observes another, “I +distinctly felt the shock behind me—my bedroom, I +expect.”</p> +<p>Bits of ceiling begin to fall, and you notice that the mirror +over the sideboard is slowly coming towards you.</p> +<p>“Why it must be this stove,” you say; +“curious how difficult it is to locate sound.”</p> +<p>You snatch up the children and hurry out of the room. +After a while, when things have settled down, you venture to look +in again. Maybe it was only a mild explosion. A +ten-pound note and a couple of plumbers in the house for a week +will put things right again. They tell me they are +economical, these German stoves, but you have got to understand +them. I think I have learnt the trick of them at last: and +I don’t suppose, all told, it has cost me more than fifty +pounds. And now I am trying to teach the rest of the +family. What I complain about the family is that they do +not seem anxious to learn.</p> +<p>“You do it,” they say, pressing the coal scoop +into my hand: “it makes us nervous.”</p> +<p>It is a pretty, patriarchal idea: I stand between the +trusting, admiring family and these explosive stoves that are the +terror of their lives. They gather round me in a group and +watch me, the capable, all-knowing Head who fears no foreign +stove. But there are days when I get tired of going round +making up fires.</p> +<p>Nor is it sufficient to understand only one particular +stove. The practical foreigner prides himself upon having +various stoves, adapted to various work. Hitherto I have +been speaking only of the stove supposed to be best suited to +reception rooms and bedrooms. The hall is provided with +another sort of stove altogether: an iron stove this, that turns +up its nose at coke and potato-peelings. If you give it +anything else but the best coal it explodes. It is like +living surrounded by peppery old colonels, trying to pass a +peaceful winter among these passionate stoves. There is a +stove in the kitchen to be used only for roasting: this one will +not look at anything else but wood. Give it a bit of coal, +meaning to be kind, and before you are out of the room it has +exploded.</p> +<p>Then there is a trick stove specially popular in +Belgium. It has a little door at the top and another little +door at the bottom, and looks like a pepper-caster. Whether +it is happy or not depends upon those two little doors. +There are times when it feels it wants the bottom door shut and +the top door open, or <i>vice versâ</i>, or both open at +the same time, or both shut—it is a fussy little stove.</p> +<p>Ordinary intelligence does not help you much with this +stove. You want to be bred in the country. It is a +question of instinct: you have to have Belgian blood in your +veins to get on comfortably with it. On the whole, it is a +mild little stove, this Belgian pet. It does not often +explode: it only gets angry, and throws its cover into the air, +and flings hot coals about the room. It lives, generally +speaking, inside an iron cupboard with two doors. When you +want it, you open these doors, and pull it out into the +room. It works on a swivel. And when you don’t +want it you try to push it back again, and then the whole thing +tumbles over, and the girl throws her hands up to Heaven and +says, “Mon Dieu!” and screams for the cook and the +<i>femme journée</i>, and they all three say “Mon +Dieu!” and fall upon it with buckets of water. By the +time everything has been extinguished you have made up your mind +to substitute for it just the ordinary explosive stove to which +you are accustomed.</p> +<h3>I am considered Cold and Mad.</h3> +<p>In your own house you can, of course, open the windows, and +thus defeat the foreign stove. The rest of the street +thinks you mad, but then the Englishman is considered by all +foreigners to be always mad. It is his privilege to be +mad. The street thinks no worse of you than it did before, +and you can breathe in comfort. But in the railway carriage +they don’t allow you to be mad. In Europe, unless you +are prepared to draw at sight upon the other passengers, throw +the conductor out of the window, and take the train in by +yourself, it is useless arguing the question of fresh air. +The rule abroad is that if any one man objects to the window +being open, the window remains closed. He does not quarrel +with you: he rings the bell, and points out to the conductor that +the temperature of the carriage has sunk to little more than +ninety degrees, Fahrenheit. He thinks a window must be +open.</p> +<p>The conductor is generally an old soldier: he understands +being shot, he understands being thrown out of window, but not +the laws of sanitation. If, as I have explained, you shoot +him, or throw him out on the permanent way, that convinces +him. He leaves you to discuss the matter with the second +conductor, who, by your action, has now, of course, become the +first conductor. As there are generally half a dozen of +these conductors scattered about the train, the process of +educating them becomes monotonous. You generally end by +submitting to the law.</p> +<p>Unless you happen to be an American woman. Never did my +heart go out more gladly to America as a nation than one spring +day travelling from Berne to Vevey. We had been sitting for +an hour in an atmosphere that would have rendered a Dante +disinclined to notice things. Dante, after ten minutes in +that atmosphere, would have lost all interest in the show. +He would not have asked questions. He would have whispered +to Virgil:</p> +<p>“Get me out of this, old man, there’s a good +fellow!”</p> +<h3>Sometimes I wish I were an American Woman.</h3> +<p>The carriage was crowded, chiefly with Germans. Every +window was closed, every ventilator shut. The hot air +quivered round our feet. Seventeen men and four women were +smoking, two children were sucking peppermints, and an old +married couple were eating their lunch, consisting chiefly of +garlic. At a junction, the door was thrown open. The +foreigner opens the door a little way, glides in, and closes it +behind him. This was not a foreigner, but an American lady, +<i>en voyage</i>, accompanied by five other American +ladies. They marched in carrying packages. They could +not find six seats together, so they scattered up and down the +carriage. The first thing that each woman did, the moment +she could get her hands free, was to dash for the nearest window +and haul it down.</p> +<p>“Astonishes me,” said the first woman, “that +somebody is not dead in this carriage.”</p> +<p>Their idea, I think, was that through asphyxiation we had +become comatose, and, but for their entrance, would have died +unconscious.</p> +<p>“It is a current of air that is wanted,” said +another of the ladies.</p> +<p>So they opened the door at the front of the carriage and four +of them stood outside on the platform, chatting pleasantly and +admiring the scenery, while two of them opened the door at the +other end, and took photographs of the Lake of Geneva. The +carriage rose and cursed them in six languages. Bells were +rung: conductors came flying in. It was all of no +use. Those American ladies were cheerful but firm. +They argued with volubility: they argued standing in the open +doorway. The conductors, familiar, no doubt, with the +American lady and her ways, shrugged their shoulders and +retired. The other passengers undid their bags and bundles, +and wrapped themselves up in shawls and Jaeger nightshirts.</p> +<p>I met the ladies afterwards in Lausanne. They told me +they had been condemned to a fine of forty francs apiece. +They also explained to me that they had not the slightest +intention of paying it.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> +<h3>Too much Postcard.</h3> +<p>The postcard craze is dying out in Germany—the land of +its birth—I am told. In Germany they do things +thoroughly, or not at all. The German when he took to +sending postcards abandoned almost every other pursuit in +life. The German tourist never knew where he had been until +on reaching home again he asked some friend or relation to allow +him to look over the postcards he had sent. Then it was he +began to enjoy his trip.</p> +<p>“What a charming old town!” the German tourist +would exclaim. “I wish I could have found time while +I was there to have gone outside the hotel and have had a look +round. Still, it is pleasant to think one has been +there.”</p> +<p>“I suppose you did not have much time?” his friend +would suggest.</p> +<p>“We did not get there till the evening,” the +tourist would explain. “We were busy till dark buying +postcards, and then in the morning there was the writing and +addressing to be done, and when that was over, and we had had our +breakfast, it was time to leave again.”</p> +<p>He would take up another card showing the panorama from a +mountain top.</p> +<p>“Sublime! colossal!” he would cry +enraptured. “If I had known it was anything like +that, I’d have stopped another day and had a look at +it.”</p> +<p>It was always worth seeing, the arrival of a party of German +tourists in a Schwartzwald village. Leaping from the coach +they would surge round the solitary gendarme.</p> +<p>“Where is the postcard shop?” “Tell +us—we have only two hours—where do we get +postcards?”</p> +<p>The gendarme, scenting <i>Trinkgeld</i>, would head them at +the double-quick: stout old gentlemen unaccustomed to the +double-quick, stouter Frauen gathering up their skirts with utter +disregard to all propriety, slim <i>Fräulein</i> clinging to +their beloved would run after him. Nervous pedestrians +would fly for safety into doorways, careless loiterers would be +swept into the gutter.</p> +<p>In the narrow doorway of the postcard shop trouble would +begin. The cries of suffocated women and trampled children, +the curses of strong men, would rend the air. The German is +a peaceful, law-abiding citizen, but in the hunt for postcards he +was a beast. A woman would pounce on a tray of cards, +commence selecting, suddenly the tray would be snatched from +her. She would burst into tears, and hit the person nearest +to her with her umbrella. The cunning and the strong would +secure the best cards. The weak and courteous be left with +pictures of post offices and railway stations. Torn and +dishevelled, the crowd would rush back to the hotel, sweep +crockery from the table, and—sucking stumpy +pencils—write feverishly. A hurried meal would +follow. Then the horses would be put to again, the German +tourists would climb back to their places and be driven away, +asking of the coachman what the name of the place they had just +left might happen to be.</p> +<h3>The Postcard as a Family Curse.</h3> +<p>One presumes that even to the patient German the thing grew +tiresome. In the <i>Fliegende Blätter</i> two young +clerks were represented discussing the question of summer +holidays.</p> +<p>“Where are you going?” asks A of B.</p> +<p>“Nowhere,” answers B.</p> +<p>“Can’t you afford it?” asks the sympathetic +A.</p> +<p>“Only been able to save up enough for the +postcards,” answers B, gloomily; “no money left for +the trip.”</p> +<p>Men and women carried bulky volumes containing the names and +addresses of the people to whom they had promised to send +cards. Everywhere, through winding forest glade, by silver +sea, on mountain pathway, one met with prematurely aged looking +tourists muttering as they walked:</p> +<p>“Did I send Aunt Gretchen a postcard from that last +village that we stopped at, or did I address two to Cousin +Lisa?”</p> +<p>Then, again, maybe, the picture postcard led to +disappointment. Uninteresting towns clamoured, as +ill-favoured spinsters in a photographic studio, to be made +beautiful.</p> +<p>“I want,” says the lady, “a photograph my +friends will really like. Some of these second-rate +photographers make one look quite plain. I don’t want +you to flatter me, if you understand, I merely want something +nice.”</p> +<p>The obliging photographer does his best. The nose is +carefully toned down, the wart becomes a dimple, her own husband +doesn’t know her. The postcard artist has ended by +imagining everything as it might have been.</p> +<p>“If it were not for the houses,” says the postcard +artist to himself, “this might have been a picturesque old +High street of mediæval aspect.”</p> +<p>So he draws a picture of the High street as it might have +been. The lover of quaint architecture travels out of his +way to see it, and when he finds it and contrasts it with the +picture postcard he gets mad. I bought a postcard myself +once representing the market place of a certain French +town. It seemed to me, looking at the postcard, that I +hadn’t really seen France—not yet. I travelled +nearly a hundred miles to see that market place. I was +careful to arrive on market day and to get there at the right +time. I reached the market square and looked at it. +Then I asked a gendarme where it was.</p> +<p>He said it was there—that I was in it.</p> +<p>I said, “I don’t mean this one, I want the other +one, the picturesque one.”</p> +<p>He said it was the only market square they had. I took +the postcard from my pocket.</p> +<p>“Where are all the girls?” I asked him.</p> +<p>“What girls?” he demanded.</p> +<h3>The Artist’s Dream.</h3> +<p>“Why, these girls;” I showed him the postcard, +there ought to have been about a hundred of them. There was +not a plain one among the lot. Many of them I should have +called beautiful. They were selling flowers and fruit, all +kinds of fruit—cherries, strawberries, rosy-cheeked apples, +luscious grapes—all freshly picked and sparkling with +dew. The gendarme said he had never seen any +girls—not in this particular square. Referring +casually to the blood of saints and martyrs, he said he would +like to see a few girls in that town worth looking at. In +the square itself sat six motherly old souls round a +lamp-post. One of them had a moustache, and was smoking a +pipe, but in other respects, I have no doubt, was all a woman +should be. Two of them were selling fish. That is +they would have sold fish, no doubt, had anyone been there to buy +fish. The gaily clad thousands of eager purchasers pictured +in the postcard were represented by two workmen in blue blouses +talking at a corner, mostly with their fingers; a small boy +walking backwards, with the idea apparently of not missing +anything behind him, and a yellow dog that sat on the kerb, and +had given up all hope—judging from his expression—of +anything ever happening again. With the gendarme and +myself, these four were the only living creatures in the +square. The rest of the market consisted of eggs and a few +emaciated fowls hanging from a sort of broom handle.</p> +<p>“And where’s the cathedral?” I asked the +gendarme. It was a Gothic structure in the postcard of +evident antiquity. He said there had once been a +cathedral. It was now a brewery; he pointed it out to +me. He said he thought some portion of the original south +wall had been retained. He thought the manager of the +brewery might be willing to show it to me.</p> +<p>“And the fountain?” I demanded, “and all +these doves!”</p> +<p>He said there had been talk of a fountain. He believed +the design had already been prepared.</p> +<p>I took the next train back. I do not now travel much out +of my way to see the original of the picture postcard. +Maybe others have had like experience and the picture postcard as +a guide to the Continent has lost its value.</p> +<p>The dealer has fallen back upon the eternal feminine. +The postcard collector is confined to girls. Through the +kindness of correspondents I possess myself some fifty to a +hundred girls, or perhaps it would be more correct to say one +girl in fifty to a hundred different hats. I have her in +big hats, I have her in small hats, I have her in no hat at +all. I have her smiling, and I have her looking as if she +had lost her last sixpence. I have her overdressed, I have +her decidedly underdressed, but she is much the same girl. +Very young men cannot have too many of her, but myself I am +getting tired of her. I suppose it is the result of growing +old.</p> +<h3>Why not the Eternal Male for a change?</h3> +<p>Girls of my acquaintance are also beginning to grumble at +her. I often think it hard on girls that the artist so +neglects the eternal male. Why should there not be +portraits of young men in different hats; young men in big hats, +young men in little hats, young men smiling archly, young men +looking noble. Girls don’t want to decorate their +rooms with pictures of other girls, they want rows of young men +beaming down upon them.</p> +<p>But possibly I am sinning my mercies. A father hears +what young men don’t. The girl in real life is +feeling it keenly: the impossible standard set for her by the +popular artist.</p> +<p>“Real skirts don’t hang like that,” she +grumbles, “it’s not in the nature of skirts. +You can’t have feet that size. It isn’t our +fault, they are not made. Look at those waists! There +would be no room to put anything?”</p> +<p>“Nature, in fashioning woman, has not yet crept up to +the artistic ideal. The young man studies the picture on +the postcard; on the coloured almanack given away at Christmas by +the local grocer; on the advertisement of Jones’ soap, and +thinks with discontent of Polly Perkins, who in a natural way is +as pretty a girl as can be looked for in this imperfect +world. Thus it is that woman has had to take to shorthand +and typewriting. Modern woman is being ruined by the +artist.</p> +<h3>How Women are ruined by Art.</h3> +<p>Mr. Anstey tells a story of a young barber who fell in love +with his own wax model. All day he dreamed of the +impossible. She—the young lady of wax-like +complexion, with her everlasting expression of dignity combined +with amiability. No girl of his acquaintance could compete +with her. If I remember rightly he died a bachelor, still +dreaming of wax-like perfection. Perhaps it is as well we +men are not handicapped to the same extent. If every +hoarding, if every picture shop window, if every illustrated +journal teemed with illustrations of the ideal young man in +perfect fitting trousers that never bagged at the knees! +Maybe it would result in our cooking our own breakfasts and +making our own beds to the end of our lives.</p> +<p>The novelist and playwright, as it is, have made things +difficult enough for us. In books and plays the young man +makes love with a flow of language, a wealth of imagery, that +must have taken him years to acquire. What does the +novel-reading girl think, I wonder, when the real young man +proposes to her! He has not called her anything in +particular. Possibly he has got as far as suggesting she is +a duck or a daisy, or hinting shyly that she is his bee or his +honeysuckle: in his excitement he is not quite sure which. +In the novel she has been reading the hero has likened the +heroine to half the vegetable kingdom. Elementary astronomy +has been exhausted in his attempt to describe to her the +impression her appearance leaves on him. Bond Street has +been sacked in his endeavour to get it clearly home to her what +different parts of her are like—her eyes, her teeth, her +heart, her hair, her ears. Delicacy alone prevents his +extending the catalogue. A Fiji Island lover might possibly +go further. We have not yet had the Fiji Island +novel. By the time he is through with it she must have a +somewhat confused notion of herself—a vague conviction that +she is a sort of condensed South Kensington Museum.</p> +<h3>Difficulty of living up to the Poster.</h3> +<p>Poor Angelina must feel dissatisfied with the Edwin of real +life. I am not sure that art and fiction have not made life +more difficult for us than even it was intended to be. The +view from the mountain top is less extensive than represented by +the picture postcard. The play, I fear me, does not always +come up to the poster. Polly Perkins is pretty enough as +girls go; but oh for the young lady of the grocer’s +almanack! Poor dear John is very nice and loves us—so +he tells us, in his stupid, halting way; but how can we respond +when we remember how the man loved in the play! The +“artist has fashioned his dream of delight,” and the +workaday world by comparison seems tame to us.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> +<h3>The Lady and the Problem.</h3> +<p>She is a good woman, the Heroine of the Problem Play, but +accidents will happen, and other people were to blame.</p> +<p>Perhaps that is really the Problem: who was responsible for +the heroine’s past? Was it her father? She does +not say so—not in so many words. That is not her +way. It is not for her, the silently-suffering victim of +complicated antecedent incidents, to purchase justice for herself +by pointing the finger of accusation against him who, whatever +his faults may be, was once, at all events, her father. +That one fact in his favour she can never forget. Indeed +she would not if she could. That one asset, for whatever it +may be worth by the time the Day of Judgment arrives, he shall +retain. It shall not be taken from him. “After +all he was my father.” She admits it, with the accent +on the “was.” That he is so no longer, he has +only himself to blame. His subsequent behaviour has +apparently rendered it necessary for her to sever the +relationship.</p> +<p>“I love you,” she has probably said to him, +paraphrasing Othello’s speech to Cassio; “it is my +duty, and—as by this time you must be aware—it is my +keen if occasionally somewhat involved, sense of duty that is the +cause of almost all our troubles in this play. You will +always remain the object of what I cannot help feeling is +misplaced affection on my part, mingled with contempt. But +never more be relative of mine.”</p> +<p>Certain it is that but for her father she would never have had +a past. Failing anyone else on whom to lay the blame for +whatever the lady may have done, we can generally fall back upon +the father. He becomes our sheet-anchor, so to speak. +There are plays in which at first sight it would almost appear +there was nobody to blame—nobody, except the heroine +herself. It all seems to happen just because she is no +better than she ought to be: clearly, the father’s fault! +for ever having had a daughter no better than she ought to +be. As the Heroine of a certain Problem Play once put it +neatly and succinctly to the old man himself: “It is you +parents that make us children what we are.” She had +him there. He had not a word to answer for himself, but +went off centre, leaving his hat behind him.</p> +<p>Sometimes, however, the father is merely a +“Scientist”—which in Stageland is another term +for helpless imbecile. In Stageland, if a gentleman has not +got to have much brain and you do not know what else to make of +him, you let him be a scientist—and then, of course, he is +only to blame in a minor degree. If he had not been a +scientist—thinking more of his silly old stars or beetles +than of his intricate daughter, he might have done +something. The heroine does not say precisely what: perhaps +have taken her up stairs now and again, while she was still young +and susceptible of improvement, and have spanked some sense into +her.</p> +<h3>The Stage Hero who, for once, had Justice done to him.</h3> +<p>I remember witnessing long ago, in a country barn, a highly +moral play. It was a Problem Play, now I come to think of +it. At least, that is, it would have been a Problem Play +but that the party with the past happened in this case to be +merely a male thing. Stage life presents no problems to the +man. The hero of the Problem Play has not got to wonder +what to do; he has got to wonder only what the heroine will do +next. The hero—he was not exactly the hero; he would +have been the hero had he not been hanged in the last act. +But for that he was rather a nice young man, full of sentiment +and not ashamed of it. From the scaffold he pleaded for +leave to embrace his mother just once more before he died. +It was a pretty idea. The hangman himself was +touched. The necessary leave was granted him. He +descended the steps and flung his arms round the sobbing old +lady, and—bit off her nose. After that he told her +why he had bitten off her nose. It appeared that when he +was a boy, he had returned home one evening with a rabbit in his +pocket. Instead of putting him across her knee, and working +into him the eighth commandment, she had said nothing; but that +it seemed to be a fairly useful sort of rabbit, and had sent him +out into the garden to pick onions. If she had done her +duty by him then, he would not have been now in his present most +unsatisfactory position, and she would still have had her +nose. The fathers and mothers in the audience applauded, +but the children, scenting addition to precedent, looked +glum.</p> +<p>Maybe it is something of this kind the heroine is hinting +at. Perhaps the Problem has nothing to do with the heroine +herself, but with the heroine’s parents: what is the best +way of bringing up a daughter who shows the slightest sign of +developing a tendency towards a Past? Can it be done by +kindness? And, if not, how much?</p> +<p>Occasionally the parents attempt to solve the Problem, so far +as they are concerned, by dying young—shortly after the +heroine’s birth. No doubt they argue to themselves +this is their only chance of avoiding future blame. But +they do not get out of it so easily.</p> +<p>“Ah, if I had only had a mother—or even a +father!” cries the heroine: one feels how mean it was of +them to slip away as they did.</p> +<p>The fact remains, however, that they are dead. One +despises them for dying, but beyond that it is difficult to hold +them personally responsible for the heroine’s subsequent +misdeeds. The argument takes to itself new shape. Is +it Fate that is to blame? The lady herself would seem to +favour this suggestion. It has always been her fate, she +explains, to bring suffering and misery upon those she +loves. At first, according to her own account, she rebelled +against this cruel Fate—possibly instigated thereto by the +people unfortunate enough to be loved by her. But of late +she has come to accept this strange destiny of hers with touching +resignation. It grieves her, when she thinks of it, that +she is unable to imbue those she loves with her own patient +spirit. They seem to be a fretful little band.</p> +<p>Considered as a scapegoat, Fate, as compared with the father, +has this advantage: it is always about: it cannot slip away and +die before the real trouble begins: it cannot even plead a +scientific head; it is there all the time. With care one +can blame it for most everything. The vexing thing about it +is, that it does not mind being blamed. One cannot make +Fate feel small and mean. It affords no relief to our +harrowed feelings to cry out indignantly to Fate: “look +here, what you have done. Look at this sweet and +well-proportioned lady, compelled to travel first-class, +accompanied by an amount of luggage that must be a perpetual +nightmare to her maid, from one fashionable European resort to +another; forced to exist on a well-secured income of, apparently, +five thousand a year, most of which has to go in clothes; beloved +by only the best people in the play; talked about by everybody +incessantly to the exclusion of everybody else—all the +neighbours interested in her and in nobody else much; all the +women envying her; all the men tumbling over one another after +her—looks, in spite of all her worries, not a day older +than twenty-three; and has discovered a dressmaker never yet +known to have been an hour behind her promise! And all your +fault, yours, Fate. Will nothing move you to +shame?”</p> +<h3>She has a way of mislaying her Husband.</h3> +<p>It brings no satisfaction with it, speaking out one’s +mind to Fate. We want to see him before us, the thing of +flesh and blood that has brought all this upon her. Was it +that early husband—or rather the gentleman she thought was +her husband. As a matter of fact, he was a husband. +Only he did not happen to be hers. That naturally confused +her. “Then who is my husband?” she seems to +have said to herself; “I had a husband: I remember it +distinctly.”</p> +<p>“Difficult to know them apart from one another,” +says the lady with the past, “the way they dress them all +alike nowadays. I suppose it does not really matter. +They are much the same as one another when you get them +home. Doesn’t do to be too fussy.”</p> +<p>She is a careless woman. She is always mislaying that +early husband. And she has an unfortunate knack of finding +him at the wrong moment. Perhaps that is the Problem: What +is a lady to do with a husband for whom she has no further +use? If she gives him away he is sure to come back, like +the clever dog that is sent in a hamper to the other end of the +kingdom, and three days afterwards is found gasping on the +doorstep. If she leaves him in the middle of South Africa, +with most of the heavy baggage and all the debts, she may reckon +it a certainty that on her return from her next honeymoon he will +be the first to greet her.</p> +<p>Her surprise at meeting him again is a little +unreasonable. She seems to be under the impression that +because she has forgotten him, he is for all practical purposes +dead.</p> +<p>“Why I forgot all about him,” she seems to be +arguing to herself, “seven years ago at least. +According to the laws of Nature there ought to be nothing left of +him but just his bones.”</p> +<p>She is indignant at finding he is still alive, and lets him +know it—tells him he is a beast for turning up at his +sister’s party, and pleads to him for one last favour: that +he will go away where neither she nor anybody else of any +importance will ever see him or hear of him again. +That’s all she asks of him. If he make a point of it +she will—though her costume is ill adapted to the +exercise—go down upon her knees to ask it of him.</p> +<p>He brutally retorts that he doesn’t know where to +“get.” The lady travels round a good deal and +seems to be in most places. She accepts week-end +invitations to the houses of his nearest relatives. She has +married his first cousin, and is now getting up a bazaar with the +help of his present wife. How he is to avoid her he does +not quite see.</p> +<p>Perhaps, by the by, that is really the Problem: where is the +early husband to disappear to? Even if every time he saw +her coming he were to duck under the table, somebody would be +sure to notice it and make remarks. Ought he to take +himself out one dark night, tie a brick round his neck, and throw +himself into a pond?</p> +<h3>What is a Lady to do with a Husband when she has finished +with him?</h3> +<p>But men are so selfish. The idea does not even occur to +him; and the lady herself is too generous to do more than just +hint at it.</p> +<p>Maybe it is Society that is to blame. There comes a +luminous moment when it is suddenly revealed to the Heroine of +the Problem Play that it is Society that is at the bottom of this +thing. She has felt all along there was something the +matter. Why has she never thought of it before? Here +all these years has she been going about blaming her poor old +father; her mother for dying too soon; the remarkable +circumstances attending her girlhood; that dear old stupid +husband she thought was hers; and all the while the really +culpable party has been existing unsuspected under her very +nose. She clears away the furniture a bit, and tells +Society exactly what she thinks of it—she is always good at +that, telling people what she thinks of them. Other +people’s failings do not escape her, not for long. If +Society would only step out for a moment, and look at itself with +her eyes, something might be done. If Society, now that the +thing has been pointed out to it, has still any lingering desire +to live, let it look at her. This, that she is, Society has +made her! Let Society have a walk round her, and then go +home and reflect.</p> +<h3>Could she—herself—have been to blame?</h3> +<p>It lifts a load from us, fixing the blame on Society. +There were periods in the play when we hardly knew what to +think. The scientific father, the dead mother, the early +husband! it was difficult to grasp the fact that they alone were +to blame. One felt there was something to be said for even +them. Ugly thoughts would cross our mind that perhaps the +Heroine herself was not altogether irreproachable—that +possibly there would have been less Problem, if, thinking a +little less about her clothes, yearning a little less to do +nothing all day long and be perfectly happy, she had pulled +herself together, told herself that the world was not built +exclusively for her, and settled down to the existence of an +ordinary decent woman.</p> +<p>Looking at the thing all round, that is perhaps the best +solution of the Problem: it is Society that is to blame. We +had better keep to that.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> +<h3>Civilization and the Unemployed.</h3> +<p>Where Civilization fails is in not providing men and women +with sufficient work. In the Stone Age man was, one +imagines, kept busy. When he was not looking for his +dinner, or eating his dinner, or sleeping off the effects of his +dinner, he was hard at work with a club, clearing the +neighbourhood of what one doubts not he would have described as +aliens. The healthy Palæolithic man would have had a +contempt for Cobden rivalling that of Mr. Chamberlain +himself. He did not take the incursion of the foreigner +“lying down.” One pictures him in the +mind’s eye: unscientific, perhaps, but active to a degree +difficult to conceive in these degenerate days. Now up a +tree hurling cocoa-nuts, the next moment on the ground flinging +roots and rocks. Both having tolerably hard heads, the +argument would of necessity be long and heated. Phrases +that have since come to be meaningless had, in those days, a real +significance.</p> +<p>When a Palæolithic politician claimed to have +“crushed his critic,” he meant that he had succeeded +in dropping a tree or a ton of earth upon him. When it was +said that one bright and intelligent member of that early +sociology had “annihilated his opponent,” that +opponent’s friends and relations took no further interest +in him. It meant that he was actually annihilated. +Bits of him might be found, but the most of him would be +hopelessly scattered. When the adherents of any particular +Cave Dweller remarked that their man was wiping the floor with +his rival, it did not mean that he was talking himself red in the +face to a bored audience of sixteen friends and a reporter. +It meant that he was dragging that rival by the legs round the +enclosure and making the place damp and untidy with him.</p> +<h3>Early instances of “Dumping.”</h3> +<p>Maybe the Cave Dweller, finding nuts in his own neighbourhood +growing scarce, would emigrate himself: for even in that age the +politician was not always logical. Thus <i>rôles</i> +became reversed. The defender of his country became the +alien, dumping himself where he was not wanted. The charm +of those early political arguments lay in their simplicity. +A child could have followed every point. There could never +have been a moment’s doubt, even among his own followers, +as to what a Palæolithic statesman really meant to +convey. At the close of the contest the party who +considered it had won the moral victory would be cleared away, or +buried neatly on the spot, according to taste: and the +discussion, until the arrival of the next generation, was voted +closed.</p> +<p>All this must have been harassing, but it did serve to pass +away the time. Civilization has brought into being a +section of the community with little else to do but to amuse +itself. For youth to play is natural; the young barbarian +plays, the kitten plays, the colt gambols, the lamb skips. +But man is the only animal that gambols and jumps and skips after +it has reached maturity. Were we to meet an elderly bearded +goat, springing about in the air and behaving, generally +speaking, like a kid, we should say it had gone mad. Yet we +throng in our thousands to watch elderly ladies and gentlemen +jumping about after a ball, twisting themselves into strange +shapes, rushing, racing, falling over one another; and present +them with silver-backed hair-brushes and gold-handled umbrellas +as a reward to them for doing so.</p> +<p>Imagine some scientific inhabitant of one of the larger fixed +stars examining us through a magnifying-glass as we examine +ants. Our amusements would puzzle him. The ball of +all sorts and sizes, from the marble to the pushball, would lead +to endless scientific argument.</p> +<p>“What is it? Why are these men and women always +knocking it about, seizing it wherever and whenever they find it +and worrying it?”</p> +<p>The observer from that fixed star would argue that the Ball +must be some malignant creature of fiendish power, the great +enemy of the human race. Watching our cricket-fields, our +tennis-courts, our golf links, he would conclude that a certain +section of mankind had been told off to do battle with the +“Ball” on behalf of mankind in general.</p> +<p>“As a rule,” so he would report, “it is a +superior class of insect to which this special duty has been +assigned. They are a friskier, gaudier species than their +fellows.</p> +<h3>Cricket, as viewed from the fixed Stars.</h3> +<p>“For this one purpose they appear to be kept and +fed. They do no other work, so far as I have been able to +ascertain. Carefully selected and trained, their mission is +to go about the world looking for Balls. Whenever they find +a Ball they set to work to kill it. But the vitality of +these Balls is extraordinary. There is a medium-sized, +reddish species that, on an average, takes three days to +kill. When one of these is discovered, specially trained +champions are summoned from every corner of the country. +They arrive in hot haste, eager for the battle, which takes place +in the presence of the entire neighbourhood. The number of +champions for some reason or another is limited to +twenty-two. Each one seizing in turn a large piece of wood, +rushes at the Ball as it flies along the ground, or through the +air, and strikes at it with all his force. When, exhausted, +he can strike no longer, he throws down his weapon and retires +into a tent, where he is restored to strength by copious draughts +of a drug the nature of which I have been unable to +discover. Meanwhile, another has picked up the fallen +weapon, and the contest is continued without a moment’s +interruption. The Ball makes frantic efforts to escape from +its tormentors, but every time it is captured and flung +back. So far as can be observed, it makes no attempt at +retaliation, its only object being to get away; though, +occasionally—whether by design or accident—it +succeeds in inflicting injury upon one or other of its +executioners, or more often upon one of the spectators, striking +him either on the head or about the region of the waist, which, +judging by results, would appear, from the Ball’s point of +view, to be the better selection. These small reddish Balls +are quickened into life evidently by the heat of the sun; in the +cold season they disappear, and their place is taken by a much +larger Ball. This Ball the champions kill by striking it +with their feet and with their heads. But sometimes they +will attempt to suffocate it by falling on it, some dozen of them +at a time.</p> +<p>“Another of these seemingly harmless enemies of the +human race is a small white Ball of great cunning and +resource. It frequents sandy districts by the sea coast and +open spaces near the large towns. It is pursued with +extraordinary animosity by a florid-faced insect of fierce aspect +and rotundity of figure. The weapon he employs is a long +stick loaded with metal. With one blow he will send the +creature through the air sometimes to a distance of nearly a +quarter of a mile; yet so vigorous is the constitution of these +Balls that it will fall to earth apparently but little +damaged. It is followed by the rotund man accompanied by a +smaller insect carrying spare clubs. Though hampered by the +prominent whiteness of its skin, the extreme smallness of this +Ball often enables it to defy re-discovery, and at such times the +fury of the little round man is terrible to contemplate. He +dances round the spot where the ball has disappeared, making +frenzied passes at the surrounding vegetation with his club, +uttering the while the most savage and bloodcurdling +growls. Occasionally striking at the small creature in +fury, he will miss it altogether, and, having struck merely the +air, will sit down heavily upon the ground, or, striking the +solid earth, will shatter his own club. Then a curious +thing takes place: all the other insects standing round place +their right hand before their mouth, and, turning away their +faces, shake their bodies to and fro, emitting a strange +crackling sound. Whether this is to be regarded as a mere +expression of their grief that the blow of their comrade should +have miscarried, or whether one may assume it to be a ceremonious +appeal to their gods for better luck next time, I have not as yet +made up my mind. The striker, meanwhile, raises both arms, +the hands tightly clenched, towards the heavens, and utters what +is probably a prayer, prepared expressly for the +occasion.”</p> +<h3>The Heir of all Ages. His Inheritance.</h3> +<p>In similar manner he, the Celestial Observer, proceeds to +describe our billiard matches, our tennis tournaments, our +croquet parties. Maybe it never occurs to him that a large +section of our race surrounded by Eternity, would devote its +entire span of life to sheer killing of time. A middle-aged +friend of mine, a cultured gentleman, a M.A. of Cambridge, +assured me the other day that, notwithstanding all his +experiences of life, the thing that still gave him the greatest +satisfaction was the accomplishment of a successful drive to +leg. Rather a quaint commentary on our civilization, is it +not? “The singers have sung, and the builders have +builded. The artists have fashioned their dreams of +delight.” The martyrs for thought and freedom have +died their death; knowledge has sprung from the bones of +ignorance; civilization for ten thousand years has battled with +brutality to this result—that a specimen gentleman of the +Twentieth Century, the heir of all the ages, finds his greatest +joy in life the striking of a ball with a chunk of wood!</p> +<p>Human energy, human suffering, has been wasted. Such +crown of happiness for a man might surely have been obtained +earlier and at less cost. Was it intended? Are we on +the right track? The child’s play is wiser. The +battered doll is a princess. Within the sand castle dwells +an ogre. It is with imagination that he plays. His +games have some relation to life. It is the man only who is +content with this everlasting knocking about of a ball. The +majority of mankind is doomed to labour so constant, so +exhausting, that no opportunity is given it to cultivate its +brain. Civilization has arranged that a small privileged +minority shall alone enjoy that leisure necessary to the +development of thought. And what is the answer of this +leisured class? It is:</p> +<p>“We will do nothing for the world that feeds us, clothes +us, keeps us in luxury. We will spend our whole existence +knocking balls about, watching other people knocking balls about, +arguing with one another as to the best means of knocking balls +about.”</p> +<h3>Is it “Playing the Game?”</h3> +<p>Is it—to use their own jargon—“playing the +game?”</p> +<p>And the queer thing is this over-worked world, that stints +itself to keep them in idleness, approves of the answer. +“The flannelled fool,” “The muddied oaf,” +is the pet of the people; their hero, their ideal.</p> +<p>But maybe all this is mere jealousy. Myself, I have +never been clever at knocking balls about.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> +<h3>Patience and the Waiter.</h3> +<p>The slowest waiter I know is the British railway +refreshment-room waiter.</p> +<p>His very breathing—regular, harmonious, penetrating, +instinct as it is with all the better attributes of a +well-preserved grandfather’s clock—conveys suggestion +of dignity and peace. He is a huge, impressive +person. There emanates from him an atmosphere of +Lotusland. The otherwise unattractive refreshment-room +becomes an oasis of repose amid the turmoil of a fretful +world. All things conspire to aid him: the ancient joints, +ranged side by side like corpses in a morgue, each one decently +hidden under its white muslin shroud, whispering of death and +decay; the dish of dead flies, thoughtfully placed in the centre +of the table; the framed advertisements extolling the virtues of +heavy beers and stouts, of weird champagnes, emanating from +haunted-looking châteaux, situate—if one may judge +from the illustration—in the midst of desert lands; the +sleep-inviting buzz of the bluebottles.</p> +<p>The spirit of the place steals over you. On entering, +with a quarter of an hour to spare, your idea was a cutlet and a +glass of claret. In the face of the refreshment-room +waiter, the notion appears frivolous, not to say +un-English. You order cold beef and pickles, with a pint of +bitter in a tankard. To win the British waiter’s +approval, you must always order beer in a tankard. The +British waiter, in his ideals, is mediæval. There is +a Shakespearean touch about a tankard. A soapy potato will, +of course, be added. Afterwards a ton of cheese and a basin +of rabbit’s food floating in water (the British salad) will +be placed before you. You will work steadily through the +whole, anticipating the somnolence that will subsequently fall +upon you with a certain amount of satisfaction. It will +serve to dispel the last lingering regret at the reflection that +you will miss your appointment, and suffer thereby serious +inconvenience if not positive loss. These things are of the +world—the noisy, tiresome world you have left without.</p> +<p>To the English traveller, the foreign waiter in the earlier +stages of his career is a burden and a trial. When he is +complete—when he really can talk English I rejoice in +him. When I object to him is when his English is worse than +my French or German, and when he will, for his own educational +purposes, insist, nevertheless, that the conversation shall be +entirely in English. I would he came to me some other +time. I would so much rather make it after dinner or, say, +the next morning. I hate giving lessons during meal +times.</p> +<p>Besides, to a man with feeble digestion, this sort of thing +can lead to trouble. One waiter I met at an hotel in Dijon +knew very little English—about as much as a poll +parrot. The moment I entered the +<i>salle-à-manger</i> he started to his feet.</p> +<p>“Ah! You English!” he cried.</p> +<p>“Well, what about us?” I answered. It was +during the period of the Boer War. I took it he was about +to denounce the English nation generally. I was looking for +something to throw at him.</p> +<p>“You English—you Englishman, yes,” he +repeated.</p> +<p>And then I understood he had merely intended a question. +I owned up that I was, and accused him in turn of being a +Frenchman. He admitted it. Introductions, as it were, +thus over, I thought I would order dinner. I ordered it in +French. I am not bragging of my French, I never wanted to +learn French. Even as a boy, it was more the idea of others +than of myself. I learnt as little as possible. But I +have learnt enough to live in places where they can’t, or +won’t, speak anything else. Left to myself, I could +have enjoyed a very satisfactory dinner. I was tired with a +long day’s journey, and hungry. They cook well at +this hotel. I had been looking forward to my dinner for +hours and hours. I had sat down in my imagination to a +<i>consommé bisque</i>, <i>sôle au gratin</i>, a +<i>poulet sauté</i>, and an <i>omelette au +fromage</i>.</p> +<h3>Waiterkind in the making.</h3> +<p>It is wrong to let one’s mind dwell upon carnal +delights; I see that now. At the time I was mad about +it. The fool would not even listen to me. He had got +it into his garlic-sodden brain that all Englishmen live on beef, +and nothing but beef. He swept aside all my suggestions as +though they had been the prattlings of a foolish child.</p> +<p>“You haf nice biftek. Not at all done. +Yes?”</p> +<p>“No, I don’t,” I answered. “I +don’t want what the cook of a French provincial hotel calls +a biftek. I want something to eat. I +want—” Apparently, he understood neither +English nor French.</p> +<p>“Yes, yes,” he interrupted cheerfully, “with +pottitoes.”</p> +<p>“With what?” I asked. I thought for the +moment he was suggesting potted pigs’ feet in the nearest +English he could get to it.</p> +<p>“Pottito,” he repeated; “boil pottito. +Yes? And pell hell.”</p> +<p>I felt like telling him to go there; I suppose he meant +“pale ale.” It took me about five minutes to +get that beefsteak out of his head. By the time I had done +it, I did not care what I had for dinner. I took +<i>pôt-du-jour</i> and veal. He added, on his own +initiative, a thing that looked like a poultice. I did not +try the taste of it. He explained it was “plum +poodeen.” I fancy he had made it himself.</p> +<p>This fellow is typical; you meet him everywhere abroad. +He translates your bill into English for you, calls ten centimes +a penny, calculates twelve francs to the pound, and presses a +handful of sous affectionately upon you as change for a +napoleon.</p> +<p>The cheating waiter is common to all countries, though in +Italy and Belgium he flourishes, perhaps, more than +elsewhere. But the British waiter, when detected, becomes +surly—does not take it nicely. The foreign waiter is +amiable about it—bears no malice. He is grieved, +maybe, at your language, but that is because he is thinking of +you—the possible effect of it upon your future. To +try and stop you, he offers you another four sous. The +story is told of a Frenchman who, not knowing the legal fare, +adopted the plan of doling out pennies to a London cabman one at +a time, continuing until the man looked satisfied. Myself, +I doubt the story. From what I know of the London cabman, I +can see him leaning down still, with out-stretched hand, the +horse between the shafts long since dead, the cab chockfull of +coppers, and yet no expression of satiety upon his face.</p> +<p>But the story would appear to have crossed the Channel, and to +have commended itself to the foreign waiter—especially to +the railway refreshment-room waiter. He doles out sous to +the traveller, one at a time, with the air of a man who is giving +away the savings of a lifetime. If, after five minutes or +so, you still appear discontented he goes away quite +suddenly. You think he has gone to open another chest of +half-pence, but when a quarter of an hour has passed and he does +not reappear, you inquire about him amongst the other +waiters.</p> +<p>A gloom at once falls upon them. You have spoken of the +very thing that has been troubling them. He used to be a +waiter here once—one might almost say until quite +recently. As to what has become of him—ah! there you +have them. If in the course of their chequered career they +ever come across him, they will mention to him that you are +waiting for him. Meanwhile a stentorian-voiced official is +shouting that your train is on the point of leaving. You +console yourself with the reflection that it might have been +more. It always might have been more; sometimes it is.</p> +<h3>His Little Mistakes.</h3> +<p>A waiter at the Gare du Nord, in Brussels, on one occasion +pressed upon me a five-franc piece, a small Turkish coin the +value of which was unknown to me, and remains so to this day, a +distinctly bad two francs, and from a quarter of a pound to six +ounces of centimes, as change for a twenty-franc note, after +deducting the price of a cup of coffee. He put it down with +the air of one subscribing to a charity. We looked at one +another. I suppose I must have conveyed to him the +impression of being discontented. He drew a purse from his +pocket. The action suggested that, for the purpose of +satisfying my inordinate demands, he would be compelled to draw +upon his private resources; but it did not move me. +Abstracting reluctantly a fifty-centime piece, he added it to the +heap upon the table.</p> +<p>I suggested his taking a seat, as at this rate it seemed +likely we should be doing business together for some time. +I think he gathered I was not a fool. Hitherto he had been +judging, I suppose, purely from appearances. But he was not +in the least offended.</p> +<p>“Ah!” he cried, with a cheery laugh, +“Monsieur comprend!” He swept the whole +nonsense back into his bag and gave me the right change. I +slipped my arm through his and insisted upon the pleasure of his +society, until I had examined each and every coin. He went +away chuckling, and told another waiter all about it. They +both of them bowed to me as I went out, and wished me a pleasant +journey. I left them still chuckling. A British +waiter would have been sulky all the afternoon.</p> +<p>The waiter who insists upon mistaking you for the heir of all +the Rothschilds used to cost me dear when I was younger. I +find the best plan is to take him in hand at the beginning and +disillusion him; sweep aside his talk of ’84 Perrier Jouet, +followed by a ’79 Château Lafite, and ask him, as man +to man, if he can conscientiously recommend the Saint Julien at +two-and-six. After that he settles down to his work and +talks sense.</p> +<p>The fatherly waiter is sometimes a comfort. You feel +that he knows best. Your instinct is to address him as +“Uncle.” But you remember yourself in +time. When you are dining a lady, however, and wish to +appear important, he is apt to be in the way. It seems, +somehow, to be his dinner. You have a sense almost of being +<i>de trop</i>.</p> +<p>The greatest insult you can offer a waiter is to mistake him +for your waiter. You think he is your waiter—there is +the bald head, the black side-whiskers, the Roman nose. But +your waiter had blue eyes, this man soft hazel. You had +forgotten to notice the eyes. You bar his progress and ask +him for the red pepper. The haughty contempt with which he +regards you is painful to bear. It is as if you had +insulted a lady. He appears to be saying the same +thing:</p> +<p>“I think you have made a mistake. You are possibly +confusing me with somebody else; I have not the honour of your +acquaintance.”</p> +<h3>How to insult him.</h3> +<p>I do not wish it to be understood that I am in the habit of +insulting ladies, but occasionally I have made an innocent +mistake, and have met with some such response. The wrong +waiter conveys to me precisely the same feeling of +humiliation.</p> +<p>“I will send your waiter to you,” he +answers. His tone implies that there are waiters and +waiters; some may not mind what class of person they serve: +others, though poor, have their self-respect. It is clear +to you now why your waiter is keeping away from you; the man is +ashamed of being your waiter. He is watching, probably, for +an opportunity to approach you when nobody is looking. The +other waiter finds him for you. He was hiding behind a +screen.</p> +<p>“Table forty-two wants you,” the other tells +him. The tone of voice adds:</p> +<p>“If you like to encourage this class of customer that is +your business; but don’t ask me to have anything to do with +him.”</p> +<p>Even the waiter has his feelings.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> +<h3>The everlasting Newness of Woman.</h3> +<p>An Oriental visitor was returning from our shores to his +native land.</p> +<p>“Well,” asked the youthful diplomatist who had +been told off to show him round, as on the deck of the steamer +they shook hands, “what do you now think of +England?”</p> +<p>“Too much woman,” answered the grave Orientalist, +and descended to his cabin.</p> +<p>The young diplomatist returned to the shore thoughtful, and +later in the day a few of us discussed the matter in a far-off, +dimly-lighted corner of the club smoking-room.</p> +<p>Has the pendulum swung too far the other way? Could +there be truth in our Oriental friend’s terse +commentary? The eternal feminine! The Western world +has been handed over to her. The stranger from Mars or +Jupiter would describe us as a hive of women, the sober-clad male +being retained apparently on condition of its doing all the hard +work and making itself generally useful. Formerly it was +the man who wore the fine clothes who went to the shows. +To-day it is the woman gorgeously clad for whom the shows are +organized. The man dressed in a serviceable and +unostentatious, not to say depressing, suit of black accompanies +her for the purpose of carrying her cloak and calling her +carriage. Among the working classes life, of necessity, +remains primitive; the law of the cave is still, with slight +modification, the law of the slum. But in upper and +middle-class circles the man is now the woman’s +servant.</p> +<p>I remember being present while a mother of my acquaintance was +instilling into the mind of her little son the advantages of +being born a man. A little girl cousin was about to spend a +week with him. It was impressed upon him that if she showed +a liking for any of his toys, he was at once to give them up to +her.</p> +<p>“But why, mamma?” he demanded, evidently +surprised.</p> +<p>“Because, my dear, you are a little man.”</p> +<p>Should she break them, he was not to smack her head or kick +her—as his instinct might prompt him to do. He was +just to say:</p> +<p>“Oh, it is of no consequence at all,” and to look +as if he meant it.</p> +<h3>Doctor says she is not to be bothered.</h3> +<p>She was always to choose the game—to have the biggest +apple. There was much more of a similar nature. It +was all because he was a little man and she was a little +woman. At the end he looked up, puzzled:</p> +<p>“But don’t she do anything, ’cos she’s +a little girl?”</p> +<p>It was explained to him that she didn’t. By right +of being born a little girl she was exempt from all duty.</p> +<p>Woman nowadays is not taking any duty. She objects to +housekeeping; she calls it domestic slavery, and feels she was +intended for higher things. What higher things she does not +condescend to explain. One or two wives of my acquaintance +have persuaded their husbands that these higher things are +all-important. The home has been given up. In company +with other strivers after higher things, they live now in dismal +barracks differing but little from a glorified Bloomsbury +lodging-house. But they call them “Mansions” or +“Courts,” and seem proud of the address. They +are not bothered with servants—with housekeeping. The +idea of the modern woman is that she is not to be bothered with +anything. I remember the words with which one of these +ladies announced her departure from her bothering home.</p> +<p>“Oh, well, I’m tired of trouble,” she +confided to another lady, “so I’ve made up my mind +not to have any more of it.”</p> +<p>Artemus Ward tells us of a man who had been in prison for +twenty years. Suddenly a bright idea occurred to him; he +opened the window and got out. Here have we poor, foolish +mortals been imprisoned in this troublesome world for Lord knows +how many millions of years. We have got so used to trouble +we thought there was no help for it. We have told ourselves +that “Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly +upwards.” We imagined the only thing to be done was +to bear it philosophically. Why did not this bright young +creature come along before—show us the way out. All +we had to do was to give up the bothering home and the bothering +servants, and go into a “Mansion” or a +“Court.”</p> +<p>It seems that you leave trouble outside—in charge of the +hall-porter, one supposes. He ties it up for you as the +Commissionaire of the Army and Navy Stores ties up your +dog. If you want it again, you ask for it as you come +out. Small wonder that the “Court” and +“Mansion” are growing in popularity every day.</p> +<h3>That “Higher Life.”</h3> +<p>They have nothing to do now all day long, these soaring wives +of whom I am speaking. They would scorn to sew on a +shirt-button even. Are there not other women—of an +inferior breed—specially fashioned by Providence for the +doing of such slavish tasks? They have no more bothers of +any kind. They are free to lead the higher life. What +I am waiting for is a glimpse of the higher life. One of +them, it is true, has taken up the violin. Another of them +is devoting her emancipation to poker work. A third is +learning skirt-dancing. Are these the “higher +things” for which women are claiming freedom from all +duty? And, if so, is there not danger that the closing of +our homes may lead to the crowding up of the world with too much +higher things?</p> +<p>May there not, by the time all bothers have been removed from +woman’s path, be too many amateur violinists in the world, +too many skirt-dancers, too much poker work? If not, what +are they? these “higher things,” for which so many +women are demanding twenty-four hours a day leisure. I want +to know.</p> +<p>One lady of my acquaintance is a Poor Law Guardian and +secretary to a labour bureau. But then she runs a house +with two servants, four children, and a husband, and appears to +be so used to bothers that she would feel herself lost without +them. You can do this kind of work apparently even when you +are bothered with a home. It is the skirt-dancing and the +poker work that cannot brook rivalry. The modern woman has +begun to find children a nuisance; they interfere with her +development. The mere man, who has written his poems, +painted his pictures, composed his melodies, fashioned his +philosophies, in the midst of life’s troubles and bothers, +grows nervous thinking what this new woman must be whose mind is +so tremendous that the whole world must be shut up, so to speak, +sent to do its business out of her sight and hearing, lest her +attention should be distracted.</p> +<p>An optimistic friend of mine tells me not to worry myself; +tells me that it is going to come out all right in the end. +Woman just now, he contends, is passing through her college +period. The school life of strict surveillance is for ever +done with. She is now the young Freshwoman. The +bothering lessons are over, the bothering schoolmaster she has +said good-bye to. She has her latchkey and is “on her +own.” There are still some bothering rules about +being in at twelve o’clock, and so many attendances each +term at chapel. She is indignant. This interferes +with her idea that life is to be one long orgie of +self-indulgence, of pleasure. The college period will +pass—is passing. Woman will go out into the world, +take her place there, discover that bothers were not left behind +in the old schoolhouse, will learn that life has duties, +responsibilities, will take up her burden side by side with man, +will accomplish her destiny.</p> +<h3>Is there anything left for her to learn?</h3> +<p>Meanwhile, however, she is having a good time—some +people think too good a time. She wants the best of +both. She demands the joys of independence together with +freedom from all work—slavery she calls it. The +servants are not to be allowed to bother her, the children are +not to be allowed to bother her, her husband is not to be allowed +to bother her. She is to be free to lead the higher +life. My dear lady, we all want to lead the higher +life. I don’t want to write these articles. I +want somebody else to bother about my rates and taxes, my +children’s boots, while I sit in an easy-chair and dream +about the wonderful books I am going to write, if only a stupid +public would let me. Tommy Smith of Brixton feels that he +was intended for higher things. He does not want to be +wasting his time in an office from nine to six adding up +figures. His proper place in life is that of Prime Minister +or Field Marshal: he feels it. Do you think the man has no +yearning for higher things? Do you think we like the +office, the shop, the factory? We ought to be writing +poetry, painting pictures, the whole world admiring us. You +seem to imagine your man goes off every morning to a sort of City +picnic, has eight hours’ fun—which he calls +work—and then comes home to annoy you with chatter about +dinner.</p> +<p>It is the old fable reversed; man said woman had nothing to do +all day but to enjoy herself. Making a potato pie! +What sort of work was that? Making a potato pie was a lark; +anybody could make a potato pie.</p> +<p>So the woman said, “Try it,” and took the +man’s spade and went out into the field, and left him at +home to make that pie.</p> +<p>The man discovered that potato pies took a bit more making +than he had reckoned—found that running the house and +looking after the children was not quite the merry pastime he had +argued. Man was a fool.</p> +<p>Now it is the woman who talks without thinking. How did +she like hoeing the potato patch? Hard work, was it not, my +dear lady? Made your back ache? It came on to rain +and you got wet.</p> +<p>I don’t see that it very much matters which of you hoes +the potato patch, which of you makes the potato pie. Maybe +the hoeing of the patch demands more muscle—is more suited +to the man. Maybe the making of the pie may be more in your +department. But, as I have said, I cannot see that this +matter is of importance. The patch has to be hoed, the pie +to be cooked; the one cannot do the both. Settle it between +you, and, having settled it, agree to do each your own work free +from this everlasting nagging.</p> +<p>I know, personally, three ladies who have exchanged the +woman’s work for the man’s. One was deserted by +her husband, and left with two young children. She hired a +capable woman to look after the house, and joined a ladies’ +orchestra as pianist at two pounds a week. She now earns +four, and works twelve hours a day. The husband of the +second fell ill. She set him to write letters and run +errands, which was light work that he could do, and started a +dressmaker’s business. The third was left a widow +without means. She sent her three children to +boarding-school, and opened a tea-room. I don’t know +how they talked before, but I know that they do not talk now as +though earning the income was a sort of round game.</p> +<h3>When they have tried it the other way round.</h3> +<p>On the Continent they have gone deliberately to work, one +would imagine, to reverse matters. Abroad woman is always +where man ought to be, and man where most ladies would prefer to +meet with women. The ladies <i>garde-robe</i> is +superintended by a superannuated sergeant of artillery. +When I want to curl my moustache, say, I have to make application +to a superb golden-haired creature, who stands by and watches me +with an interested smile. I would be much happier waited on +by the superannuated sergeant, and my wife tells me she could +very well spare him. But it is the law of the land. I +remember the first time I travelled with my daughter on the +Continent. In the morning I was awakened by a piercing +scream from her room. I struggled into my pyjamas, and +rushed to her assistance. I could not see her. I +could see nothing but a muscular-looking man in a blue blouse +with a can of hot water in one hand and a pair of boots in the +other. He appeared to be equally bewildered with myself at +the sight of the empty bed. From a cupboard in the corner +came a wail of distress:</p> +<p>“Oh, do send that horrid man away. What’s he +doing in my room?”</p> +<p>I explained to her afterwards that the chambermaid abroad is +always an active and willing young man. The foreign girl +fills in her time bricklaying and grooming down the horses. +It is a young and charming lady who serves you when you enter the +tobacconist’s. She doesn’t understand tobacco, +is unsympathetic; with Mr. Frederic Harrison, regards smoking as +a degrading and unclean habit; cannot see, herself, any +difference between shag and Mayblossom, seeing that they are both +the same price; thinks you fussy. The corset shop is run by +a most presentable young man in a Vandyck beard. The wife +runs the restaurant; the man does the cooking, and yet the woman +has not reached freedom from bother.</p> +<h3>A brutal suggestion.</h3> +<p>It sounds brutal, but perhaps woman was not intended to live +free from all bothers. Perhaps even the higher +life—the skirt-dancing and the poker work—has its +bothers. Perhaps woman was intended to take her share of +the world’s work—of the world’s bothers.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> +<h3>Why I hate Heroes.</h3> +<p>When I was younger, reading the popular novel used to make me +sad. I find it vexes others also. I was talking to a +bright young girl upon the subject not so very long ago.</p> +<p>“I just hate the girl in the novel,” she +confessed. “She makes me feel real bad. If I +don’t think of her I feel pleased with myself, and good; +but when I read about her—well, I’m crazy. I +would not mind her being smart, sometimes. We can all of us +say the right thing, now and then. This girl says them +straight away, all the time. She don’t have to dig +for them even; they come crowding out of her. There never +happens a time when she stands there feeling like a fool and +knowing that she looks it. As for her hair: ’pon my +word, there are days when I believe it is a wig. I’d +like to get behind her and give it just one pull. It curls +of its own accord. She don’t seem to have any trouble +with it. Look at this mop of mine. I’ve been +working at it for three-quarters of an hour this morning; and now +I would not laugh, not if you were to tell me the funniest thing, +you’d ever heard, for fear it would come down again. +As for her clothes, they make me tired. She don’t +possess a frock that does not fit her to perfection; she +doesn’t have to think about them. You would imagine +she went into the garden and picked them off a tree. She +just slips it on and comes down, and then—my stars! +All the other women in the room may just as well go to bed and +get a good night’s rest for all the chance they’ve +got. It isn’t that she’s beautiful. From +what they tell you about her, you might fancy her a freak. +Looks don’t appear to matter to her; she gets there +anyhow. I tell you she just makes me boil.”</p> +<p>Allowing for the difference between the masculine and feminine +outlook, this is precisely how I used to feel when reading of the +hero. He was not always good; sometimes he hit the villain +harder than he had intended, and then he was sorry—when it +was too late, blamed himself severely, and subscribed towards the +wreath. Like the rest of us, he made mistakes; occasionally +married the wrong girl. But how well he did +everything!—does still for the matter of that, I +believe. Take it that he condescends to play cricket! +He never scores less than a hundred—does not know how to +score less than a hundred, wonders how it could be done, +supposing, for example, you had an appointment and wanted to +catch an early train. I used to play cricket myself, but I +could always stop at ten or twenty. There have been times +when I have stopped at even less.</p> +<p>It is the same with everything he puts his hand to. +Either he does not care for boating at all, or, as a matter of +course, he pulls stroke in the University Boat-race; and then +takes the train on to Henley and wins the Diamond Sculls so +easily that it hardly seems worth while for the other fellow to +have started. Were I living in Novel-land, and had I +entered for the Diamond Sculls, I should put it to my opponent +before the word was given to us to go.</p> +<p>“One minute!” I should have called out to +him. “Are you the hero of this novel, or, like +myself, only one of the minor characters? Because, if you +are the hero you go on; don’t you wait for me. I +shall just pull as far as the boathouse and get myself a cup of +tea.”</p> +<h3>Because it always seems to be his Day.</h3> +<p>There is no sense of happy medium about the hero of the +popular novel. He cannot get astride a horse without its +going off and winning a steeplechase against the favourite. +The crowd in Novel-land appears to have no power of +observation. It worries itself about the odds, discusses +records, reads the nonsense published by the sporting +papers. Were I to find myself on a racecourse in Novel-land +I should not trouble about the unessential; I should go up to the +bookie who looked as if he had the most money, and should say to +him:</p> +<p>“Don’t shout so loud; you are making yourself +hoarse. Just listen to me. Who’s the hero of +this novel? Oh, that’s he, is it? The +heavy-looking man on the little brown horse that keeps coughing +and is suffering apparently from bone spavin? Well, what +are the odds against his winning by ten lengths? A thousand +to one! Very well! Have you got a +bag?—Good. Here’s twenty-seven pounds in gold +and eighteen shillings in silver. Coat and waistcoat, say +another ten shillings. Shirt and trousers—it’s +all right, I’ve got my pyjamas on underneath—say +seven and six. Boots—we won’t +quarrel—make it five bob. That’s twenty-nine +pounds and sixpence, isn’t it? In addition +here’s a mortgage on the family estate, which I’ve +had made out in blank, an I O U for fourteen pounds which has +been owing to me now for some time, and this bundle of securities +which, strictly speaking, belong to my Aunt Jane. You keep +that little lot till after the race, and we will call it in round +figures, five hundred pounds.”</p> +<p>That single afternoon would thus bring me in five hundred +thousand pounds—provided the bookie did not blow his brains +out.</p> +<p>Backers in Novel-land do not seem to me to know their way +about. If the hero of the popular novel swims at all, it is +not like an ordinary human being that he does it. You never +meet him in a swimming-bath; he never pays ninepence, like the +rest of us, for a machine. He goes out at uncanny hours, +generally accompanied by a lady friend, with whom the while +swimming he talks poetry and cracks jokes. Some of us, when +we try to talk in the sea, fill ourselves up with salt +water. This chap lies on his back and carols, and the wild +waves, seeing him, go round the other way. At billiards he +can give the average sharper forty in a hundred. He does +not really want to play; he does it to teach these bad men a +lesson. He has not handled a cue for years. He picked +up the game when a young man in Australia, and it seems to have +lingered with him.</p> +<p>He does not have to get up early and worry dumb-bells in his +nightshirt; he just lies on a sofa in an elegant attitude and +muscle comes to him. If his horse declines to jump a hedge, +he slips down off the animal’s back and throws the poor +thing over; it saves argument. If he gets cross and puts +his shoulder to the massive oaken door, we know there is going to +be work next morning for the carpenter. Maybe he is a party +belonging to the Middle Ages. Then when he reluctantly +challenges the crack fencer of Europe to a duel, our instinct is +to call out and warn his opponent.</p> +<p>“You silly fool,” one feels one wants to say; +“why, it is the hero of the novel! You take a +friend’s advice while you are still alive, and get out of +it anyway—anyhow. Apologize—hire a horse and +cart, do something. You’re not going to fight a duel, +you’re going to commit suicide.”</p> +<p>If the hero is a modern young man, and has not got a father, +or has only something not worth calling a father, then he comes +across a library—anybody’s library does for +him. He passes Sir Walter Scott and the “Arabian +Nights,” and makes a bee-line for Plato; it seems to be an +instinct with him. By help of a dictionary he worries it +out in the original Greek. This gives him a passion for +Greek.</p> +<p>When he has romped through the Greek classics he plays about +among the Latins. He spends most of his spare time in that +library, and forgets to go to tea.</p> +<h3>Because he always “gets there,” without any +trouble.</h3> +<p>That is the sort of boy he is. How I used to hate +him! If he has a proper sort of father, then he goes to +college. He does no work: there is no need for him to work: +everything seems to come to him. That was another grievance +of mine against him. I always had to work a good deal, and +very little came of it. He fools around doing things that +other men would be sent down for; but in his case the professors +love him for it all the more. He is the sort of man who +can’t do wrong. A fortnight before the examination he +ties a wet towel round his head. That is all we hear about +it. It seems to be the towel that does it. Maybe, if +the towel is not quite up to its work, he will help things on by +drinking gallons of strong tea. The tea and the towel +combined are irresistible: the result is always the senior +wranglership.</p> +<p>I used to believe in that wet towel and that strong tea. +Lord! the things I used to believe when I was young. They +would make an Encyclopædia of Useless Knowledge. I +wonder if the author of the popular novel has ever tried working +with a wet towel round his or her head: I have. It is +difficult enough to move a yard, balancing a dry towel. A +heathen Turk may have it in his blood to do so: the ordinary +Christian has not got the trick of it. To carry about a wet +towel twisted round one’s head needs a trained +acrobat. Every few minutes the wretched thing works +loose. In darkness and in misery, you struggle to get your +head out of a clammy towel that clings to you almost with +passion. Brain power is wasted in inventing names for that +towel—names expressive of your feelings with regard to +it. Further time is taken up before the glass, fixing the +thing afresh.</p> +<p>You return to your books in the wrong temper, the water +trickles down your nose, runs in rivulets down your back. +Until you have finally flung the towel out of the window and +rubbed yourself dry, work is impossible. The strong tea +always gave me indigestion, and made me sleepy. Until I had +got over the effects of the tea, attempts at study were +useless.</p> +<h3>Because he’s so damned clever.</h3> +<p>But the thing that still irritates me most against the hero of +the popular novel is the ease with which he learns a modern +foreign language. Were he a German waiter, a Swiss barber, +or a Polish photographer, I would not envy him; these people do +not have to learn a language. My idea is that they boil +down a dictionary, and take two table-spoonsful each night before +going to bed. By the time the bottle is finished they have +the language well into their system. But he is not. +He is just an ordinary Anglo-Saxon, and I don’t believe in +him. I walk about for years with dictionaries in my +pocket. Weird-looking ladies and gentlemen gesticulate and +rave at me for months. I hide myself in lonely places, +repeating idioms to myself out loud, in the hope that by this +means they will come readily to me if ever I want them, which I +never do. And, after all this, I don’t seem to know +very much. This irritating ass, who has never left his +native suburb, suddenly makes up his mind to travel on the +Continent. I find him in the next chapter engaged in +complicated psychological argument with French or German +<i>savants</i>. It appears—the author had forgotten +to mention it before—that one summer a French, or German, +or Italian refugee, as the case may happen to be, came to live in +the hero’s street: thus it is that the hero is able to talk +fluently in the native language of that unhappy refugee.</p> +<p>I remember a melodrama visiting a country town where I was +staying. The heroine and child were sleeping peacefully in +the customary attic. For some reason not quite clear to me, +the villain had set fire to the house. He had been +complaining through the three preceding acts of the +heroine’s coldness; maybe it was with some idea of warming +her. Escape by way of the staircase was impossible. +Each time the poor girl opened the door a flame came in and +nearly burned her hair off. It seemed to have been waiting +for her.</p> +<p>“Thank God!” said the lady, hastily wrapping the +child in a sheet, “that I was brought up a wire +walker.”</p> +<p>Without a moment’s hesitation she opened the attic +window and took the nearest telegraph wire to the opposite side +of the street.</p> +<p>In the same way, apparently, the hero of the popular novel, +finding himself stranded in a foreign land, suddenly recollects +that once upon a time he met a refugee, and at once begins to +talk. I have met refugees myself. The only thing they +have ever taught me is not to leave my brandy flask about.</p> +<h3>And, finally, because I don’t believe he’s +true.</h3> +<p>I don’t believe in these heroes and heroines that cannot +keep quiet in a foreign language they have taught themselves in +an old-world library. My fixed idea is that they muddle +along like the rest of us, surprised that so few people +understand them, begging everyone they meet not to talk so +quickly. These brilliant conversations with foreign +philosophers! These passionate interviews with foreign +countesses! They fancy they have had them.</p> +<p>I crossed once with an English lady from Boulogne to +Folkestone. At Folkestone a little French +girl—anxious about her train—asked us a simple +question. My companion replied to it with an ease that +astonished herself. The little French girl vanished; my +companion sighed.</p> +<p>“It’s so odd,” said my companion, “but +I seem to know quite a lot of French the moment I get back to +England.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> +<h3>How to be Healthy and Unhappy.</h3> +<p>“They do say,” remarked Mrs. Wilkins, as she took +the cover off the dish and gave a finishing polish to my plate +with the cleanest corner of her apron, “that +’addicks, leastways in May, ain’t, strictly speaking, +the safest of food. But then, if you listen to all they +say, it seems to me, we’d have to give up victuals +altogether.”</p> +<p>“The haddock, Mrs. Wilkins,” I replied, “is +a savoury and nourishing dish, the ‘poor man’s +steak’ I believe it is commonly called. When I was +younger, Mrs. Wilkins, they were cheaper. For twopence one +could secure a small specimen, for fourpence one of generous +proportions. In the halcyon days of youth, when one’s +lexicon contained not the word failure (it has crept into later +editions, Mrs. Wilkins, the word it was found was occasionally +needful), the haddock was of much comfort and support to me, a +very present help in time of trouble. In those days a kind +friend, without intending it, nearly brought about my death by +slow starvation. I had left my umbrella in an omnibus, and +the season was rainy. The kind rich friend gave me a new +umbrella; it was a rich man’s umbrella; we made an +ill-assorted pair. Its handle was of ivory, imposing in +appearance, ornamented with a golden snake.</p> +<h3>The unsympathetic Umbrella.</h3> +<p>“Following my own judgment I should have pawned that +umbrella, purchased one more suited to my state in life, and +‘blued’ the difference. But I was fearful of +offending my one respectable acquaintance, and for weeks +struggled on, hampered by this plutocratic appendage. The +humble haddock was denied to me. Tied to this imposing +umbrella, how could I haggle with fishmongers for haddocks. +At first sight of me—or, rather, of my umbrella—they +flew to icy cellars, brought up for my inspection soles at +eighteenpence a pound, recommended me prime parts of salmon, +which my landlady would have fried in a pan reeking with the +mixed remains of pork chops, rashers of bacon and cheese. +It was closed to me, the humble coffee shop, where for threepence +I could have strengthened my soul with half a pint of cocoa and +four “doorsteps”—satisfactory slices of bread +smeared with a yellow grease that before the days of County +Council inspectors they called butter. You know of them, +Mrs. Wilkins? At sight of such nowadays I should turn up my +jaded nose. But those were the days of my youth, Mrs. +Wilkins. The scent of a thousand hopes was in my nostrils: +so they smelt good to me. The fourpenny beefsteak pie, +satisfying to the verge of repletion; the succulent saveloy, were +not for the owner of the ivory-handled umbrella. On Mondays +and Tuesdays, perhaps, I could enjoy life at the rate of five +hundred a year—clean serviette a penny extra, and twopence +to the waiter, whose income must have been at least four times my +own. But from Wednesday to Saturday I had to wander in the +wilderness of back streets and silent squares dinnerless, where +there were not even to be found locusts and wild honey.</p> +<p>“It was, as I have said, a rainy season, and an umbrella +of some sort was a necessity. Fortunately—or I might +not be sitting here, Mrs. Wilkins, talking to you now—my +one respectable acquaintance was called away to foreign lands, +and that umbrella I promptly put ‘up the +spout.’ You understand me?”</p> +<p>Mrs. Wilkins admitted she did, but was of opinion that +twenty-five per cent., to say nothing of the halfpenny for the +ticket every time, was a wicked imposition.</p> +<p>“It did not trouble me, Mrs. Wilkins,” I replied, +“in this particular instance. It was my determination +never to see that umbrella again. The young man behind the +counter seemed suspicious, and asked where I got it from. I +told him that a friend had given it to me.”</p> +<p>“‘Did he know that he had given it to you?” +demanded the young man.</p> +<p>“Upon which I gave him a piece of my mind concerning the +character of those who think evil of others, and he gave me five +and six, and said he should know me again; and I purchased an +umbrella suited to my rank and station, and as fine a haddock as +I have ever tasted with the balance, which was sevenpence, for I +was feeling hungry.</p> +<p>“The haddock is an excellent fish, Mrs. Wilkins,” +I said, “and if, as you observe, we listened to all that +was said we’d be hungrier at forty, with a balance to our +credit at the bank, than ever we were at twenty, with ‘no +effects’ beyond a sound digestion.”</p> +<h3>A Martyr to Health.</h3> +<p>“There was a gent in Middle Temple Lane,” said +Mrs. Wilkins, “as I used to do for. It’s my +belief as ’e killed ’imself worrying twenty-four +hours a day over what ’e called ’is +’ygiene. Leastways ’e’s dead and buried +now, which must be a comfort to ’imself, feeling as at last +’e’s out of danger. All ’is time ’e +spent taking care of ’imself—didn’t seem to +’ave a leisure moment in which to live. For +’alf an hour every morning ’e’d lie on +’is back on the floor, which is a draughty place, I always +’old, at the best of times, with nothing on but ’is +pyjamas, waving ’is arms and legs about, and twisting +’imself into shapes unnatural to a Christian. Then +’e found out that everything ’e’d been doing on +’is back was just all wrong, so ’e turned over and +did tricks on ’is stomach—begging your pardon for +using the word—that you’d ’ave thought more fit +and proper to a worm than to a man. Then all that was +discovered to be a mistake. There don’t seem nothing +certain in these matters. That’s the awkward part of +it, so it seems to me. ’E got ’imself a +machine, by means of which ’e’d ’ang +’imself up to the wall, and behave for all the world like a +beetle with a pin stuck through ’im, poor thing. It +used to give me the shudders to catch sight of ’im through +the ’alf-open door. For that was part of the game: +you ’ad to ’ave a current of air through the room, +the result of which was that for six months out of the year +’e’d be coughing and blowing ’is nose from +morning to night. It was the new treatment, so +’e’d explain to me. You got yourself accustomed +to draughts so that they didn’t ’urt you, and if you +died in the process that only proved that you never ought to +’ave been born.</p> +<p>“Then there came in this new Japanese business, and +’e’d ’ire a little smiling ’eathen to +chuck ’im about ’is room for ’alf an hour every +morning after breakfast. It got on my nerves after a while +’earing ’im being bumped on the floor every minute, +or flung with ’is ’ead into the fire-place. But +’e always said it was doing ’im good. +’E’d argue that it freshened up ’is +liver. It was ’is liver that ’e seemed to live +for—didn’t appear to ’ave any other interest in +life. It was the same with ’is food. One year +it would be nothing but meat, and next door to raw at that. +One of them medical papers ’ad suddenly discovered that we +were intended to be a sort of wild beast. The wonder to me +is that ’e didn’t go out ’unting chickens with +a club, and bring ’em ’ome and eat ’em on the +mat without any further fuss. For drink it would be boiling +water that burnt my fingers merely ’andling the +glass. Then some other crank came out with the information +that every other crank was wrong—which, taken by itself, +sounds natural enough—that meat was fatal to the +’uman system. Upon that ’e becomes all at once +a raging, tearing vegetarian, and trouble enough I ’ad +learning twenty different ways of cooking beans, which +didn’t make, so far as I could ever see, the slightest +difference—beans they were, and beans they tasted like, +whether you called them <i>ragoût à la maison</i>, +or cutlets <i>à la Pompadour</i>. But it seemed to +please ’im.</p> +<h3>He was never pig-headed.</h3> +<p>“Then vegetarianism turned out to be the mistake of our +lives. It seemed we made an error giving up monkeys’ +food. That was our natural victuals; nuts with occasional +bananas. As I used to tell ’im, if that was so, then +for all we ’ad got out of it we might just as well have +stopped up a tree—saved rent and shoe leather. But +’e was one of that sort that don’t seem able to +’elp believing everything they read in print. If one +of those papers ’ad told ’im to live on the shells +and throw away the nuts, ’e’d have made a +conscientious endeavour to do so, contending that ’is +failure to digest them was merely the result of vicious +training—didn’t seem to ’ave any likes or +dislikes of ’is own. You might ’ave thought +’e was just a bit of public property made to be +experimented upon.</p> +<p>“One of the daily papers interviewed an old gent, as +said ’e was a ’undred, and I will say from ’is +picture as any’ow ’e looked it. ’E said +it was all the result of never ’aving swallowed anything +’ot, upon which my gentleman for a week lives on cold +porridge, if you’ll believe me; although myself I’d +rather ’ave died at fifty and got it over. Then +another paper dug up from somewhere a sort of animated corpse +that said was a ’undred and two, and attributed the +unfortunate fact to ’is always ’aving ’ad +’is food as ’ot as ’e could swallow it. A +bit of sense did begin to dawn upon ’im then, but too late +in the day, I take it. ’E’d played about with +’imself too long. ’E died at thirty-two, +looking to all appearance sixty, and you can’t say as +’ow it was the result of not taking advice.”</p> +<h3>Only just in time.</h3> +<p>“On this subject of health we are much too ready to +follow advice,” I agreed. “A cousin of mine, +Mrs. Wilkins, had a wife who suffered occasionally from +headache. No medicine relieved her of them—not +altogether. And one day by chance she met a friend who +said: ‘Come straight with me to Dr. Blank,’ who +happened to be a specialist famous for having invented a new +disease that nobody until the year before had ever heard +of. She accompanied her friend to Dr. Blank, and in less +than ten minutes he had persuaded her that she had got this new +disease, and got it badly; and that her only chance was to let +him cut her open and have it out. She was a tolerably +healthy woman, with the exception of these occasional headaches, +but from what that specialist said it was doubtful whether she +would get home alive, unless she let him operate on her then and +there, and her friend, who appeared delighted, urged her not to +commit suicide, as it were, by missing her turn.</p> +<p>“The result was she consented, and afterwards went home +in a four-wheeled cab, and put herself to bed. Her husband, +when he returned in the evening and was told, was furious. +He said it was all humbug, and by this time she was ready to +agree with him. He put on his hat, and started to give that +specialist a bit of his mind. The specialist was out, and +he had to bottle up his rage until the morning. By then, +his wife now really ill for the first time in her life, his +indignation had reached boiling point. He was at that +specialist’s door at half-past nine o’clock. At +half-past eleven he came back, also in a four-wheeled cab, and +day and night nurses for both of them were wired for. He +also, it appeared, had arrived at that specialist’s door +only just in time.</p> +<p>“There’s this appendy—whatever they call +it,” commented Mrs. Wilkins, “why a dozen years ago +one poor creature out of ten thousand may possibly ’ave +’ad something wrong with ’is innards. To-day +you ain’t ’ardly considered respectable unless +you’ve got it, or ’ave ’ad it. I +’ave no patience with their talk. To listen to some +of them you’d think as Nature ’adn’t made a +man—not yet: would never understand the principle of the +thing till some of these young chaps ’ad shown ’er +’ow to do it.”</p> +<h3>How to avoid Everything.</h3> +<p>“They have now discovered, Mrs. Wilkins,” I said, +“the germ of old age. They are going to inoculate us +for it in early youth, with the result that the only chance of +ever getting rid of our friends will be to give them a +motor-car. And maybe it will not do to trust to that for +long. They will discover that some men’s tendency +towards getting themselves into trouble is due to some sort of a +germ. The man of the future, Mrs. Wilkins, will be +inoculated against all chance of gas explosions, storms at sea, +bad oysters, and thin ice. Science may eventually discover +the germ prompting to ill-assorted marriages, proneness to invest +in the wrong stock, uncontrollable desire to recite poetry at +evening parties. Religion, politics, education—all +these things are so much wasted energy. To live happy and +good for ever and ever, all we have to do is to hunt out these +various germs and wring their necks for them—or whatever +the proper treatment may be. Heaven, I gather from medical +science, is merely a place that is free from germs.”</p> +<p>“We talk a lot about it,” thought Mrs. Wilkins, +“but it does not seem to me that we are very much better +off than before we took to worrying ourselves for twenty-four +’ours a day about ’ow we are going to live. +Lord! to read the advertisements in the papers you would think as +’ow flesh and blood was never intended to ’ave any +natural ills. ‘Do you ever ’ave a pain in your +back?’ because, if so, there’s a picture of a kind +gent who’s willing for one and sixpence halfpenny to take +it quite away from you—make you look forward to scrubbing +floors, and standing over the wash-tub six ’ours at a +stretch like to a beanfeast. ‘Do you ever feel as +though you don’t want to get out of bed in the +morning?’ that’s all to be cured by a bottle of their +stuff—or two at the outside. Four children to keep, +and a sick ’usband on your ’ands used to get me over +it when I was younger. I used to fancy it was just because +I was tired.</p> +<h3>The one Cure-All.</h3> +<p>“There’s some of them seem to think,” +continued Mrs. Wilkins, “that if you don’t get all +you want out of this world, and ain’t so ’appy as +you’ve persuaded yourself you ought to be, that it’s +all because you ain’t taking the right medicine. +Appears to me there’s only one doctor as can do for you, +all the others talk as though they could, and ’e only comes +to each of us once, and then ’e makes no charge.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> +<h3>Europe and the bright American Girl.</h3> +<p>“How does she do it?”</p> +<p>That is what the European girl wants to know. The +American girl! She comes over here, and, as a British +matron, reduced to slang by force of indignation, once exclaimed +to me: “You’d think the whole blessed show belonged +to her.” The European girl is hampered by her +relatives. She has to account for her father: to explain +away, if possible, her grandfather. The American girl +sweeps them aside:</p> +<p>“Don’t you worry about them,” she says to +the Lord Chamberlain. “It’s awfully good of +you, but don’t you fuss yourself. I’m looking +after my old people. That’s my department. What +I want you to do is just to listen to what I am saying and then +hustle around. I can fill up your time all right by +myself.”</p> +<p>Her father may be a soap-boiler, her grandmother may have gone +out charing.</p> +<p>“That’s all right,” she says to her +Ambassador: “They’re not coming. You just take +my card and tell the King that when he’s got a few minutes +to spare I’ll be pleased to see him.”</p> +<p>And the extraordinary thing is that, a day or two afterwards, +the invitation arrives.</p> +<p>A modern writer has said that “I’m Murrican” +is the <i>Civis Romanus sum</i> of the present-day woman’s +world. The late King of Saxony, did, I believe, on one +occasion make a feeble protest at being asked to receive the +daughter of a retail bootmaker. The young lady, nonplussed +for the moment, telegraphed to her father in Detroit. The +answer came back next morning: “Can’t call it +selling—practically giving them away. See +Advertisement.” The lady was presented as the +daughter of an eminent philanthropist.</p> +<p>It is due to her to admit that, taking her as a class, the +American girl is a distinct gain to European Society. Her +influence is against convention and in favour of +simplicity. One of her greatest charms, in the eyes of the +European man, is that she listens to him. I cannot say +whether it does her any good. Maybe she does not remember +it all, but while you are talking she does give you her +attention. The English woman does not always. She +greets you pleasantly enough:</p> +<p>“I’ve so often wanted to meet you,” she +says, “must you really go?”</p> +<p>It strikes you as sudden: you had no intention of going for +hours. But the hint is too plain to be ignored. You +are preparing to agree that you really must when, looking round, +you gather that the last remark was not addressed to you, but to +another gentleman who is shaking hands with her:</p> +<p>“Now, perhaps we shall be able to talk for five +minutes,” she says. “I’ve so often wanted +to say that I shall never forgive you. You have been simply +horrid.”</p> +<p>Again you are confused, until you jump to the conclusion that +the latter portion of the speech is probably intended for quite +another party with whom, at the moment, her back towards you, she +is engaged in a whispered conversation. When he is gone she +turns again to you. But the varied expressions that pass +across her face while you are discussing with her the +disadvantages of Protection, bewilder you. When, explaining +your own difficulty in arriving at a conclusion, you remark that +Great Britain is an island, she roguishly shakes her head. +It is not that she has forgotten her geography, it is that she is +conducting a conversation by signs with a lady at the other end +of the room. When you observe that the working classes must +be fed, she smiles archly while murmuring:</p> +<p>“Oh, do you really think so?”</p> +<p>You are about to say something strong on the subject of +dumping. Apparently she has disappeared. You find +that she is reaching round behind you to tap a new arrival with +her fan.</p> +<h3>She has the Art of Listening.</h3> +<p>Now, the American girl looks at you, and just listens to you +with her eyes fixed on you all the time. You gather that, +as far as she is concerned, the rest of the company are passing +shadows. She wants to hear what you have to say about +Bi-metallism: her trouble is lest she may miss a word of +it. From a talk with an American girl one comes away with +the conviction that one is a brilliant conversationalist, who can +hold a charming woman spell-bound. This may not be good for +one: but while it lasts, the sensation is pleasant.</p> +<p>Even the American girl cannot, on all occasions, sweep from +her path the cobwebs of old-world etiquette. Two American +ladies told me a sad tale of things that had happened to them not +long ago in Dresden. An officer of rank and standing +invited them to breakfast with him on the ice. Dames and +nobles of the <i>plus haut ton</i> would be there. It is a +social function that occurs every Sunday morning in Dresden +during the skating season. The great lake in the Grosser +Garten is covered with all sorts and conditions of people. +Prince and commoner circle and recircle round one another. +But they do not mix. The girls were pleased. They +secured the services of an elderly lady, the widow of an +analytical chemist: unfortunately, she could not skate. +They wrapped her up and put her in a sledge. While they +were in the <i>garde robe</i> putting on their skates, a German +gentleman came up and bowed to them.</p> +<p>He was a nice young man of prepossessing appearance and +amiable manners. They could not call to mind his name, but +remembered having met him, somewhere, and on more than one +occasion. The American girl is always sociable: they bowed +and smiled, and said it was a fine day. He replied with +volubility, and helped them down on to the ice. He was +really most attentive. They saw their friend, the officer +of noble family, and, with the assistance of the German +gentleman, skated towards him. He glided past them. +They thought that maybe he did not know enough to stop, so they +turned and skated after him. They chased him three times +round the pond and then, feeling tired, eased up and took counsel +together.</p> +<p>“I’m sure he must have seen us,” said the +younger girl. “What does he mean by it?”</p> +<p>“Well, I have not come down here to play +forfeits,” said the other, “added to which I want my +breakfast. You wait here a minute, I’ll go and have +it out with him.”</p> +<p>He was standing only a dozen yards away. Alone, though +not a good performer on the ice, she contrived to cover half the +distance dividing them. The officer, perceiving her, came +to her assistance and greeted her with effusion.</p> +<h3>The Republican Idea in practice.</h3> +<p>“Oh,” said the lady, who was feeling indignant, +“I thought maybe you had left your glasses at +home.”</p> +<p>“I am sorry,” said the officer, “but it is +impossible.”</p> +<p>“What’s impossible?” demanded the lady.</p> +<p>“That I can be seen speaking to you,” declared the +officer, “while you are in company with that—that +person.”</p> +<p>“What person?” She thought maybe he was +alluding to the lady in the sledge. The chaperon was not +showy, but, what is better, she was good. And, anyhow, it +was the best the girls had been able to do. So far as they +were concerned, they had no use for a chaperon. The idea +had been a thoughtful concession to European prejudice.</p> +<p>“The person in knickerbockers,” explained the +officer.</p> +<p>“Oh, <i>that</i>,” exclaimed the lady, relieved: +“he just came up and made himself agreeable while we were +putting on our skates. We have met him somewhere, but I +can’t exactly fix him for the moment.”</p> +<p>“You have met him possibly at Wiesman’s, in the +Pragerstrasse: he is one of the attendants there,” said the +officer.</p> +<p>The American girl is Republican in her ideas, but she draws +the line at hairdressers. In theory it is absurd: the +hairdresser is a man and a brother: but we are none of us logical +all the way. It made her mad, the thought that she had been +seen by all Dresden Society skating with a hairdresser.</p> +<p>“Well,” she said, “I do call that +impudence. Why, they wouldn’t do that even in +Chicago.”</p> +<p>And she returned to where the hairdresser was illustrating to +her friend the Dutch roll, determined to explain to him, as +politely as possible, that although the free and enlightened +Westerner has abolished social distinctions, he has not yet +abolished them to that extent.</p> +<p>Had he been a commonplace German hairdresser he would have +understood English, and all might have been easy. But to +the “classy” German hairdresser, English is not so +necessary, and the American ladies had reached, as regards their +German, only the “improving” stage. In her +excitement she confused the subjunctive and the imperative, and +told him that he “might” go. He had no wish to +go; he assured them—so they gathered—that his +intention was to devote the morning to their service. He +must have been a stupid man, but it is a type occasionally +encountered. Two pretty women had greeted his advances with +apparent delight. They were Americans, and the American +girl was notoriously unconventional. He knew himself to be +a good-looking young fellow. It did not occur to him that +in expressing willingness to dispense with his attendance they +could be in earnest.</p> +<p>There was nothing for it, so it seemed to the girls, but to +request the assistance of the officer, who continued to skate +round and round them at a distance of about ten yards. So +again the elder young lady, seizing her opportunity, made +appeal.</p> +<h3>What the Soldier dared not do.</h3> +<p>“I cannot,” persisted the officer, who, having +been looking forward to a morning with two of the prettiest girls +in Dresden, was also feeling mad. “I dare not be seen +speaking to a hairdresser. You must get rid of +him.”</p> +<p>“But we can’t,” said the girl. +“We do not know enough German, and he can’t, or he +won’t, understand us. For goodness sake come and help +us. We’ll be spending the whole morning with him if +you don’t.”</p> +<p>The German officer said he was desolate. Steps would be +taken—later in the week—the result of which would +probably be to render that young hairdresser prematurely +bald. But, meanwhile, beyond skating round and round them, +for which they did not even feel they wanted to thank him, the +German officer could do nothing for them. They tried being +rude to the hairdresser: he mistook it for American +<i>chic</i>. They tried joining hands and running away from +him, but they were not good skaters, and he thought they were +trying to show him the cake walk. They both fell down and +hurt themselves, and it is difficult to be angry with a man, even +a hairdresser, when he is doing his best to pick you up and +comfort you.</p> +<p>The chaperon was worse than useless. She was very +old. She had been promised her breakfast, but saw no signs +of it. She could not speak German; and remembered somewhat +late in the day that two young ladies had no business to accept +breakfast at the hands of German officers: and, if they did, at +least they might see that they got it. She appeared to be +willing to talk about decadence of modern manners to almost any +extent, but the subject of the hairdresser, and how to get rid of +him, only bored her.</p> +<p>Their first stroke of luck occurred when the hairdresser, +showing them the “dropped three,” fell down and +temporarily stunned himself. It was not kind of them, but +they were desperate. They flew for the bank just anyhow, +and, scrambling over the grass, gained the restaurant. The +officer, overtaking them at the door, led them to the table that +had been reserved for them, then hastened back to hunt for the +chaperon. The girls thought their trouble was over. +Had they glanced behind them their joy would have been +shorter-lived than even was the case. The hairdresser had +recovered consciousness in time to see them waddling over the +grass. He thought they were running to fetch him +brandy. When the officer returned with the chaperon he +found the hairdresser sitting opposite to them, explaining that +he really was not hurt, and suggesting that, as they were there, +perhaps they would like something to eat and drink.</p> +<p>The girls made one last frantic appeal to the man of buckram +and pipeclay, but the etiquette of the Saxon Army was +inexorable. It transpired that he might kill the +hairdresser, but nothing else: he must not speak to him—not +even explain to the poor devil why it was that he was being +killed.</p> +<h3>Her path of Usefulness.</h3> +<p>It did not seem quite worth it. They had some sandwiches +and coffee at the hairdresser’s expense, and went home in a +cab: while the chaperon had breakfast with the officer of noble +family.</p> +<p>The American girl has succeeded in freeing European social +intercourse from many of its hide-bound conventions. There +is still much work for her to do. But I have faith in +her.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> +<h3>Music and the Savage.</h3> +<p>I never visit a music-hall without reflecting concerning the +great future there must be before the human race.</p> +<p>How young we are, how very young! And think of all we +have done! Man is still a mere boy. He has only just +within the last half-century been put into trousers. Two +thousand years ago he wore long clothes—the Grecian robe, +the Roman toga. Then followed the Little Lord Fauntleroy +period, when he went about dressed in a velvet suit with lace +collar and cuffs, and had his hair curled for him. The late +lamented Queen Victoria put him into trousers. What a +wonderful little man he will be when he is grown up!</p> +<p>A clergyman friend of mine told me of a German <i>Kurhaus</i> +to which he was sent for his sins and his health. It was a +resort, for some reason, specially patronized by the more elderly +section of the higher English middle class. Bishops were +there, suffering from fatty degeneration of the heart caused by +too close application to study; ancient spinsters of good family +subject to spasms; gouty retired generals. Can anybody tell +me how many men in the British Army go to a general? +Somebody once assured me it was five thousand, but that is +absurd, on the face of it. The British Army, in that case, +would have to be counted by millions. There are a goodish +few American colonels still knocking about. The American +colonel is still to be met with here and there by the curious +traveller, but compared with the retired British general he is an +extinct species. In Cheltenham and Brighton and other +favoured towns there are streets of nothing but retired British +generals—squares of retired British generals—whole +crescents of British generals. Abroad there are +<i>pensions</i> with a special scale of charges for British +generals. In Switzerland there has even been talk of +reserving railway compartments “For British Generals +Only.” In Germany, when you do not say distinctly and +emphatically on being introduced that you are not a British +general, you are assumed, as a matter of course, to be a British +general. During the Boer War, when I was residing in a +small garrison town on the Rhine, German military men would draw +me aside and ask of me my own private personal views as to the +conduct of the campaign. I would give them my views freely, +explain to them how I would finish the whole thing in a week.</p> +<p>“But how in the face of the enemy’s +tactics—” one of them would begin.</p> +<p>“Bother the enemy’s tactics,” I would +reply. “Who cares for tactics?”</p> +<p>“But surely a British general—” they would +persist. “Who’s a British general?” I +would retort, “I am talking to you merely as a plain +commonsense man, with a head on my shoulders.”</p> +<p>They would apologize for their mistake. But this is +leading me away from that German <i>Kurhaus</i>.</p> +<h3>Recreation for the Higher clergy.</h3> +<p>My clergyman friend found life there dull. The generals +and the spinsters left to themselves might have played cards, but +they thought of the poor bishops who would have had to look on +envious. The bishops and the spinsters might have sung +ballads, but the British general after dinner does not care for +ballads, and had mentioned it. The bishops and the generals +might have told each other stories, but could not before the +ladies. My clergyman friend stood the awful solemnity of +three evenings, then cautiously felt his way towards +revelry. He started with an intellectual game called +“Quotations.” You write down quotations on a +piece of paper, and the players have to add the author’s +name. It roped in four old ladies, and the youngest +bishop. One or two generals tried a round, but not being +familiar with quotations voted the game slow.</p> +<p>The next night my friend tried +“Consequences.” “Saucy Miss A. met the +gay General B. in”—most unlikely places. +“He said.” Really it was fortunate that General +B. remained too engrossed in the day before yesterday’s +<i>Standard</i> to overhear, or Miss A. could never have again +faced him. “And she replied.” The +suppressed giggles excited the curiosity of the +non-players. Most of the bishops and half the generals +asked to be allowed to join. The giggles grew into +roars. Those standing out found that they could not read +their papers in comfort.</p> +<p>From “Consequences” the descent was easy. +The tables and chairs were pushed against the walls, the bishops +and the spinsters and the generals would sit in a ring upon the +floor playing hunt the slipper. Musical chairs made the two +hours between bed and dinner the time of the day they all looked +forward to: the steady trot with every nerve alert, the ear +listening for the sudden stoppage of the music, the eye seeking +with artfulness the likeliest chair, the volcanic silence, the +mad scramble.</p> +<p>The generals felt themselves fighting their battles over +again, the spinsters blushed and preened themselves, the bishops +took interest in proving that even the Church could be prompt of +decision and swift of movement. Before the week was out +they were playing Puss-in-the-corner; ladies feeling young again +were archly beckoning to stout deans, to whom were returning all +the sensations of a curate. The swiftness with which the +gouty generals found they could still hobble surprised even +themselves.</p> +<h3>Why are we so young?</h3> +<p>But it is in the music-hall, as I have said, that I am most +impressed with the youthfulness of man. How delighted we +are when the long man in the little boy’s hat, having asked +his short brother a riddle, and before he can find time to answer +it, hits him over the stomach with an umbrella! How we clap +our hands and shout with glee! It isn’t really his +stomach: it is a bolster tied round his waist—we know that; +but seeing the long man whack at that bolster with an umbrella +gives us almost as much joy as if the bolster were not there.</p> +<p>I laugh at the knockabout brothers, I confess, so long as they +are on the stage; but they do not convince me. Reflecting +on the performance afterwards, my dramatic sense revolts against +the “plot.” I cannot accept the theory of their +being brothers. The difference in size alone is a strain +upon my imagination. It is not probable that of two +children of the same parents one should measure six foot six, and +the other five foot four. Even allowing for a freak of +nature, and accepting the fact that they might be brothers, I do +not believe they would remain so inseparable. The short +brother would have succeeded before now in losing the long +brother. Those continual bangings over the head and stomach +would have weakened whatever affection the short brother might +originally have felt towards his long relation. At least, +he would insist upon the umbrella being left at home.</p> +<p>“I will go for a walk with you,” he might say, +“I will stand stock still with you in Trafalgar Square in +the midst of the traffic while you ask me silly riddles, but not +if you persist in bringing with you that absurd umbrella. +You are too handy with it. Put it back in the rack before +we start, or go out by yourself.”</p> +<p>Besides, my sense of justice is outraged. Why should the +short brother be banged and thumped without reason? The +Greek dramatist would have explained to us that the shorter +brother had committed a crime against the gods. +Aristophanes would have made the longer brother the instrument of +the Furies. The riddles he asked would have had bearing +upon the shorter brother’s sin. In this way the +spectator would have enjoyed amusement combined with the +satisfactory sense that Nemesis is ever present in human +affairs. I present the idea, for what it may be worth, to +the concoctors of knockabout turns.</p> +<h3>Where Brotherly (and Sisterly) Love reigns supreme.</h3> +<p>The family tie is always strong on the music-hall stage. +The acrobatic troupe is always a “Family”: Pa, Ma, +eight brothers and sisters, and the baby. A more +affectionate family one rarely sees. Pa and Ma are a trifle +stout, but still active. Baby, dear little fellow, is full +of humour. Ladies do not care to go on the music-hall stage +unless they can take their sister with them. I have seen a +performance given by eleven sisters, all the same size and +apparently all the same age. She must have been a wonderful +woman—the mother. They all had golden hair, and all +wore precisely similar frocks—a charming but +<i>décolletée</i> arrangement—in +claret-coloured velvet over blue silk stockings. So far as +I could gather, they all had the same young man. No doubt +he found it difficult amongst them to make up his mind.</p> +<p>“Arrange it among yourselves,” he no doubt had +said, “it is quite immaterial to me. You are so much +alike, it is impossible that a fellow loving one should not love +the lot of you. So long as I marry into the family I really +don’t care.”</p> +<p>When a performer appears alone on the music-hall stage it is +easy to understand why. His or her domestic life has been a +failure. I listened one evening to six songs in +succession. The first two were sung by a gentleman. +He entered with his clothes hanging upon him in shreds. He +explained that he had just come from an argument with his +wife. He showed us the brick with which she had hit him, +and the bump at the back of his head that had resulted. The +funny man’s marriage is never a success. But really +this seems to be his own fault. “She was such a +lovely girl,” he tells us, “with a face—well, +you’d hardly call it a face, it was more like a gas +explosion. Then she had those wonderful sort of eyes that +you can see two ways at once with, one of them looks down the +street, while the other one is watching round the corner. +Can see you coming any way. And her mouth!”</p> +<p>It appears that if she stands anywhere near the curb and +smiles, careless people mistake her for a pillar-box, and drop +letters into her.</p> +<p>“And such a voice!” We are told it is a +perfect imitation of a motor-car. When she laughs people +spring into doorways to escape being run over.</p> +<p>If he will marry that sort of woman, what can he expect? +The man is asking for it.</p> +<p>The lady who followed him also told us a sad story of +misplaced trust. She also was comic—so the programme +assured us. The humorist appears to have no luck. She +had lent her lover money to buy the ring, and the licence, and to +furnish the flat. He did buy the ring, and he furnished the +flat, but it was for another lady. The audience +roared. I have heard it so often asked, “What is +humour?” From observation, I should describe it as +other people’s troubles.</p> +<p>A male performer followed her. He came on dressed in a +night-shirt, carrying a baby. His wife, it seemed, had gone +out for the evening with the lodger. That was his +joke. It was the most successful song of the whole six.</p> +<h3>The one sure Joke.</h3> +<p>A philosopher has put it on record that he always felt sad +when he reflected on the sorrows of humanity. But when he +reflected on its amusements he felt sadder still.</p> +<p>Why was it so funny that the baby had the lodger’s +nose? We laughed for a full minute by the clock.</p> +<p>Why do I love to see a flabby-faced man go behind curtains, +and, emerging in a wig and a false beard, say that he is now +Bismarck or Mr. Chamberlain? I have felt resentment against +the Lightning Impersonator ever since the days of Queen +Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. During that summer every +Lightning Impersonator ended his show by shouting, while the band +played the National Anthem, “Queen Victoria!” +He was not a bit like Queen Victoria. He did not even, to +my thinking, look a lady; but at once I had to stand up in my +place and sing “God save the Queen.” It was a +time of enthusiastic loyalty; if you did not spring up quickly +some patriotic old fool from the back would reach across and hit +you over the head with the first thing he could lay his hands +upon.</p> +<p>Other music-hall performers caught at the idea. By +ending up with “God save the Queen” any performer, +however poor, could retire in a whirlwind of applause. +Niggers, having bored us with tiresome songs about coons and +honeys and Swanee Rivers, would, as a last resource, strike up +“God save the Queen” on the banjo. The whole +house would have to rise and cheer. Elderly Sisters +Trippet, having failed to arouse our enthusiasm by allowing us a +brief glimpse of an ankle, would put aside all frivolity, and +tell us of a hero lover named George, who had fought somebody +somewhere for his Queen and country. “He +fell!”—bang from the big drum and blue +limelight. In a recumbent position he appears to have +immediately started singing “God save the Queen.”</p> +<h3>How Anarchists are made.</h3> +<p>Sleepy members of the audience would be hastily awakened by +their friends. We would stagger to our feet. The +Sisters Trippet, with eyes fixed on the chandelier, would lead +us: to the best of our ability we would sing “God save the +Queen.”</p> +<p>There have been evenings when I have sung “God save the +Queen” six times. Another season of it, and I should +have become a Republican.</p> +<p>The singer of patriotic songs is generally a stout and puffy +man. The perspiration pours from his face as the result of +the violent gesticulations with which he tells us how he stormed +the fort. He must have reached it very hot.</p> +<p>“There were ten to one agin us, boys.” We +feel that this was a miscalculation on the enemy’s +part. Ten to one “agin” such wildly +gesticulating Britishers was inviting defeat.</p> +<p>It seems to have been a terrible battle notwithstanding. +He shows us with a real sword how it was done. Nothing +could have lived within a dozen yards of that sword. The +conductor of the orchestra looks nervous. Our fear is lest +he will end by cutting off his own head. His recollections +are carrying him away. Then follows +“Victory!”</p> +<p>The gas men and the programme sellers cheer wildly. We +conclude with the inevitable “God save the King.”</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> +<h3>The Ghost and the Blind Children.</h3> +<p>Ghosts are in the air. It is difficult at this moment to +avoid talking of ghosts. The first question you are asked +on being introduced this season is:</p> +<p>“Do you believe in ghosts?”</p> +<p>I would be so glad to believe in ghosts. This world is +much too small for me. Up to a century or two ago the +intellectual young man found it sufficient for his +purposes. It still contained the unknown—the +possible—within its boundaries. New continents were +still to be discovered: we dreamt of giants, Liliputians, +desert-fenced Utopias. We set our sail, and Wonderland lay +ever just beyond our horizon. To-day the world is small, +the light railway runs through the desert, the coasting steamer +calls at the Islands of the Blessed, the last mystery has been +unveiled, the fairies are dead, the talking birds are +silent. Our baffled curiosity turns for relief +outwards. We call upon the dead to rescue us from our +monotony. The first authentic ghost will be welcomed as the +saviour of humanity.</p> +<p>But he must be a living ghost—a ghost we can respect, a +ghost we can listen to. The poor spiritless addle-headed +ghost that has hitherto haunted our blue chambers is of no use to +us. I remember a thoughtful man once remarking during +argument that if he believed in ghosts—the silly, childish +spooks about which we had been telling anecdotes—death +would possess for him an added fear: the idea that his next +dwelling-place would be among such a pack of dismal idiots would +sadden his departing hours. What was he to talk to them +about? Apparently their only interest lay in recalling +their earthly troubles. The ghost of the lady unhappily +married who had been poisoned, or had her throat cut, who every +night for the last five hundred years had visited the chamber +where it happened for no other purpose than to scream about it! +what a tiresome person she would be to meet! All her +conversation during the long days would be around her earthly +wrongs. The other ghosts, in all probability, would have +heard about that husband of hers, what he said, and what he did, +till they were sick of the subject. A newcomer would be +seized upon with avidity.</p> +<p>A lady of repute writes to a magazine that she once occupied +for a season a wainscotted room in an old manor house. On +several occasions she awoke in the night: each time to witness +the same ghostly performance. Four gentlemen sat round a +table playing cards. Suddenly one of them sprang to his +feet and plunged a dagger into the back of his partner. The +lady does not say so: one presumes it was his partner. I +have, myself, when playing bridge, seen an expression on my +partner’s face that said quite plainly:</p> +<p>“I would like to murder you.”</p> +<p>I have not the memory for bridge. I forget who it was +that, last trick but seven, played the two of clubs. I +thought it was he, my partner. I thought it meant that I +was to take an early opportunity of forcing trumps. I +don’t know why I thought so, I try to explain why I thought +so. It sounds a silly argument even to myself; I feel I +have not got it quite right. Added to which it was not my +partner who played the two of clubs, it was Dummy. If I had +only remembered this, and had concluded from it—as I ought +to have done—that my partner had the ace of +diamonds—as otherwise why did he pass my knave?—we +might have saved the odd trick. I have not the head for +bridge. It is only an ordinary head—mine. I +have no business to play bridge.</p> +<h3>Why not, occasionally, a cheerful Ghost.</h3> +<p>But to return to our ghosts. These four gentlemen must +now and again, during their earthly existence, have sat down to a +merry game of cards. There must have been evenings when +nobody was stabbed. Why choose an unpleasant occasion to +harp exclusively upon it? Why do ghosts never give a +cheerful show? The lady who was poisoned! there must have +been other evenings in her life. Why does she not show us +“The first meeting”: when he gave her the violets and +said they were like her eyes? He wasn’t always +poisoning her. There must have been a period before he ever +thought of poisoning her. Cannot these ghosts do something +occasionally in what is termed “the lighter +vein”? If they haunt a forest glade, it is to perform +a duel to the death, or an assassination. Why cannot they, +for a change, give us an old-time picnic, or “The hawking +party,” which, in Elizabethan costume, should make a pretty +picture? Ghostland would appear to be obsessed by the +spirit of the Scandinavian drama: murders, suicides, ruined +fortunes, and broken hearts are the only material made use +of. Why is not a dead humorist allowed now and then to +write the sketch? There must be plenty of dead comic +lovers; why are they never allowed to give a performance?</p> +<h3>Where are the dead Humorists?</h3> +<p>A cheerful person contemplates death with alarm. What is +he to do in this land of ghosts? there is no place for him. +Imagine the commonplace liver of a humdrum existence being +received into ghostland. He enters nervous, shy, feeling +again the new boy at school. The old ghosts gather round +him.</p> +<p>“How do you come here—murdered?”</p> +<p>“No, at least, I don’t think so.”</p> +<p>“Suicide?</p> +<p>“No—can’t remember the name of it now. +Began with a chill on the liver, I think.”</p> +<p>The ghosts are disappointed. But a happy suggestion is +made. Perhaps he was the murderer; that would be even +better. Let him think carefully; can he recollect ever +having committed a murder? He racks his brains in vain, not +a single murder comes to his recollection. He never forged +a will. Doesn’t even know where anything is +hid. Of what use will he be in ghostland? One +pictures him passing the centuries among a moody crowd of +uninteresting mediocrities, brooding perpetually over their +wasted lives. Only the ghosts of ladies and gentlemen mixed +up in crime have any “show” in ghostland.</p> +<h3>The Spirit does not shine as a Conversationalist.</h3> +<p>I feel an equal dissatisfaction with the spirits who are +supposed to return to us and communicate with us through the +medium of three-legged tables. I do not deny the +possibility that spirits exist. I am even willing to allow +them their three-legged tables. It must be confessed it is +a clumsy method. One cannot help regretting that during all +the ages they have not evolved a more dignified system. One +feels that the three-legged table must hamper them. One can +imagine an impatient spirit getting tired of spelling out a +lengthy story on a three-legged table. But, as I have said, +I am willing to assume that, for some spiritual reason +unfathomable to my mere human intelligence, that three-legged +table is essential. I am willing also to accept the human +medium. She is generally an unprepossessing lady running +somewhat to bulk. If a gentleman, he so often has dirty +finger-nails, and smells of stale beer. I think myself it +would be so much simpler if the spirit would talk to me direct; +we could get on quicker. But there is that about the +medium, I am told, which appeals to a spirit. Well, it is +his affair, not mine, and I waive the argument. My real +stumbling-block is the spirit himself—the sort of +conversation that, when he does talk, he indulges in. I +cannot help feeling that his conversation is not worth the +paraphernalia. I can talk better than that myself.</p> +<p>The late Professor Huxley, who took some trouble over this +matter, attended some half-dozen <i>séances</i>, and then +determined to attend no more.</p> +<p>“I have,” he said, “for my sins to submit +occasionally to the society of live bores. I refuse to go +out of my way to spend an evening in the dark with dead +bores.”</p> +<p>The spiritualists themselves admit that their table-rapping +spooks are precious dull dogs; it would be difficult, in face of +the communications recorded, for them to deny it. They +explain to us that they have not yet achieved communication with +the higher spiritual Intelligences. The more intelligent +spirits—for some reason that the spiritualists themselves +are unable to explain—do not want to talk to them, appear +to have something else to do. At present—so I am +told, and can believe—it is only the spirits of lower +intelligence that care to turn up on these evenings. The +spiritualists argue that, by continuing, the higher-class spirits +will later on be induced to “come in.” I fail +to follow the argument. It seems to me that we are +frightening them away. Anyhow, myself I shall wait +awhile.</p> +<p>When the spirit comes along that can talk sense, that can tell +me something I don’t know, I shall be glad to meet +him. The class of spirit that we are getting just at +present does not appeal to me. The thought of him—the +reflection that I shall die and spend the rest of eternity in his +company—does not comfort me.</p> +<h3>She is now a Believer.</h3> +<p>A lady of my acquaintance tells me it is marvellous how much +these spirits seem to know. On her very first visit, the +spirit, through the voice of the medium—an elderly +gentleman residing obscurely in Clerkenwell—informed her +without a moment’s hesitation that she possessed a relative +with the Christian name of George. (I am not making this +up—it is real.) This gave her at first the idea that +spiritualism was a fraud. She had no relative named +George—at least, so she thought. But a morning or two +later her husband received a letter from Australia. +“By Jove!” he exclaimed, as he glanced at the last +page, “I had forgotten all about the poor old +beggar.”</p> +<p>“Whom is it from?” she asked.</p> +<p>“Oh, nobody you know—haven’t seen him myself +for twenty years—a third or fourth cousin of +mine—George—”</p> +<p>She never heard the surname, she was too excited. The +spirit had been right from the beginning; she <i>had</i> a +relative named George. Her faith in spiritualism is now as +a rock.</p> +<p>There are thousands of folk who believe in Old Moore’s +Almanac. My difficulty would be not to believe in the old +gentleman. I see that for the month of January last he +foretold us that the Government would meet with determined and +persistent opposition. He warned us that there would be +much sickness about, and that rheumatism would discover its old +victims. How does he know these things? Is it that +the stars really do communicate with him, or does he “feel +it in his bones,” as the saying is up North?</p> +<p>During February, he mentioned, the weather would be +unsettled. He concluded:</p> +<p>“The word Taxation will have a terrible significance for +both Government and people this month.”</p> +<p>Really, it is quite uncanny. In March:</p> +<p>“Theatres will do badly during the month.”</p> +<p>There seems to be no keeping anything from Old Moore. In +April “much dissatisfaction will be expressed among Post +Office employees.” That sounds probable, on the face +of it. In any event, I will answer for our local +postman.</p> +<p>In May “a wealthy magnate is going to die.” +In June there is going to be a fire. In July “Old +Moore has reason to fear there will be trouble.”</p> +<p>I do hope he may be wrong, and yet somehow I feel a conviction +that he won’t be. Anyhow, one is glad it has been put +off till July.</p> +<p>In August “one in high authority will be in danger of +demise.” In September “zeal” on the part +of persons mentioned “will outstrip +discretion.” In October Old Moore is afraid +again. He cannot avoid a haunting suspicion that +“Certain people will be victimized by extensive fraudulent +proceedings.”</p> +<p>In November “the public Press will have its columns full +of important news.” The weather will be +“adverse,” and “a death will occur in high +circles.” This makes the second in one year. I +am glad I do not belong to the higher circles.</p> +<h3>How does he do it?</h3> +<p>In December Old Moore again foresees trouble, just when I was +hoping it was all over. “Frauds will come to light, +and death will find its victims.”</p> +<p>And all this information is given to us for a penny.</p> +<p>The palmist examines our hand. “You will go a +journey,” he tells us. It is marvellous! How +could he have known that only the night before we had been +discussing the advisability of taking the children to Margate for +the holidays?</p> +<p>“There is trouble in store for you,” he tells us, +regretfully, “but you will get over it.” We +feel that the future has no secret hidden from him.</p> +<p>We have “presentiments” that people we love, who +are climbing mountains, who are fond of ballooning, are in +danger.</p> +<p>The sister of a friend of mine who went out to the South +African War as a volunteer had three presentiments of his +death. He came home safe and sound, but admitted that on +three distinct occasions he had been in imminent danger. It +seemed to the dear lady a proof of everything she had ever +read.</p> +<p>Another friend of mine was waked in the middle of the night by +his wife, who insisted that he should dress himself and walk +three miles across a moor because she had had a dream that +something terrible was happening to a bosom friend of hers. +The bosom friend and her husband were rather indignant at being +waked at two o’clock in the morning, but their indignation +was mild compared with that of the dreamer on learning that +nothing was the matter. From that day forward a coldness +sprang up between the two families.</p> +<p>I would give much to believe in ghosts. The interest of +life would be multiplied by its own square power could we +communicate with the myriad dead watching us from their mountain +summits. Mr. Zangwill, in a poem that should live, draws +for us a pathetic picture of blind children playing in a garden, +laughing, romping. All their lives they have lived in +darkness; they are content. But, the wonder of it, could +their eyes by some miracle be opened!</p> +<h3>Blind Children playing in a World of Darkness.</h3> +<p>May not we be but blind children, suggests the poet, living in +a world of darkness—laughing, weeping, loving, +dying—knowing nothing of the wonder round us?</p> +<p>The ghosts about us, with their god-like faces, it might be +good to look at them.</p> +<p>But these poor, pale-faced spooks, these dull-witted, +table-thumping spirits: it would be sad to think that of such was +the kingdom of the Dead.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> +<h3>Parents and their Teachers.</h3> +<p>My heart has been much torn of late, reading of the wrongs of +Children. It has lately been discovered that Children are +being hampered and harassed in their career by certain brutal and +ignorant persons called, for want of a better name, +parents. The parent is a selfish wretch who, out of pure +devilment, and without consulting the Child itself upon the +subject, lures innocent Children into the world, apparently for +the purpose merely of annoying them. The parent does not +understand the Child when he has got it; he does not understand +anything, not much. The only person who understands the +Child is the young gentleman fresh from College and the elderly +maiden lady, who, between them, produce most of the literature +that explains to us the Child.</p> +<p>The parent does not even know how to dress the Child. +The parent will persist in dressing the Child in a long and +trailing garment that prevents the Child from kicking. The +young gentleman fresh from College grows almost poetical in his +contempt. It appears that the one thing essential for the +health of a young child is that it should have perfect freedom to +kick. Later on the parent dresses the Child in short +clothes, and leaves bits of its leg bare. The elderly +maiden Understander of Children, quoting medical opinion, +denounces us as criminals for leaving any portion of that +precious leg uncovered. It appears that the partially +uncovered leg of childhood is responsible for most of the disease +that flesh is heir to.</p> +<p>Then we put it into boots. We “crush its +delicately fashioned feet into hideous leather instruments of +torture.” That is the sort of phrase that is hurled +at us! The picture conjured up is that of some fiend in +human shape, calling itself a father, seizing some helpless +cherub by the hair, and, while drowning its pathetic wails for +mercy beneath roars of demon laughter, proceeding to bind about +its tender bones some ancient curiosity dug from the dungeons of +the Inquisition.</p> +<p>If the young gentleman fresh from College or the maiden lady +Understander could be, if only for a month or two, a +father! If only he or she could guess how gladly the father +of limited income would reply,</p> +<p>“My dear, you are wrong in saying that the children must +have boots. That is an exploded theory. The children +must not have boots. I refuse to be a party to crushing +their delicately fashioned feet into hideous leather instruments +of torture. The young gentleman fresh from College and the +elderly maiden Understander have decided that the children must +not have boots. Do not let me hear again that out-of-date +word—boots.”</p> +<p>If there were only one young gentleman fresh from College, one +maiden lady Understander teaching us our duty, life would be +simpler. But there are so many young gentlemen from +College, so many maiden lady Understanders, on the job—if I +may be permitted a vulgarism; and as yet they are not all +agreed. It is distracting for the parent anxious to do +right. We put the little dears into sandals, and then at +once other young gentlemen from College, other maiden lady +Understanders, point to us as would-be murderers. Long +clothes are fatal, short clothes are deadly, boots are +instruments of torture, to allow children to go about with bare +feet shows that we regard them as Incumbrances, and, with low +cunning, are seeking to be rid of them.</p> +<h3>Their first attempt.</h3> +<p>I knew a pair of parents. I am convinced, in spite of +all that can be said to the contrary, they were fond of their +Child; it was their first. They were anxious to do the +right thing. They read with avidity all books and articles +written on the subject of Children. They read that a Child +should always sleep lying on its back, and took it in turns to +sit awake o’ nights to make sure that the Child was always +right side up.</p> +<p>But another magazine told them that Children allowed to sleep +lying on their backs grew up to be idiots. They were sad +they had not read of this before, and started the Child on its +right side. The Child, on the contrary, appeared to have a +predilection for the left, the result being that neither the +parents nor the baby itself for the next three weeks got any +sleep worth speaking of.</p> +<p>Later on, by good fortune, they came across a treatise that +said a Child should always be allowed to choose its own position +while sleeping, and their friends persuaded them to stop at +that—told them they would never strike a better article if +they searched the whole British Museum Library. It troubled +them to find that Child sometimes sleeping curled up with its toe +in its mouth, and sometimes flat on its stomach with its head +underneath the pillow. But its health and temper were +decidedly improved.</p> +<h3>The Parent can do no right.</h3> +<p>There is nothing the parent can do right. You would +think that now and then he might, if only by mere accident, +blunder into sense. But, no, there seems to be a law +against it. He brings home woolly rabbits and indiarubber +elephants, and expects the Child to be contented +“forsooth” with suchlike aids to its education. +As a matter of fact, the Child is content: it bangs its own head +with the woolly rabbit and does itself no harm; it tries to +swallow the indiarubber elephant; it does not succeed, but +continues to hope. With that woolly rabbit and that +indiarubber elephant it would be as happy as the day is long if +only the young gentleman from Cambridge would leave it alone, and +not put new ideas into its head. But the gentleman from +Cambridge and the maiden lady Understander are convinced that the +future of the race depends upon leaving the Child untrammelled to +select its own amusements. A friend of mine, during his +wife’s absence once on a visit to her mother, tried the +experiment.</p> +<p>The Child selected a frying-pan. How it got the +frying-pan remains to this day a mystery. The cook said +“frying-pans don’t walk upstairs.” The +nurse said she should be sorry to call anyone a liar, but that +there was commonsense in everything. The scullery-maid said +that if everybody did their own work other people would not be +driven beyond the limits of human endurance; and the housekeeper +said that she was sick and tired of life. My friend said it +did not matter. The Child clung to the frying-pan with +passion. The book my friend was reading said that was how +the human mind was formed: the Child’s instinct prompted it +to seize upon objects tending to develop its brain faculty. +What the parent had got to do was to stand aside and watch +events.</p> +<p>The Child proceeded to black everything about the nursery with +the bottom of the frying-pan. It then set to work to lick +the frying-pan clean. The nurse, a woman of narrow ideas, +had a presentiment that later on it would be ill. My friend +explained to her the error the world had hitherto committed: it +had imagined that the parent knew a thing or two that the Child +didn’t. In future the Children were to do their +bringing up themselves. In the house of the future the +parents would be allotted the attics where they would be out of +the way. They might occasionally be allowed down to dinner, +say, on Sundays.</p> +<p>The Child, having exhausted all the nourishment the frying-pan +contained, sought to develop its brain faculty by thumping itself +over the head with the flat of the thing. With the +selfishness of the average parent—thinking chiefly of what +the Coroner might say, and indifferent to the future of humanity, +my friend insisted upon changing the game.</p> +<h3>His foolish talk.</h3> +<p>The parent does not even know how to talk to his own +Child. The Child is yearning to acquire a correct and +dignified mode of expression. The parent says: “Did +ums. Did naughty table hurt ickle tootsie pootsies? +Baby say: ‘’Oo naughty table. Me no love +’oo.’”</p> +<p>The Child despairs of ever learning English. What should +we think ourselves were we to join a French class, and were the +Instructor to commence talking to us French of this +description? What the Child, according to the gentleman +from Cambridge, says to itself is,</p> +<p>“Oh for one hour’s intelligent conversation with a +human being who can talk the language.”</p> +<p>Will not the young gentleman from Cambridge descend to +detail? Will he not give us a specimen dialogue?</p> +<p>A celebrated lady writer, who has made herself the mouthpiece +of feminine indignation against male stupidity, took up the +cudgels a little while ago on behalf of Mrs. Caudle. She +admitted Mrs. Caudle appeared to be a somewhat foolish +lady. “<i>But what had Caudle ever done to improve +Mrs. Caudle’s mind</i>?” Had he ever sought, +with intelligent illuminating conversation, to direct her +thoughts towards other topics than lent umbrellas and red-headed +minxes?</p> +<p>It is my complaint against so many of our teachers. They +scold us for what we do, but so rarely tell us what we ought to +do. Tell me how to talk to my baby, and I am willing to +try. It is not as if I took a personal pride in the phrase: +“Did ums.” I did not even invent it. I +found it, so to speak, when I got here, and my experience is that +it soothes the Child. When he is howling, and I say +“Did ums” with sympathetic intonation, he stops +crying. Possibly enough it is astonishment at the +ineptitude of the remark that silences him. Maybe it is +that minor troubles are lost sight of face to face with the +reflection that this is the sort of father with which fate has +provided him. But may not even this be useful to him? +He has got to meet with stupid people in the world. Let him +begin by contemplating me. It will make things easier for +him later on. I put forward the idea in the hope of +comforting the young gentleman from Cambridge.</p> +<p>We injure the health of the Child by enforcing on it +silence. We have a stupid formula that children should be +seen and not heard. We deny it exercise to its lungs. +We discourage its natural and laudable curiosity by telling it +not to worry us—not to ask so many questions.</p> +<p>Won’t somebody lend the young gentleman from Cambridge a +small and healthy child just for a week or so, and let the +bargain be that he lives with it all the time? The young +gentleman from Cambridge thinks, when we call up the stairs to +say that if we hear another sound from the nursery during the +next two hours we will come up and do things to that Child the +mere thought of which should appal it, that is silencing the +Child. It does not occur to him that two minutes later that +Child is yelling again at the top of its voice, having forgotten +all we ever said.</p> +<h3>The Child of Fiction.</h3> +<p>I know the sort of Child the weeper over Children’s +wrongs has in his mind. It has deep, soulful, yearning +eyes. It moves about the house softly, shedding an +atmosphere of patient resignation. It says: “Yes, +dear papa.” “No, dear mamma.” It +has but one ambition—to be good and useful. It has +beautiful thoughts about the stars. You don’t know +whether it is in the house or isn’t: you find it with its +little face pressed close against the window-pane watching the +golden sunset. Nobody understands it. It blesses the +old people and dies. One of these days the young gentleman +from Cambridge will, one hopes, have a Baby of his own—a +real Child: and serve him darn-well right.</p> +<p>At present he is labouring under a wrong conception of the +article. He says we over-educate it. We clog its +wonderful brain with a mass of uninteresting facts and foolish +formulas that we call knowledge. He does not know that all +this time the Child is alive and kicking. He is under the +delusion that the Child is taking all this lying down. We +tell the Child it has got to be quiet, or else we will wring its +neck. The gentleman from Cambridge pictures the Child as +from that moment a silent spirit moving voiceless towards the +grave.</p> +<p>We catch the Child in the morning, and clean it up, and put a +little satchel on its back, and pack it off to school; and the +maiden lady Understander pictures that Child wasting the all too +brief period of youth crowding itself up with knowledge.</p> +<p>My dear Madam, you take it from me that your tears are being +wasted. You wipe your eyes and cheer up. The dear +Child is not going to be overworked: <i>he</i> is seeing to +that.</p> +<p>As a matter of the fact, the Child of the present day is +having, if anything, too good a time. I shall be considered +a brute for saying this, but I am thinking of its future, and my +opinion is that we are giving it swelled head. The argument +just now in the air is that the parent exists merely for the +Children. The parent doesn’t count. It is as if +a gardener were to say,</p> +<p>“Bother the flowers, let them rot. The sooner they +are out of the way the better. The seed is the only thing +that interests me.”</p> +<p>You can’t produce respectable seed but from carefully +cultivated flowers. The philosopher, clamouring for +improved Children, will later grasp the fact that the parent is +of importance. Then he will change his tactics, and address +the Children, and we shall have our time. He will impress +on them how necessary it is for their own sakes that they should +be careful of us. We shall have books written about +misunderstood fathers who were worried into early graves.</p> +<h3>The misunderstood Father.</h3> +<p>Fresh Air Funds will be started for sending parents away to +the seaside on visits to kind bachelors living in detached +houses, miles away from Children. Books will be specially +written for us picturing a world where school fees are never +demanded and babies never howl o’ nights. Societies +for the Prevention of Cruelty to Parents will arise. Little +girls who get their hair entangled and mislay all their clothes +just before they are starting for the party—little boys who +kick holes in their best shoes will be spanked at the public +expense.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> +<h3>Marriage and the Joke of it.</h3> +<p>Marriages are made in heaven—“but solely,” +it has been added by a cynical writer, “for +export.” There is nothing more remarkable in human +sociology than our attitude towards the institution of +marriage. So it came home to me the other evening as I sat +on a cane chair in the ill-lighted schoolroom of a small country +town. The occasion was a Penny Reading. We had +listened to the usual overture from <i>Zampa</i>, played by the +lady professor and the eldest daughter of the brewer; to +“Phil Blood’s Leap,” recited by the curate; to +the violin solo by the pretty widow about whom gossip is +whispered—one hopes it is not true. Then a pale-faced +gentleman, with a drooping black moustache, walked on to the +platform. It was the local tenor. He sang to us a +song of love. Misunderstandings had arisen; bitter words, +regretted as soon as uttered, had pierced the all too sensitive +spirit. Parting had followed. The broken-hearted one +had died believing his affection unrequited. But the angels +had since told him; he knew she loved him now—the accent on +the now.</p> +<p>I glanced around me. We were the usual crowd of mixed +humanity—tinkers, tailors, soldiers, sailors, with our +cousins, and our sisters, and our wives. So many of our +eyes were wet with tears. Miss Butcher could hardly repress +her sobs. Young Mr. Tinker, his face hidden behind his +programme, pretended to be blowing his nose. Mrs. +Apothecary’s large bosom heaved with heartfelt sighs. +The retired Colonel sniffed audibly. Sadness rested on our +souls. It might have been so different but for those +foolish, hasty words! There need have been no +funeral. Instead, the church might have been decked with +bridal flowers. How sweet she would have looked beneath her +orange wreath! How proudly, gladly, he might have responded +“I will,” take her for his wedded wife, to have and +to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer +for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, +till death did them part. And thereto he might have +plighted his troth.</p> +<p>In the silence which reigned after the applause had subsided +the beautiful words of the Marriage Service seemed to be stealing +through the room: that they might ever remain in perfect love and +peace together. Thy wife shall be as the fruitful +vine. Thy children like the olive branches round about thy +table. Lo! thus shall a man be blessed. So shall men +love their wives as their own bodies, and be not bitter against +them, giving honour unto them as unto the weaker vessel. +Let the wife see that she reverence her husband, wearing the +ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.</p> +<h3>Love and the Satyr.</h3> +<p>All the stories sung by the sweet singers of all time were +echoing in our ears—stories of true love that would not run +smoothly until the last chapter; of gallant lovers strong and +brave against fate; of tender sweethearts, waiting, trusting, +till love’s golden crown was won; so they married and lived +happy ever after.</p> +<p>Then stepped briskly on the platform a stout, bald-headed +man. We greeted him with enthusiasm—it was the local +low comedian. The piano tinkled saucily. The +self-confident man winked and opened wide his mouth. It was +a funny song; how we roared with laughter! The last line of +each verse was the same:</p> +<p>“And that’s what it’s like when you’re +married.”</p> +<p>“Before it was ‘duckie,’ and +‘darling,’ and ‘dear.’ Now +it’s ‘Take your cold feet away, Brute! can’t +you hear?’</p> +<p>“Once they walked hand in hand: ‘Me loves ickle +’oo.’ Now he strides on ahead” (imitation +with aid of umbrella much appreciated; the bald-headed man, in +his enthusiasm and owing to the smallness of the platform, +sweeping the lady accompanist off her stool), “bawling: +‘Come along, do.’”</p> +<p>The bald-headed man interspersed side-splitting patter. +The husband comes home late; the wife is waiting for him at the +top of the stairs with a broom. He kisses the +servant-girl. She retaliates by discovering a cousin in the +Guards.</p> +<p>The comic man retired to an enthusiastic demand for an +encore. I looked around me at the laughing faces. +Miss Butcher had been compelled to stuff her handkerchief into +her mouth. Mr. Tinker was wiping his eyes; he was not +ashamed this time, they were tears of merriment. Mrs. +Apothecary’s motherly bosom was shaking like a jelly. +The Colonel was grinning from ear to ear.</p> +<p>Later on, as I noticed in the programme, the schoolmistress, +an unmarried lady, was down to sing “Darby and +Joan.” She has a sympathetic voice. Her +“Darby and Joan” is always popular. The comic +man would also again appear in the second part, and would oblige +with (by request) “His Mother-in-Law.”</p> +<p>So the quaint comedy continues: To-night we will enjoy +<i>Romeo and Juliet</i>, for to-morrow we have seats booked for +<i>The Pink Domino</i>.</p> +<h3>What the Gipsy did not mention.</h3> +<p>“Won’t the pretty lady let the poor old gipsy tell +her fortune?” Blushes, giggles, protestations. +Gallant gentleman friend insists. A dark man is in love +with pretty lady. Gipsy sees a marriage not so very far +ahead. Pretty lady says “What nonsense!” but +looks serious. Pretty lady’s pretty friends must, of +course, be teasing. Gallant gentleman friend, by curious +coincidence, happens to be dark. Gipsy grins and passes +on.</p> +<p>Is that all the gipsy knows of pretty lady’s +future? The rheumy, cunning eyes! They were bonny and +black many years ago, when the parchment skin was smooth and +fair. They have seen so many a passing show—do they +see in pretty lady’s hand nothing further?</p> +<p>What would the wicked old eyes foresee did it pay them to +speak:—Pretty lady crying tears into a pillow. Pretty +lady growing ugly, spite and anger spoiling pretty +features. Dark young man no longer loving. Dark young +man hurling bitter words at pretty lady—hurling, maybe, +things more heavy. Dark young man and pretty lady listening +approvingly to comic singer, having both discovered: +“That’s what it’s like when you’re +married.”</p> +<p>My friend H. G. Wells wrote a book, “The Island of Dr. +Moreau.” I read it in MS. one winter evening in a +lonely country house upon the hills, wind screaming to wind in +the dark without. The story has haunted me ever +since. I hear the wind’s shrill laughter. The +doctor had taken the beasts of the forest, apes, tigers, strange +creatures from the deep, had fashioned them with hideous cruelty +into the shapes of men, had given them souls, had taught to them +the law. In all things else were they human, but their +original instincts their creator’s skill had failed to +eliminate. All their lives were one long torture. The +Law said, “We are men and women; this we shall do, this we +shall not do.” But the ape and tiger still cried +aloud within them.</p> +<p>Civilization lays her laws upon us; they are the laws of +gods—of the men that one day, perhaps, shall come. +But the primeval creature of the cave still cries within us.</p> +<h3>A few rules for Married Happiness.</h3> +<p>The wonder is that not being gods—being mere men and +women—marriage works out as well as it does. We take +two creatures with the instincts of the ape still stirring within +them; two creatures fashioned on the law of selfishness; two +self-centred creatures of opposite appetites, of desires opposed +to one another, of differing moods and fancies; two creatures not +yet taught the lesson of self-control, of self-renunciation, and +bind them together for life in an union so close that one cannot +snore o’nights without disturbing the other’s rest; +that one cannot, without risk to happiness, have a single taste +unshared by the other; that neither, without danger of upsetting +the whole applecart, so to speak, can have an opinion with which +the other does not heartedly agree.</p> +<p>Could two angels exist together on such terms without ever +quarrelling? I doubt it. To make marriage the ideal +we love to picture it in romance, the elimination of human nature +is the first essential. Supreme unselfishness, perfect +patience, changeless amiability, we should have to start with, +and continue with, until the end.</p> +<h3>The real Darby and Joan.</h3> +<p>I do not believe in the “Darby and Joan” of the +song. They belong to song-land. To accept them I need +a piano, a sympathetic contralto voice, a firelight effect, and +that sentimental mood in myself, the foundation of which is a +good dinner well digested. But there are Darbys and Joans +of real flesh and blood to be met with—God bless them, and +send more for our example—wholesome living men and women, +brave, struggling, souls with common-sense. Ah, yes! they +have quarrelled; had their dark house of bitterness, of hate, +when he wished to heaven he had never met her, and told her +so. How could he have guessed those sweet lips could utter +such cruel words; those tender eyes, he loved to kiss, flash with +scorn and anger?</p> +<p>And she, had she known what lay behind; those days when he +knelt before her, swore that his only dream was to save her from +all pain. Passion lies dead; it is a flame that burns out +quickly. The most beautiful face in the world grows +indifferent to us when we have sat opposite it every morning at +breakfast, every evening at supper, for a brief year or +two. Passion is the seed. Love grows from it, a +tender sapling, beautiful to look upon, but wondrous frail, +easily broken, easily trampled on during those first years of +wedded life. Only by much nursing, by long caring-for, +watered with tears, shall it grow into a sturdy tree, defiant of +the winds, ’neath which Darby and Joan shall sit sheltered +in old age.</p> +<p>They had commonsense, brave hearts. Darby had expected +too much. Darby had not made allowance for human nature +which he ought to have done, seeing how much he had of it +himself. Joan knows he did not mean it. Joan has a +nasty temper; she admits it. Joan will try, Darby will +try. They kiss again with tears. It is a workaday +world; Darby and Joan will take it as it is, will do their +best. A little kindness, a little clasping of the hands +before night comes.</p> +<h3>Many ways of Love.</h3> +<p>Youth deems it heresy, but I sometimes wonder if our English +speaking way is quite the best. I discussed the subject +once with an old French lady. The English reader forms his +idea of French life from the French novel; it leads to mistaken +notions. There are French Darbys, French Joans, many +thousands of them.</p> +<p>“Believe me,” said my old French friend, +“your English way is wrong; our way is not perfect, but it +is the better, I am sure. You leave it entirely to the +young people. What do they know of life, of themselves, +even. He falls in love with a pretty face. +She—he danced so well! he was so agreeable that day of the +picnic! If marriage were only for a month or so; could be +ended without harm when the passion was burnt out. Ah, yes! +then perhaps you would be right. I loved at eighteen, +madly—nearly broke my heart. I meet him occasionally +now. My dear”—her hair was silvery white, and I +was only thirty-five; she always called me “my dear”; +it is pleasant at thirty-five to be talked to as a child. +“He was a perfect brute, handsome he had been, yes, but all +that was changed. He was as stupid as an ox. I never +see his poor frightened-looking wife without shuddering thinking +of what I have escaped. They told me all that, but I looked +only at his face, and did not believe them. They forced me +into marriage with the kindest man that ever lived. I did +not love him then, but I loved him for thirty years; was it not +better?”</p> +<p>“But, my dear friend,” I answered; “that +poor, frightened-looking wife of your first love! Her +marriage also was, I take it, the result of parental +choosing. The love marriage, I admit, as often as not turns +out sadly. The children choose ill. Parents also +choose ill. I fear there is no sure receipt for the happy +marriage.”</p> +<p>“You are arguing from bad examples,” answered my +silver-haired friend; “it is the system that I am +defending. A young girl is no judge of character. She +is easily deceived, is wishful to be deceived. As I have +said, she does not even know herself. She imagines the mood +of the moment will remain with her. Only those who have +watched over her with loving insight from her infancy know her +real temperament.</p> +<p>“The young man is blinded by his passion. Nature +knows nothing of marriage, of companionship. She has only +one aim. That accomplished, she is indifferent to the +future of those she has joined together. I would have +parents think only of their children’s happiness, giving to +worldly considerations their true value, but nothing beyond, +choosing for their children with loving care, with sense of their +great responsibility.”</p> +<h3>Which is it?</h3> +<p>“I fear our young people would not be contented with our +choosing,” I suggested.</p> +<p>“Are they so contented with their own, the honeymoon +over?” she responded with a smile.</p> +<p>We agreed it was a difficult problem viewed from any +point.</p> +<p>But I still think it would be better were we to heap less +ridicule upon the institution. Matrimony cannot be +“holy” and ridiculous at the same time. We have +been familiar with it long enough to make up our minds in which +light to regard it.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> +<h3>Man and his Tailor.</h3> +<p>What’s wrong with the “Made-up Tie”? I +gather from the fashionable novelist that no man can wear a +made-up tie and be a gentleman. He may be a worthy man, +clever, well-to-do, eligible from every other point of view; but +She, the refined heroine, can never get over the fact that he +wears a made-up tie. It causes a shudder down her high-bred +spine whenever she thinks of it. There is nothing else to +be said against him. There is nothing worse about him than +this—he wears a made-up tie. It is all +sufficient. No true woman could ever care for him, no +really classy society ever open its doors to him.</p> +<p>I am worried about this thing because, to confess the horrid +truth, I wear a made-up tie myself. On foggy afternoons I +steal out of the house disguised. They ask me where I am +going in a hat that comes down over my ears, and why I am wearing +blue spectacles and a false beard, but I will not tell +them. I creep along the wall till I find a common +hosier’s shop, and then, in an assumed voice, I tell the +man what it is I want. They come to fourpence halfpenny +each; by taking the half-dozen I get them for a trifle +less. They are put on in a moment, and, to my vulgar eye, +look neat and tasteful.</p> +<p>Of course, I know I am not a gentleman. I have given up +hopes of ever being one. Years ago, when life presented +possibilities, I thought that with pains and intelligence I might +become one. I never succeeded. It all depends on +being able to tie a bow. Round the bed-post, or the neck of +the water-jug, I could tie the wretched thing to +perfection. If only the bed-post or the water-jug could +have taken my place and gone to the party instead of me, life +would have been simpler. The bed-post and the water-jug, in +its neat white bow, looked like a gentleman—the fashionable +novelist’s idea of a gentleman. Upon myself the +result was otherwise, suggesting always a feeble attempt at +suicide by strangulation. I could never understand how it +was done. There were moments when it flashed across me that +the secret lay in being able to turn one’s self inside out, +coming up with one’s arms and legs the other way +round. Standing on one’s head might have surmounted +the difficulty; but the higher gymnastics Nature has denied to +me. “The Boneless Wonder” or the “Man +Serpent” could, I felt, be a gentleman so easily. To +one to whom has been given only the common ordinary joints +gentlemanliness is apparently an impossible ideal.</p> +<p>It is not only the tie. I never read the fashionable +novel without misgiving. Some hopeless bounder is being +described:</p> +<p>“If you want to know what he is like,” says the +Peer of the Realm, throwing himself back in his deep easy-chair, +and puffing lazily at his cigar of delicate aroma, “he is +the sort of man that wears three studs in his shirt.”</p> +<h3>The difficulty of being a Gentleman.</h3> +<p>Merciful heavens! I myself wear three studs in my +shirt. I also am a hopeless bounder, and I never knew +it. It comes upon me like a thunderbolt. I thought +three studs were fashionable. The idiot at the shop told me +three studs were all the rage, and I ordered two dozen. I +can’t afford to throw them away. Till these two dozen +shirts are worn out, I shall have to remain a hopeless +bounder.</p> +<p>Why have we not a Minister of the Fine Arts? Why does +not a paternal Government fix notices at the street corners, +telling the would-be gentleman how many studs he ought to wear, +what style of necktie now distinguishes the noble-minded man from +the base-hearted? They are prompt enough with their police +regulations, their vaccination orders—the higher things of +life they neglect.</p> +<p>I select at random another masterpiece of English +literature.</p> +<p>“My dear,” says Lady Montresor, with her light +aristocratic laugh, “you surely cannot seriously think of +marrying a man who wears socks with yellow spots?”</p> +<p>Lady Emmelina sighs.</p> +<p>“He is very nice,” she murmurs, “but I +suppose you are right. I suppose that sort of man does get +on your nerves after a time.”</p> +<p>“My dear child,” says Lady Montresor, “he is +impossible.”</p> +<p>In a cold sweat I rush upstairs into my bedroom.</p> +<p>I thought so: I am always wrong. All my best socks have +yellow spots. I rather fancied them. They were +expensive, too, now I come to think of it.</p> +<p>What am I to do? If I sacrifice them and get red spots, +then red spots, for all I know, may be wrong. I have no +instinct. The fashionable novelist never helps one. +He tells us what is wrong, but he does not tell us what is +right. It is creative criticism that I feel the need +of. Why does not the Lady Montresor go on? Tell me +what sort of socks the ideal lover ought to wear. There are +so many varieties of socks. What is a would-be-gentleman to +do? Would it be of any use writing to the fashionable +novelist:—</p> +<h3>How we might, all of us, be Gentlemen.</h3> +<p>“Dear Mr. Fashionable Novelist (or should it be +Miss?),—Before going to my tailor, I venture to write to +you on a subject of some importance. I am fairly well +educated, of good family and address, and, so my friends tell me, +of passable appearance. I yearn to become a +gentleman. If it is not troubling you too much, would you +mind telling me how to set about the business? What socks +and ties ought I to wear? Do I wear a flower in my +button-hole, or is that a sign of a coarse mind? How many +buttons on a morning coat show a beautiful nature? Does a +stand-up collar with a tennis shirt prove that you are of noble +descent, or, on the contrary, stamp you as a +<i>parvenu</i>? If answering these questions imposes too +great a tax on your time, perhaps you would not mind telling me +how you yourself know these things. Who is your authority, +and when is he at home? I should apologize for writing to +you but that I feel you will sympathize with my appeal. It +seems a pity there should be so many vulgar, ill-bred people in +the world when a little knowledge on these trivial points would +enable us all to become gentlemen. Thanking you in +anticipation, I remain . . . ”</p> +<p>Would he or she tell us? Or would the fashionable +novelist reply as I once overheard a harassed mother retort upon +one of her inquiring children. Most of the afternoon she +had been rushing out into the garden, where games were in +progress, to tell the children what they must not +do:—“Tommy, you know you must not do that. +Haven’t you got any sense at all?” +“Johnny, you wicked boy, how dare you do that; how many +more times do you want me to tell you?” “Jane, +if you do that again you will go straight to bed, my girl!” +and so on.</p> +<p>At length the door was opened from without, and a little face +peeped in: “Mother!”</p> +<p>“Now, what is it? can’t I ever get a +moment’s peace?”</p> +<p>“Mother, please would you mind telling us something we +might do?”</p> +<p>The lady almost fell back on the floor in her +astonishment. The idea had never occurred to her.</p> +<p>“What may you do! Don’t ask me. I am +tired enough of telling you what not to do.”</p> +<h3>Things a Gentleman should never do.</h3> +<p>I remember when a young man, wishful to conform to the rules +of good society, I bought a book of etiquette for +gentlemen. Its fault was just this. It told me +through many pages what not to do. Beyond that it seemed to +have no idea. I made a list of things it said a gentleman +should <i>never</i> do: it was a lengthy list.</p> +<p>Determined to do the job completely while I was about it, I +bought other books of etiquette and added on their list of +“Nevers.” What one book left out another +supplied. There did not seem much left for a gentleman to +do.</p> +<p>I concluded by the time I had come to the end of my books, +that to be a true gentleman my safest course would be to stop in +bed for the rest of my life. By this means only could I +hope to avoid every possible <i>faux pas</i>, every +solecism. I should have lived and died a gentleman. I +could have had it engraved upon my tombstone:</p> +<p>“He never in his life committed a single act unbecoming +to a gentleman.”</p> +<p>To be a gentleman is not so easy, perhaps, as a fashionable +novelist imagines. One is forced to the conclusion that it +is not a question entirely for the outfitter. My attention +was attracted once by a notice in the window of a West-End +emporium, “Gentlemen supplied.”</p> +<p>It is to such like Universal Providers that the fashionable +novelist goes for his gentleman. The gentleman is supplied +to him complete in every detail. If the reader be not +satisfied, that is the reader’s fault. He is one of +those tiresome, discontented customers who does not know a good +article when he has got it.</p> +<p>I was told the other day of the writer of a musical farce (or +is it comedy?) who was most desirous that his leading character +should be a perfect gentleman. During the dress rehearsal, +the actor representing the part had to open his cigarette case +and request another perfect gentleman to help himself. The +actor drew forth his case. It caught the critical eye of +the author.</p> +<p>“Good heavens!” he cried, “what do you call +that?”</p> +<p>“A cigarette case,” answered the actor.</p> +<p>“But, my dear boy,” exclaimed the author, +“surely it is silver?”</p> +<p>“I know,” admitted the actor, “it does +perhaps suggest that I am living beyond my means, but the truth +is I picked it up cheap.”</p> +<p>The author turned to the manager.</p> +<p>“This won’t do,” he explained, “a real +gentleman always carries a gold cigarette case. He must be +a gentleman, or there’s no point in the plot.”</p> +<p>“Don’t let us endanger any point the plot may +happen to possess, for goodness sake,” agreed the manager, +“let him by all means have a gold cigarette +case.”</p> +<h3>How one may know the perfect Gentleman.</h3> +<p>So, regardless of expense, a gold cigarette case was obtained +and put down to expenses. And yet on the first night of +that musical play, when that leading personage smashed a tray +over a waiter’s head, and, after a row with the police, +came home drunk to his wife, even that gold cigarette case failed +to convince one that the man was a gentleman beyond all +doubt.</p> +<p>The old writers appear to have been singularly unaware of the +importance attaching to these socks, and ties, and +cigarette-cases. They told us merely what the man felt and +thought. What reliance can we place upon them? How +could they possibly have known what sort of man he was underneath +his clothes? Tweed or broadcloth is not transparent. +Even could they have got rid of his clothes there would have +remained his flesh and bones. It was pure guess-work. +They did not observe.</p> +<p>The modern writer goes to work scientifically. He tells +us that the creature wore a made-up tie. From that we know +he was not a gentleman; it follows as the night the day. +The fashionable novelist notices the young man’s +socks. It reveals to us whether the marriage would have +been successful or a failure. It is necessary to convince +us that the hero is a perfect gentleman: the author gives him a +gold cigarette case.</p> +<p>A well-known dramatist has left it on record that comedy +cannot exist nowadays, for the simple reason that gentlemen have +given up taking snuff and wearing swords. How can one have +comedy in company with frock-coats—without its +“Las” and its “Odds Bobs.”</p> +<p>The sword may have been helpful. I have been told that +at <i>levées</i> City men, unaccustomed to the thing, +have, with its help, provided comedy for the rest of the +company.</p> +<p>But I take it this is not the comedy our dramatist had in +mind.</p> +<h3>Why not an Exhibition of Gentlemen?</h3> +<p>It seems a pity that comedy should disappear from among +us. If it depend entirely on swords and snuff-boxes, would +it not be worth the while of the Society of Authors to keep a few +gentlemen specially trained? Maybe some sympathetic +theatrical manager would lend us costumes of the eighteenth +century. We might provide them with swords and +snuff-boxes. They might meet, say, once a week, in a Queen +Anne drawing-room, especially prepared by Gillow, and go through +their tricks. Authors seeking high-class comedy might be +admitted to a gallery.</p> +<p>Perhaps this explains why old-fashioned readers complain that +we do not give them human nature. How can we? Ladies +and gentlemen nowadays don’t wear the proper clothes. +Evidently it all depends upon the clothes.</p> +<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2> +<h3>Woman and her behaviour.</h3> +<p>Should women smoke?</p> +<p>The question, in four-inch letters, exhibited on a placard +outside a small newsvendor’s shop, caught recently my +eye. The wanderer through London streets is familiar with +such-like appeals to his decision: “Should short men marry +tall wives?” “Ought we to cut our +hair?” “Should second cousins +kiss?” Life’s problems appear to be +endless.</p> +<p>Personally, I am not worrying myself whether women should +smoke or not. It seems to me a question for the individual +woman to decide for herself. I like women who smoke; I can +see no objection to their smoking. Smoking soothes the +nerves. Women’s nerves occasionally want +soothing. The tiresome idiot who argues that smoking is +unwomanly denounces the drinking of tea as unmanly. He is a +wooden-headed person who derives all his ideas from cheap +fiction. The manly man of cheap fiction smokes a pipe and +drinks whisky. That is how we know he is a man. The +womanly woman—well, I always feel I could make a better +woman myself out of an old clothes shop and a +hair-dresser’s block.</p> +<p>But, as I have said, the question does not impress me as one +demanding my particular attention. I also like the woman +who does not smoke. I have met in my time some very +charming women who do not smoke. It may be a sign of +degeneracy, but I am prepared to abdicate my position of +woman’s god, leaving her free to lead her own life.</p> +<h3>Woman’s God.</h3> +<p>Candidly, the responsibility of feeling myself answerable for +all a woman does or does not do would weigh upon me. There +are men who are willing to take this burden upon themselves, and +a large number of women are still anxious that they should +continue to bear it. I spoke quite seriously to a young +lady not long ago on the subject of tight lacing; undoubtedly she +was injuring her health. She admitted it herself.</p> +<p>“I know all you can say,” she wailed; “I +daresay a lot of it is true. Those awful pictures where one +sees—well, all the things one does not want to think +about. If they are correct, it must be bad, squeezing it +all up together.”</p> +<p>“Then why continue to do so?” I argued.</p> +<p>“Oh, it’s easy enough to talk,” she +explained; “a few old fogies like you”—I had +been speaking very plainly to her, and she was cross with +me—“may pretend you don’t like small waists, +but <i>the average man does</i>.”</p> +<p>Poor girl! She was quite prepared to injure herself for +life, to damage her children’s future, to be uncomfortable +for fifteen hours a day, all to oblige the average man.</p> +<p>It is a compliment to our sex. What man would suffer +injury and torture to please the average woman? This +frenzied desire of woman to conform to our ideals is +touching. A few daring spirits of late years have exhibited +a tendency to seek for other gods—for ideals of their +own. We call them the unsexed women. The womanly +women lift up their hands in horror of such blasphemy.</p> +<p>When I was a boy no womanly woman rode a +bicycle—tricycles were permitted. On three wheels you +could still be womanly, but on two you were “a +creature”! The womanly woman, seeing her approach, +would draw down the parlour blind with a jerk, lest the children +looking out might catch a glimpse of her, and their young souls +be smirched for all eternity.</p> +<p>No womanly woman rode inside a hansom or outside a +’bus. I remember the day my own dear mother climbed +outside a ’bus for the first time in her life. She +was excited, and cried a little; but nobody—heaven be +praised!—saw us—that is, nobody of importance. +And afterwards she confessed the air was pleasant.</p> +<p>“Be not the first by whom the new is tried, Nor yet the +last to lay the old aside,” is a safe rule for those who +would always retain the good opinion of that all-powerful, but +somewhat unintelligent, incubus, “the average +person,” but the pioneer, the guide, is necessary. +That is, if the world is to move forward.</p> +<p>The freedom-loving girl of to-day, who can enjoy a walk by +herself without losing her reputation, who can ride down the +street on her “bike” without being hooted at, who can +play a mixed double at tennis without being compelled by public +opinion to marry her partner, who can, in short, lead a human +creature’s life, and not that of a lap-dog led about at the +end of a string, might pause to think what she owes to the +“unsexed creatures” who fought her battle for her +fifty years ago.</p> +<h3>Those unsexed Creatures.</h3> +<p>Can the working woman of to-day, who may earn her own living, +if she will, without loss of the elementary rights of womanhood, +think of the bachelor girl of a short generation ago without +admiration of her pluck? There were ladies in those day too +“unwomanly” to remain helpless burdens on overworked +fathers and mothers, too “unsexed” to marry the first +man that came along for the sake of their bread and butter. +They fought their way into journalism, into the office, into the +shop. The reformer is not always the pleasantest man to +invite to a tea-party. Maybe these women who went forward +with the flag were not the most charming of their sex. The +“Dora Copperfield” type will for some time remain the +young man’s ideal, the model the young girl puts before +herself. Myself, I think Dora Copperfield charming, but a +world of Dora Copperfields!</p> +<p>The working woman is a new development in sociology. She +has many lessons to learn, but one has hopes of her. It is +said that she is unfitting herself to be a wife and mother. +If the ideal helpmeet for a man be an animated Dresden china +shepherdess—something that looks pretty on the table, +something to be shown round to one’s friends, something +that can be locked up safely in a cupboard, that asks no +questions, and, therefore, need be told no lies—then a +woman who has learnt something of the world, who has formed ideas +of her own, will not be the ideal wife.</p> +<h3>References given—and required.</h3> +<p>Maybe the average man will not be her ideal husband. +Each Michaelmas at a little town in the Thames Valley with which +I am acquainted there is held a hiring fair. A farmer one +year laid his hand on a lively-looking lad, and asked him if he +wanted a job. It was what the boy was looking for.</p> +<p>“Got a character?” asked the farmer. The boy +replied that he had for the last two years been working for Mr. +Muggs, the ironmonger—felt sure that Mr. Muggs would give +him a good character.</p> +<p>“Well, go and ask Mr. Muggs to come across and speak to +me, I will wait here,” directed the would-be +employer. Five minutes went by—ten minutes. No +Mr. Muggs appeared. Later in the afternoon the farmer met +the boy again.</p> +<p>“Mr. Muggs never came near me with that character of +yours,” said the farmer.</p> +<p>“No, sir,” answered the boy, “I didn’t +ask him to.”</p> +<p>“Why not?” inquired the farmer.</p> +<p>“Well, I told him who it was that wanted +it”—the boy hesitated.</p> +<p>“Well?” demanded the farmer, impatiently.</p> +<p>“Well, then, he told me yours,” explained the +boy.</p> +<p>Maybe the working woman, looking for a husband, and not merely +a livelihood, may end by formulating standards of her own. +She may end by demanding the manly man and moving about the +world, knowing something of life, may arrive at the conclusion +that something more is needed than the smoking of pipes and the +drinking of whiskies and sodas. We must be prepared for +this. The sheltered woman who learnt her life from fairy +stories is a dream of the past. Woman has escaped from her +“shelter”—she is on the loose. For the +future we men have got to accept the emancipated woman as an +accomplished fact.</p> +<h3>The ideal World.</h3> +<p>Many of us are worried about her. What is going to +become of the home? I admit there is a more ideal existence +where the working woman would find no place; it is in a world +that exists only on the comic opera stage. There every +picturesque village contains an equal number of ladies and +gentlemen nearly all the same height and weight, to all +appearance of the same age. Each Jack has his Jill, and +does not want anybody else’s. There are no +complications: one presumes they draw lots and fall in love the +moment they unscrew the paper. They dance for awhile on +grass which is never damp, and then into the conveniently +situated ivy-covered church they troop in pairs and are wedded +off hand by a white-haired clergyman, who is a married man +himself.</p> +<p>Ah, if the world were but a comic opera stage, there would be +no need for working women! As a matter of fact, so far as +one can judge from the front of the house, there are no working +men either.</p> +<p>But outside the opera house in the muddy street Jack goes home +to his third floor back, or his chambers in the Albany, according +to his caste, and wonders when the time will come when he will be +able to support a wife. And Jill climbs on a penny +’bus, or steps into the family brougham, and dreams with +regret of a lost garden, where there was just one man and just +one woman, and clothes grew on a fig tree.</p> +<p>With the progress of civilization—utterly opposed as it +is to all Nature’s intentions—the number of working +women will increase. With some friends the other day I was +discussing motor-cars, and one gentleman with sorrow in his +voice—he is the type of Conservative who would have +regretted the passing away of the glacial period—opined +that motor-cars had come to stay.</p> +<p>“You mean,” said another, “they have come to +go.” The working woman, however much we may regret +it, has come to go, and she is going it. We shall have to +accept her and see what can be done with her. One thing is +certain, we shall not solve the problem of the twentieth century +by regretting the simple sociology of the Stone Age.</p> +<h3>A Lover’s View.</h3> +<p>Speaking as a lover, I welcome the openings that are being +given to women to earn their own livelihood. I can conceive +of no more degrading profession for a woman—no profession +more calculated to unfit her for being that wife and mother we +talk so much about than the profession that up to a few years ago +was the only one open to her—the profession of +husband-hunting.</p> +<p>As a man, I object to being regarded as woman’s last +refuge, her one and only alternative to the workhouse. I +cannot myself see why the woman who has faced the difficulties of +existence, learnt the lesson of life, should not make as good a +wife and mother as the ignorant girl taken direct, one might +almost say, from the nursery, and, without the slightest +preparation, put in a position of responsibility that to a +thinking person must be almost appalling.</p> +<p>It has been said that the difference between men and women is +this: That the man goes about the world making it ready for the +children, that the woman stops at home making the children ready +for the world. Will not she do it much better for knowing +something of the world, for knowing something of the temptations, +the difficulties, her own children will have to face, for having +learnt by her own experience to sympathize with the struggles, +the sordid heart-breaking cares that man has daily to contend +with?</p> +<p>Civilization is ever undergoing transformation, but human +nature remains. The bachelor girl, in her bed-sitting room, +in her studio, in her flat, will still see in the shadows the +vision of the home, will still hear in the silence the sound of +children’s voices, will still dream of the lover’s +kiss that is to open up new life to her. She is not quite +so unsexed as you may think, my dear womanly madame. A male +friend of mine was telling me of a catastrophe that once occurred +at a station in the East Indies.</p> +<h3>No time to think of Husbands.</h3> +<p>A fire broke out at night, and everybody was in terror lest it +should reach the magazine. The women and children were +being hurried to the ships, and two ladies were hastening past my +friend. One of them paused, and, clasping her hands, +demanded of him if he knew what had become of her husband. +Her companion was indignant.</p> +<p>“For goodness’ sake, don’t dawdle, +Maria,” she cried; “this is no time to think of +husbands.”</p> +<p>There is no reason to fear that the working woman will ever +cease to think of husbands. Maybe, as I have said, she will +demand a better article than the mere husband-hunter has been +able to stand out for. Maybe she herself will have +something more to give; maybe she will bring to him broader +sympathies, higher ideals. The woman who has herself been +down among the people, who has faced life in the open, will know +that the home is but one cell of the vast hive.</p> +<p>We shall, perhaps, hear less of the woman who “has her +own home and children to think of—really takes no interest +in these matters”—these matters of right and wrong, +these matters that spell the happiness or misery of millions.</p> +<h3>The Wife of the Future.</h3> +<p>Maybe the bridegroom of the future will not say, “I have +married a wife, and therefore I cannot come,” but “I +have married a wife; we will both come.”</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ANGEL AND THE AUTHOR - AND +OTHERS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 2368-h.htm or 2368-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/6/2368 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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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