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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/25111-8.txt b/25111-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0aec8b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/25111-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5940 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Over the Fireside with Silent Friends, by Richard King + +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: Over the Fireside with Silent Friends + +Author: Richard King + +Release Date: April 20, 2008 [EBook #25111] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVER THE FIRESIDE *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +OVER THE FIRESIDE + +WITH SILENT FRIENDS + + +BY RICHARD KING + + + + +WITH A "FOREWORD" BY + +SIR ARTHUR PEARSON, BART., G.B.E. + + + + +_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ + + WITH SILENT FRIENDS + THE SECOND BOOK OF SILENT FRIENDS + PASSION AND POT-POURRI + + + + +LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD + +NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY + +MCMXXI + + + + + _Many of the following Essays + appear by kind permission of + the Editor of "The Tatler."_ + + + _Fifty per cent. of the author's + profit on the sale of this book + will be handed over to the + National Library of the Blind, + Tufton Street, Westminster, S.W._ + + + + + I DEDICATE, + + THIS LITTLE BOOK TO THOSE + V.A.D.'S WHO, THOUGH THE + WAR IS OVER, STILL "CARRY + ON" AND TO THOSE OTHER + MEN AND WOMEN WHO, + LIVING IN FREEDOM, HAVE + NOT FORGOTTEN THE MEN + WHO FOUGHT OR DIED FOR IT + + + + +FOREWORD + +BY SIR ARTHUR PEARSON, BART., G.B.E. + +Those who buy "Over the Fireside" will purchase for themselves the real +joy of mentally absorbing the delightful thoughts which Mr. Richard +King so charmingly clothes in words. And they will purchase, too, a +large share of an even greater pleasure--the pleasure of giving +pleasure to others--for the author tells me that he has arranged to +give half of the profits arising from the sale of this book to the +National Library for the Blind, thus enabling that beneficent +Institution to widen and extend its sphere of usefulness. + +You will never, perhaps, have heard of the National Library for the +Blind, and even if it so happens that you are vaguely aware of its +existence, you will in no true degree realise all that it means to +those who are compelled to lead lives, which however full and +interesting, must inevitably be far more limited in scope than your +own. Let me try to make you understand what reading means to the +intelligent blind man or woman. + +Our lives are necessarily narrow. Blind people, however keen their +understanding, and however clearly and sympathetically those around +them may by description make up for their lack of perception, must, +perforce, lead lives which lack the vivid actuality of the lives of +others. To those of them who have always been blind the world, outside +the reach of their hands, is a mystery which can only be solved by +description. And where shall they turn for more potent description +than to the pages in which those gifted with the mastery of language +have set down their impressions of the world around them? + +And for people whose sight has left them after the world and much that +is in it has become familiar to them, reading must mean more than it +does to any but the most studious of those who can see. Some are so +fortunate as to be able to enlist or command the services of an +intelligent reader, but this is not given to any but a small minority, +and even to these the ability to read at will, without the necessity of +calling in the aid of another, is a matter of real moment, helping as +it does to do away with that feeling of dependence which is the +greatest disadvantage of blindness. + +All this Mr. Richard King knows nearly as well as I do, for he has been +a splendidly helpful friend to the men who were blinded in the War, and +none know better than he how greatly they have gained by learning to +read anew, making the fingers as they travel over the dotted characters +replace the eyes of which they have been despoilt. + +Disaster sometimes leads to good fortune, and the disaster which befell +the blinded soldier has given to the service of the blind world +generally the affection and sympathy which Mr. Richard King so +abundantly possesses. Your reading of this book--and if you have only +borrowed it I hope that these words may induce you to buy a copy--will +help to enable more blind folk to read than would otherwise have been +the case, and thus you will have added to the happiness of the world, +just as the perusal of "Over the Fireside" will have added to your own +happiness. + + + + +BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION + +Draw your chair up nearer to the fireside. + +It is the hour of twilight. Soon, so very soon, another of Life's +little days will have silently crept behind us into the long dim limbo +of half-forgotten years. + +We are alone--you and I. Yet between us--unseen, but very real--are +Memories linking us to one another and to the generation who, like +ourselves, is growing old. How still the world outside seems to have +grown! The shadows are lengthening, minute by minute, and presently, +the garden, so brightly beautiful such a little time ago in all the +colour of its September beauty, will be lost to us in the magic mystery +of Night. Who knows? if in the darkest shadows Angels are not +standing, and God, returning in this twilight hour, will stay with us +until the coming of the Dawn! + +Inside the room the fire burns brightly, for the September evenings are +very chilly. Its dancing flames illumine us as if pixies were shaking +their tiny lanterns in our faces. + +DON'T you love the Twilight Hour, when heart seems to speak to heart, +and Time seems as if it had ceased for a moment to pursue its Deathless +course, lingering in the shadows for a while! + +It is the hour when old friends meet to talk of "cabbages and kings," +and Life and Love and all those unimportant things which happened long +ago in the Dead Yesterdays. Or perhaps, we both sit silent for a +space. We do not speak, yet each seems to divine the other's thought. +That is the wonder of real Friendship, even the silence speaks, telling +to those who understand the thoughts we have never dared to utter. + +So we sit quietly, dreaming over the dying embers. We make no effort, +we do not strive to "entertain." We simply speak of Men and Matters +and how they influenced us and were woven unconsciously into the +pattern of our inner lives. + +So the long hour of twilight passes--passes. . . . . . + +And each hour is no less precious because there will be so many hours +"over the fireside" for both of us, now that we are growing old. + +But we would not become young again, merely to grow old again. + +No! NO! + +Age, after all, has MEMORIES, and each Memory is as a story that is +told. + +Do you know those lovely lines by John Masefield-- + + _"I take the bank and gather to the fire, + Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute + The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire, + Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet. + I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander + Your cornfield, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys + Ever again, nor share the battle yonder + Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies. + Only stay quiet while my mind remembers + The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers."_ + + +And so I hope that a few of the embers in this little book will help to +warm some unknown human heart. + +And that is all I ask! + + + + + CONTENTS + + + Books and the Blind + The Blind Man's Problem + Dreams + How to Help + On Getting Away from Yourself + Travel + Work + Farewells! + The "Butters" + Age that Dyes + Women in Love + Pompous Pride in Literary "Lions" + Seaside Piers + Visitors + The Unimpassioned English + Relations + Polite Conversation + Awful Warnings + It's oh, to be out of England--now that Spring is here + Bad-tempered People + Polite Masks + The Might-have-been + Autumn Sowing + What You Really Reap + Autumn Determination + Two Lives + Backward and Forward + When? + The Futile Thought + The London Season + Christmas + The New Year + February + Tub-thumpers + I Wonder If . . . + Types of Tub-thumpers + If Age only Practised what it Preached! + Beginnings + Unlucky in Little Things + Wallpapers + Our Irritating Habits + Away--Far Away! + "Family Skeletons" + The Dreariness of One Line of Conduct + The Happy Discontent + Book-borrowing Nearly Always Means Book-stealing + Other People's Books + The Road to Calvary + Mountain Paths + The Unholy Fear + The Need to Remember + Humanity + Responsibility + The Government of the Future + The Question + The Two Passions + Our "Secret Escapes" + My Escape and Some Others + Over the Fireside + Faith Reached through Bitterness and Loss + Aristocracy and Democracy + Duty + Sweeping Assertions from Particular Instances + How I came to make "History" + The Glut of the Ornamental + On Going "to the Dogs" + A School for Wives + The Neglected Art of Eating Gracefully + Modern Clothes + A Sense of Universal Pity + The Few + The Great and the Really Great + Love "Mush" + Wives + Children + One of the Minor Tragedies + The "Glorious Dead" + Always the Personal Note + Clergymen + Their Failure + Work In the East-end + Mysticism and the Practical Man + Abraham Lincoln + Reconstruction + Education + The Inane and Unimaginative + Great Adventure + Travel + The Enthralling Out-of-Reach + The Things which are not Dreamed of in Our Philosophy + Faith + Spiritualism + On Reality in People + Life + Dreams and Reality + Love of God + The Will to Faith + + + + +OVER THE FIRESIDE + + +_Books and the Blind_ + +Strange as the confession may appear coming from one who, week in, week +out, writes about books, I am not a great book-lover! I infinitely +prefer to watch and think, think and watch, and listen. All the same, +I would not be without books for anything in this world. They are a +means of getting away, of forgetting, of losing oneself, the past, the +present, and the future, in the story, in the lives, and in the +thoughts of other men and women, in the thrill and excitement of +extraneous people and things. One of the delights of winter--and in +this country winter is of such interminable length and dreariness that +we hug any delight which belongs to it alone as fervently as we hug +love to our bosoms when we have reached the winter of our lives!--is to +snuggle down into a comfy easy-chair before a big fire and, book in +hand, travel hither and thither as the author wills--hate, love, +despair, or mock as the author inveigles or moves us. I don't think +that most of us pay half enough respectful attention to books seeing +how greatly we depend upon them for some of the quietest pleasures of +our lives. But that is the way of human nature, isn't it? We rarely +value anything until we lose it; we sigh most ardently for the thing +which is beyond our reach, we count our happiest days those across the +record of which we now must scrawl, "Too late!" That is why I always +feel so infinitely sorry for the blind. The blind can so rarely get +away from themselves, and, when they do, only with that effort which in +you and me would demand some bigger result than merely to lose +remembrance of our minor worries. When we are in trouble, when we are +in pain, when our heart weeps silently and alone, its sorrow +unsuspected by even our nearest and dearest, we, I say, can ofttimes +deaden the sad ache of the everyday by going out into the world, +seeking change of scene, change of environment, something to divert, +for the nonce, the unhappy tenor of our lives. But the blind, alas! +can do none of these things. Wherever they go, to whatever change of +scene they flee for variety, the same haunting darkness follows them +unendingly. + + + + +_The Blind Man's Problem_ + +It is so difficult for them to get away from themselves, to seek that +change and novelty which, in our hours of dread and suspense, are our +most urgent need. All the time, day in, day out, their perpetual +darkness thrusts them back upon themselves. They cannot get away from +it. Nothing--or perhaps, so very, very few things--can take them out +of themselves, allow them to lose their own unhappiness in living their +lives for something, someone outside themselves. Their own needs, +their own loss, their own loneliness, are perpetually with them. So +their emotions go round and round in a vicious circle, from which there +is no possible escape. Never, never can they _give_. They have so +little to offer but love and gratitude. But, although gratitude is so +beautiful and so rare, it is not an emotion that we yearn to feel +always and always. We want to give, to be thanked ourselves, to cheer, +to succour, to do some little good ourselves while yet we may. There +is a joy in _giving_ generously, just as there is in _receiving_ +generously. Yet, there are many moments in each man's life when no +gift can numb the dull ache of the inevitable, when nothing, except +getting away--somewhere, somehow, and immediately--can stifle the +unspoken pain which comes to all of us and which in not every instance +can we so easily cast off. Some men travel; some men go out into the +world to lose their own trouble in administering to the trouble of +other people; some find forgetfulness in work--hard, strenuous labour; +most of us--especially when our trouble be not overwhelming--find +solace in art, or music, and especially in books. For books take one +suddenly into another world, among other men and women; and sometimes +in the problem of their lives we may find a solution of our own trials, +and be helped, encouraged, restarted on our way by them. I thought of +these things the other day when I was asked to visit the National +Library for the Blind in Tufton Street, Westminster. It is hidden away +in a side street, but the good work it does is spread all over the +world. And, as I wandered round this large building and examined the +thousands of books--classic as well as quite recent works--I thought to +myself, "How the blind must appreciate this blessing!" And from that I +began to realise once more how those who cannot see depend so greatly +on books--that means of "forgetting" which you and I pass by so +casually. For _we_ can seek diversion in a score of ways, but _they_, +the blind, have so few, so very few means of escape. Wherever they go, +they never find a change of scene--merely the sounds alter, that is +all. But in books they can suddenly find a new world--a world which +_they can see_. + + + + +_Dreams_ + +I can remember talking once to a blinded soldier about dreams. I have +often wondered what kind of dreams blind people--those who have been +blind from birth, I mean--dream, what kind of scenes their vision +pictures, how their friends, and those they love, look who people this +world of sleeping fancy. I have never had the courage to ask those +blind people whom I know, but this soldier to whom I talked, told me +that every night when he goes to bed he prays that he may +dream--because in his dreams he is not blind, in his dreams he can see, +and he is once more happy. I could have sobbed aloud when he told me, +but to sob over the inevitable is useless--better make happier the +world which is a fact. But I realised that this dream-sight gave him +inestimable comfort. It gave him something to think about in the +darkness of the day. It was a change from always thinking about the +past--the past when he could laugh and shout, run wild and enjoy +himself as other boys enjoy their lives. And this blinded soldier used +to be reading--always reading. I used to chaff him about it, calling +him a book-worm, urging him to go to theatres, tea-parties, long walks. +He laughed, but shook his head. Then he told me that, although he +never used to care much for reading, books were now one of the comforts +of his life. "When I feel blind," he said--"and we don't always feel +blind, you know, when we are in the right company among people who know +how to treat us as if we were not children, and as if we were not +deaf--I pick up a book, and, if I stick to it and concentrate, I begin +to lose remembrance and to live in the story I am reading and among the +people of the tale. And--_it is more like seeing the world than +anything else I do!_" + + + + +_How to Help_ + +I must confess, his remark gave me an additional respect for those huge +volumes of books written in Braille which he always carried about with +him than I had ever felt before. When you and I are "fed up" with life +and everybody surrounding us--and we all have these moods--we can +escape open grousing by taking a long walk, or by seeing fresh people +and fresh places, watching, thinking, and amusing ourselves in a new +fashion. But the blind have only books--they alone are the only handy +means by which they can get away from the present and lose themselves +amid surroundings new and strange. All the more need, then, for us to +help along the good work done by the National Library for the Blind. +It needs more helpers, and it needs more money. Working with the +absolute minimum of staff and outside expenses, it is achieving the +maximum amount of good. As a library, I have only to tell you that it +contains 6,600 separate works in 56,000 volumes, supplemented by 4,000 +pieces of music in 8,000 volumes--a total of 64,000 items, which number +is being added to every week as books are asked for by the various +blind readers. And in helping this great and good work, I realise now +that, to a certain extent, you are helping blind people _to see_. For +books do take you out of yourself, don't they? They do help you to +lose cognizance of your present surroundings, even if you be surrounded +perpetually by darkness, they do transplant you for a while into +another world--a world which you can _see_, and among men and women +whom, should the author be great enough, you seem to know as well. +Books are a blessing to all of us--but they are something more than a +blessing to the blind, they are a deliverance from their darkness. And +we can all give them this blessing, if we will--thank Heaven, and the +women who give their lives to the work of the National Library for the +Blind!--this blessing, which is not often heard of, is a work which +will grow so soon as it is known, a work the greatness and goodness of +which are worthy of all help. + + + + +_On Getting Away from Yourself_ + +I always feel so sorry for the blind, because it seems to me they can +never get away from themselves by wandering in pastures new. It is +trite to say that the glory of the golden sunsets, the glory of the +mountains and the valleys, the coming of spring, the radiance of +summer--all these things are denied them. They are. But their great +deprivation is that none of these things can help them to get away from +themselves, from the torments of their own souls, the haunting +dreadfulness of their own secret worries. We, the more fortunate, not +only can fill our souls with beauty by the contemplation of beautiful +things, but, when the tale of our inner-life possesses the torments of +Hell, we can turn to them in our despair because we know that their +glory will ease our pain, will help us to forget awhile, will give us +renewed courage to go on fighting until the end. But where all is +blackness, those inner-torments must assume gigantic proportions. +Nothing can take them away--except time and the weariness of a soul too +utterly weary to care any longer. But time works so slowly, and the +utter weariness of the soul is often so prolonged before, as it were, +the spirit snaps and the blessed numbness of indifference settles down +upon our hearts. People who can see have the whole of the wonder of +Nature working for them in their woe. It is hard to feel utterly +crushed and broken before a wide expanse of mountain, moorland, or sea. +Something in their strength and vastness seems to bring renewed vigour +to our heart and soul. It is as if God spoke words of encouragement to +you through the wonder which is His world. But blind--one can have +none of these consolations. All is darkness--darkness which seems to +thrust you back once more towards the terror of your own heart-break. +Sometimes I wonder that the blind do not go mad. To them there is only +music and love to bring renewed courage to a heart weary of its own +conflict. To get away from yourself--and not to be able to do it--oh, +that must be Hell indeed! Verily sometimes the human need of pity is +positively terrifying. + + + + +_Travel_ + +We know what it would be were we never for a single instant able to get +away from the too-familiar scenes and people who, unconsciously, +because of their very familiarity, drive us back upon ourselves. In +each life there are a series of soul crises, when the spirit has to +battle against some great pain, some great trouble, some overwhelming +disillusion--to win, or be for ever beaten. But few, very few souls +are strong enough to win that battle unaided. A friend may do +it--though friends to whom you would tell the secret sorrows of your +life are rare! But a complete change of scene and environment works +wonders. Nature, travel, work--all these things can help you in your +struggle towards indifference and the superficially normal. But where +Nature and travel are useless, and work--well, work has to be something +all-absorbing to help us in our conflict--is the only thing left, I +wonder how men and women survive, unless, with sightlessness, some +greater strength is added to the soul, some greater numbness to the +imagination and the heart. But this I so greatly doubt. Truthfully, +as I said before, the need for pity seems sometimes overwhelming, +surpassing all imagining. I am sure that I myself would assuredly have +gone mad had I not been able to lose myself a little in travel and +change of scene. When the heart is tormented by some great pain, the +spirit seems too utterly spiritless to do anything but despair. But +life teaches us, among other things, some of the panaceas of pain. It +teaches us that the mind finds it difficult to realise two great +emotions at once, and that, where an emotion helps to take us out of +ourselves, by exactly the strength of that emotion, as it were, is the +other one robbed of its bitterness and its pain. Some people seek this +soul-ease one way and some people by other means, but seek it we all +must one day or another, and it seems to me that one of the wonders of +the natural world, the sunlight and the stars, is that they are always +there, magnificent and waiting, for the weary and the sorrowing to find +some small solace in their woe. + + + + +_Work_ + +Work and Travel, Travel and Work--and by Work I mean some labour so +absorbing as to drug all thought; and by Travel I mean Nature, and +books, and art, and music, since these are, after all, but +dream-voyages in other men's minds--they alone are for me the panacea +of pain. Not the cackle of the human tongue--that for ever leaves me +cold; not the sympathy which talks and reproves, or turns on the tap of +help and courage by the usual trite source--that never helps me to +forget. But Work, and Travel, and (for me) Loneliness--these are the +three things by which I flee from haunting terrors towards numbness and +indifference. Each one, of course, has his own weapons--these are +mine. Years ago, when I was young and timid, I dreaded to leave the +little rut down which I wandered. Now experience has given me the +knowledge that Life is very little after all, and that it is for the +most part worthless where there is no happiness, no forgetfulness of +pain, no inner peace. The opinion of other people, beyond the few who +love me, leaves me cold. The praise or approbation of the world--what +is it worth at best, while it is boring nearly always? Each year as it +passes seems to me, not so much a mere passing of time and distance, +but a further peak attained towards some world, some inner vision, +which I but half comprehend. Each peak is lonelier, but, as I reach it +and prepare to ascend the next, there comes into my soul a wider vision +of what life, and love, and renunciation really mean, until at last I +seem to _see_--what? I cannot really say, but I see, as it were, the +early radiance of some Great Dawn where everything will be made clear +and, at last and at length, the soul will find comfort, and happiness, +and peace. And the things which drag you away from this +inner-vision--they are the things which hurt, which age you before your +time, which rob you of joy and contentment. As a syren they seem to +beckon you into the valleys where all is sunshine and liveliness, and +if you go . . . if you go, alas! it is not long before once more you +must set your face, a lonelier and a sadder man, towards the mountain +peaks. That seems to me to be the story of--oh, so many lives! That +seems to me to be the one big theme in a tale which superficially is +all jollity and laughter. + + + + +_Farewells!_ + +When Youth bids "Good-bye" to anything, it is usually to some very +_tremendous thing_--or at least, it seems to be tremendous in the eyes +of Youth. But Age--although few people ever suspect--is always saying +Farewell, not to some tremendous thing, because Age knows alas! that +very few things are tremendous, but to little everyday pleasures which +Youth, in the full pride of its few years, smiles at complaisantly, or +ignores--for will they not repeat themselves again and again, tomorrow +perhaps, certainly next year? But the "I Will" of Youth has become the +"I may" of Old Age. That is why Old Age is continually saying +"Farewell" secretly in its heart. Nobody hears it bid "Adieu" to the +things which pass; it says "Addio" under its breath so quietly that no +one ever knows: and Old Age is very, very proud. And Youth, seeing the +smile by which Old Age so often hides its tears, imagines that Age can +have no sadness beyond the fact of growing old. Youth is so strong, so +free, so contemptuous of all restraint, so secretly uncomprehending +face to face with the tears which are hastily wiped away. "For, what +has Age to weep over?" it cries. "After all, it has lived its life; it +has had its due share of existence. How stupid--to quarrel with the +shadows when they fall!" But Old Age hearing that cry, says nothing. +Youth would not understand it were it to speak a modicum of its +thoughts. Besides, Old Age is fearful of ridicule; and Youth so often +mistakes that fear for envy--whereas, Old Age envies Youth so little, +so very, very little! Would Old Age be young again? Yes, yes, a +thousand times _Yes_! But would Age be young again merely _to grow old +again_? No! A hundred thousand times No! Old Age is too difficult a +lesson to learn ever to repeat the process. Resignation is such a +hard-won victory that there remains no strength of will, no desire to +fight the battle all over again. And resignation _is_ a victory--a +victory which nothing on earth can rob us. And because it is a +victory, and because the winning of it cost us so many unseen tears, so +many pangs, so much unsuspected courage, it is for Age one of the most +precious memories of its inner-life. No; Age envies Youth for its +innocence, its vigour and its strength; for its well-nigh unshakable +belief in itself, in the reality of happiness and of love: but Age +envies it so little--the mere fact of being young. It knows what lies +ahead of Youth, and, in that knowledge, there can be no room for envy. +The Dawn has its beauty; so too has the Twilight. And night comes at +length to wrap in darkness and in mystery the brightest day. + + + + +_The "Butters"_ + +Of all the human species--preserve, oh! preserve me from the monstrous +family of the Goats. I don't mean the people who go off mountain +climbing, nor those old gentlemen who allow the hair round their lower +jaw to grow so long that it resembles a dirty halo which has somehow +slipped down over their noses; nor do I mean the sheepish individuals, +nor those whom, in our more vulgar moments, we crossly designate as +"Goats." No; the people I really mean are the people who can never +utter a favourable opinion without butting a "but" into the middle of +it; people who, as it were, give you a bunch of flowers with one hand +and throw a bucket of cabbage-water over you with the other. People, +in fact, who talk like this: "Yes, she's a very nice woman, _but_ what +a pity she's so fat!" or, "Yes, she's pretty, _but_, of course, she's +not so young as she was!" Nothing is ever perfect in the minds of +these people, nor any person either. For one nice thing they have to +say concerning men, women, and affairs, they have a hundred nasty +things to utter. They are never completely satisfied by anything nor +anybody, and they cannot bear that the world should remain in ignorance +of the causes of their dissatisfaction. + +It isn't that they know there is often a fly in the amber so much as +that they perceive the fly too clearly, and that amber, even at its +best, always looks to them like a piece of toffee after all. How +anybody ever manages to live with these kind of people perpetually +about the house I do not know. And the worst of it is there seems no +cure for the "Goats," and, unlike real Goats, nothing will ever drive +them into the wilderness for ever. Even if you do occasionally drive +them forth, they will return to you anon to inform you that the +wilderness, to which you have never been, is a hundred times nicer than +the cultivated garden which it is your fate to inhabit. The most +beautiful places on this earth are, according to them, just those +places which you have never visited, nor is there any likelihood of you +ever being fortunate enough to do so. If you tell them that the most +lovely spot you have ever seen is Beaulieu in May, when the visitors +have gone, they will immediately tell you that it isn't half so lovely +as Timbuctoo--even when the visitors are there. Should you talk to +them of charming people, they will describe to you the people they +know, people whom you really would fall violently in love with--only +there is no chance of you ever meeting them, because they have just +gone to Jamaica. They "butt" their "but" into all your little +pleasures, and even when you really are enjoying yourself, and the +"but" would have to be a bomb to upset your equanimity, they will throw +cold water upon your ardour by gently hinting that you had better enjoy +yourself while you can, because you won't be young much longer. Ough! +Even when one is dead, I suppose, these "Goats" will stand round you +and say: "It's very sad . . . _But_ we all have to die some time." +And if they do, I hope I shall come back suddenly to life to butt in +with my own "but" . . . "_But_ I hope I shan't meet YOU in Heaven." + +But I suppose these "butters" enjoy themselves, even though other +people don't enjoy them. They love to take you by the hand, as it +were, and lead you from the sunshine into the shady side of every +garden. Not their delight is it to work the limelight. Rather they +prefer to cast a shadow--when they can't turn out the lights +altogether. And, strangely enough, these people are the very people +whose life is passed in the pleasantest places. It may be that, +metaphorically speaking, they have been so long used to the Powers of +existence that they delight in treasuring the weeds. Well, I, for one, +wish that they could live among these weeds for just so long a time as +to become quite sick of them--when, doubtless, they would return to us +only too anxious to see nothing but the simple flowers, and each simple +flower an exquisite joy in itself--although it fades! + + + + +_Age that Dyes_ + +So many women seem to imagine that when they dip their heads in henna +twenty years suddenly slips from off them into the mess. As a matter +of fact, they invariably pick up an additional ten years with the dye +every time. After all, the hair, even at its dullest and greyest, +shows fewer of the painful signs of Anno Domini than almost any part of +the body. The eyes and the hands, and, above all, the mind--these tell +the tale of the passing years far more vividly for those who pause to +read. But then, so very many women make the mistake of imagining that +if their hair is fully-coloured and their skin fairly smooth the world +will be deceived into taking them for twenty-nine. As a matter of +fact, the world is far too lynx-eyed ever to be taken in by any such +apparent camouflage. On the contrary, it adds yet another ten years to +the real age, and classes the dyed one among the "poor old things" for +evermore. No, the truth of the matter is that, to keep and preserve +the illusion of youthfulness long after youth has slipped away into the +dead years behind us, is a far more difficult and complicated matter +than merely painting the face, turning brown hair red, and being +divorced. Perhaps one of the most rejuvenating effects is to show the +world, while trying to believe it yourself, that you don't honestly +really care tuppence about growing old. To show that you do care, and +care horribly, is to look every second of your proper age, with the +additional effect of a dreary antiquity into the bargain. It isn't +sufficient to be strictly economical with your smiles for fear lest +deep lines should appear on your face (deep lines will come in spite of +your imitation of a mask), or to dye your hair a kind of lifeless +golden, or to draw your waist in, dress as youthfully as your own +daughter, and generally try to skip about as giddily as your own +grandchildren. No, if you want to seem youthful--and where is the +woman who doesn't?--you must _think_ youthfully all the time. This +doesn't mean that you must _act_ youthfully as well. Oh, dear me, no! +Old mutton skipping about like a super-animated young lamb--that, +indeed, gives an impression of old age which approaches to the +antiquity of a curio. No, you must keep your intelligence alert, your +sympathies awake; you must never rust or get into a "rut"; above all, +you must keep in touch with the _aims_ of youth, without necessarily +merely imitating its _antics_--then a woman will always possess that +interest and that charm which never stales, and which will carry her +through the years with the same triumph as her youth once did, or her +beauty--if she ever possessed any. And if _she_ must use the +artificial deceptions of chemists, which deceive nobody, let her do it +so artfully that, metaphorically speaking, she preserves the lovely +mellow atmosphere of an "old picture," not the blatant colouring of a +lodging-house daub. + +But, of course, one of the hardest problems of a woman's life is to +realise just when she must acknowlege that her youthful prime is past. +Some women never seem able to solve it. They either hang on to the +burlesque semblance of twenty-five, or else go all to pieces, and take +unto themselves "views" as violent as they are sour. When they cannot +command the uncritical admiration of the gaping crowd, they descend +from their thrones to shy brickbats at everyone who doesn't look at +them twice. A wise woman realises that although at forty she cannot be +the centre of attraction for her youthfulness alone, she can yet +command a circle of true friends, which, though smaller in number, is +more deeply devoted in intention. But she will never be able to keep +even these unless her sympathies are wide, her heart full of +understanding, unless she keeps herself mentally alert and her sense of +humour perpetually bright. Should she do so, hers will be the triumph +of real charm; and, providing that she grows older not only gracefully +but also cheerfully, not by plastering herself over with chemical +imitations of her own daughter's youth, but by shading becomingly, as +it were, the inevitable ravages of time, which nothing on earth will +ever hide; by dressing not more than five years younger than she really +is--then her attractiveness will continue until she is an old, old +woman. And I would back her in the race for real devotion against all +the flappers who ever flapped their crêpe de chine wings to dazzle the +eyes of that cheapest of feminine prey--the elderly married man. + + + + +_Women in Love_ + +Have you noticed how a woman displays much more "sang froid" in love +than a man? Her heart may be aflame, but there always seems to be a +tiny lump of ice which keeps her head cool. Only when a woman is not +quite sure of her captor does she begin to lose her feminine +"un-dismay." So long as she is being chased she can always remain calm +and collected, perhaps because she knows that, however hot her lover +may be in pursuit, the race began by giving her a long start, and, +being well ahead, she can listen in camouflaged amusement to the man's +protestations of her "divinity" as he "galollups" madly after her. +When you come across lovers in that state of oblivion to staring +eyes--as you do come across them so often during these beautiful warm +evenings--it is always the man who looks supremely sheepish; the woman +doesn't "turn a hair." She simply stares at the intruder as if she +wanted him to see for himself how very attractive she is. The man, on +the other hand, never meets the stranger's eyes. His expression +invariably shows that he is wishing for the earth to open--which, in +parenthesis, it never does when you most want it to. But the girl is +quite unembarrassed. Even when it is she who is making love, a staring +and smiling crowd will not force her to desist. She just goes on +stroking her lover's face and kissing him. But the man looks a perfect +fool, and, I am sure, feels it. It seems indeed, as if he would cry to +the onlookers, "Don't blame me. It's human nature. I shall get over +it quite soon!" But the girl seems to say: "By all means--watch us! +This, for me, is 'Der Tag'!" No, you can't disconcert a woman in +love--it makes her quite vain-glorious. + +I wonder why love always seems such a splendid "joke" to those who are +out of it, when it was a paralysing reality while they were in it. And +yet, as one looks back upon one's love affairs one invariably refers to +the incident as the time when "I made a fool of myself." And yet love +is no laughing matter. Considering that ninety-nine per cent. of our +novels and plays are about nothing else; considering that our songs and +our poetry, and the scandal we like to hear, all centre around this one +theme, we really ought to take it more seriously. But if we see two +lovers making love to each other we laugh outright. It is very +strange! I suppose it is that everybody else's love affairs are +ridiculous; only our own possess the splendour of a Greek tragedy. +Perhaps we share with Nature her sense of humour, which makes love one +of the biggest practical jokes in life. So we jeer at love in order to +hide our own "soreness," just as we laugh at the man who sits down +suddenly in Piccadilly because his foot stepped on a banana skin--we +laugh at him because it wasn't we who sat down. Altogether love is a +conundrum, and we laugh at the answer Fate gives us because we dare not +show the world we want to cry. Laughter is the one armour which only +the gods can pierce. Lovers never laugh--at least, they never laugh at +love--that is why we can turn them into such glorious figures of fun. + +But I always wonder why a woman of a "thousand loves" assumes a kind of +"halo," when a man of equal passion only gets called a "libertine," if +not worse things. I suppose we think it must have been so clever of +her. We speak of her as _inspiring_ love, though a man who inspires +the same wholesale affection isn't considered nice for young women to +know. It is, apparently because we realise that a woman very rarely +loses her head in love. She may have had a thousand lovers, but only +made herself look a "silly idiot" over one. But a man looks a "silly +idiot" every time. We know he must have uttered the usual eternal +protestations on each occasion. But a woman only has to _listen_, and +can always hear "the tale" without losing her dignity. She merely +begins to talk when a man comes "down to earth." While his "soul" had +soared verbally she enjoyed him as she enjoys a "ballad concert," those +love songs which say so much and mean so very little. + + + + +_Pompous Pride in Literary "Lions"_ + +I always think that the author who places his own photograph as an +illustrated frontispiece to his own book must be either an exceedingly +brave man or an exceedingly misguided one. At any rate, he runs a +terrible risk, amounting almost to certain calamity, in regard to his +literary admirers. I have never yet known an author--and this applies +to authoresses as well--whose face, if you liked his work, was not an +acute disappointment the moment you clapped eyes upon it. For example, +I am a devoted admirer of "Amiel's Journal", but it is years since I +have torn Amiel's photograph from the covers of his book. I could not +bear to think that such lovely, such poetical thoughts, should issue +from a man who, in his portrait, anyway, looks like nothing so much as +a melancholy Methodist minister, the most cheerful characteristic of +whom is "Bright's disease." + +In the days of my extreme youth I admired a well-known authoress--_in +public_, be it understood, as is the way of youth. The world was given +to understand that in her seductive heroines she really drew her own +portrait. This same world lived long in blissful ignorance that what +was stated to be a fact was only the very small portion of a +half-truth. For years this famous lady _refused_ to have her photo +published. She even went so far as to tell the world so in every +"interview" which journalists obtained from her--either regarding her +views on "How best to obtain an extra sugar-allowance in war-time," or +concerning "Queen Mary's noble example to English women to wear always +the same-sort-of-looking hat." This extreme modesty piqued the +curiosity of her ten million readers enormously. The ten million, of +which I was a member, imagined that she must be too beautiful and too +elegant to possess brains, unless she were a positive miracle. We +pictured her as tall and graceful, with a lovely willowy figure and an +expression all sad tenderness when it wasn't all sweet smiles. + +Then one fatal day the famous authoress decided--too late, I'm afraid, +by more than twenty years--to show her face to the ten million +worshippers who demanded so greatly to see it. The irrevocable step +being taken, disillusion jumped to our eyes, as the French say, and +nearly blinded us. Instead of the goddess we had anticipated, all we +saw was, gazing at us out of the pages of an illustrated newspaper, an +over-plump, middle-aged "party" with no figure and a fuzzy fringe, who +stood smiling in an open French window, and herself completely filling +it! The shock to our worship was so intense that it made most of us +think several times before spending 7_s_. on her new love story, were +it ever so romantic. And so that was the net result of _that_! + +Wiser far is the other well-known authoress, who apparently had her +last photograph taken somewhere back in the early nineties, and still +sends it forth to the press as her "latest portrait study," which, +perhaps, if she be as wise as she is witty, it will for ever be. + +No, I think that authors who insist upon their own photographs +appearing in their own books are either very foolish or puffed out with +pompous pride. Nobody really wants to look at them a second time; or, +even if they do, nine times out of ten those who stay to look remain to +wish they hadn't. I have never yet known an author's face which +compared in charm and interest with the books he writes. Taking +literature as a professional example, it cannot truthfully be said that +beauty often follows brains. In the case of authors, as in so many +other cases, to leave everything to the imagination is by far the +better policy in the long run. But there is this consolation, +anyway--we are what we are, after all, and our faces are very often +libels on our "souls." + +Granting this, the theory of the resurrection of the body always leaves +me inordinately cold. As far as I, myself, am concerned, the worms can +have my body--and welcome. May I prove extremely indigestible, that's +all! Preferably, I want to "cease upon the midnight without pain," in +the middle of a dynamite explosion. I want, as it were, to return to +the dust from which I came in one big bang! And if I must have a +Christian burial, then I hope that all of me which remains for my more +or less sorrowing relatives to bury, decently and in order, will, at +most, be one--old boot! Of course, if I do die in the middle of an +explosion, I grant that, if the resurrection of the body really be a +fact, then I shall find it extremely tiresome to hunt everywhere for my +spare parts. It will be such a colossal bore having to worry all the +other people, also busy collecting themselves, who went up with me in +the "bang," by keeping on demanding of them the information, "Excuse +me, but have you by any chance seen anything of a big-toe nail knocking +about?" I always feel so sorry for those Egyptian princesses whose +teeth and hair, whose jewels and old bones, proved such an irresistible +attraction to the New Zealand and Australian soldiers when they were in +camp near Cairo, that they stole out at night to rob their tombs, and +sent the plunder thus obtained "way back home to the old shack" as +souvenirs of the Great War. It will be so perfectly aggravating for +these royal ladies to resurrect in a tomb which, in parenthesis, they +had purposely constructed to last them until the Day of Judgment--to +resurrect therein, only to discover that some of their necessary parts +are either in Auckland, or in Sydney, or in Melbourne, or, perhaps, in +all three cities. It will be but poor consolation to learn that the +rest of them may, perhaps, be discovered among the sands of the +desert--that is to say, if they scratch about long enough looking for +them. Personally, if I get the chance, I shall immediately go about +purloining other people's physical perfections, so that, when at last I +am ready for the next move onward, I shall consist of one part Hercules +and three-parts Owen Nares! I shall indeed look lovely, shan't I? In +the meanwhile, I realise that, physically speaking, I am far better +imagined than understood. Not that I am very much worse than the +average? on the other hand, I am certainly not much better--so who +would be the happier for gazing at my photograph? No, indeed, it +cannot be for their beauty that authors insert their own +photographs--sometimes, even, on the outside covers of their own books! +For what beauty they do possess has usually been lost somewhere on the +original negative. If they still yearn to let themselves be _seen_, as +well as _read_, I would suggest that the frontispiece be the one page +in the book to be uncut, so that their readers, should they wish to +peep at the author's physiognomy for curiosity's sake, may--if that +curiosity prove its own punishment--leave those first pages uncut until +the book falls to pieces on the bookshelf. For myself, I hate to read +some beautifully written thought, only to have the author's distinctly +unbeautiful face always protruding between me and my delight--like some +utterance of the commonplace in the middle of a discussion on "souls." + +I suppose it is that authors--like everybody else--cannot understand +that how they look to themselves and to those who love them, and so are +used to them, they will not necessarily look to other people, who +merely want to gaze upon their photograph because they cannot look upon +their waxwork. We all get so used to our own blemishes by seeing them +every morning when we brush our hair that we have long since ceased to +regard them seriously. But ten to one a stranger will notice nothing +else. That is always the way of a stranger's regard. But, after all, +to fail to impress someone who knows you and loves you is nothing at +all; to fail, however, to impress someone who yearns to become +acquainted with you, is very often to lose a possible friend. Better a +thousand times that an adoring reader should keep yearning to know what +her favourite author looks like than, having at last satisfied her +curiosity, she should exclaim disappointedly, "_Gosh! To think that he +could look like that!!_" + +If an author feels that indeed he must show the world what he looks +like, let him issue to the public merely a "vague impression" of +himself--a Cubist one for preference. A Cubist portrait can look like +anything . . . but to look like anything is infinitely preferable to +looking like _nothing on this earth_, isn't it? + + + + +_Seaside Piers_ + +The only real excitement I can ever perceive about a Seaside Pier is +when the sea washes half of it away. To me, Seaside Piers are the most +deadly things. You pay tuppence to go on them, and you generally stay +on them until you can stay no longer because--well, because you _have_ +paid tuppence. Having walked along the dreary length of the tail-end +which joins the shore, there seems really nothing to do at the end of +your journey except to spit over the side. Of course, there are always +those derelict kind of amusements such as putting a penny in a slot and +being sprayed with some vile scent; or putting a ha'penny in another +slot and seeing a lead ball being shot into any hole except the one in +which, had it disappeared therein, you would have got your money back. +For the rest, I am sure that half the people remain on them for the +simple reason that tuppence is tuppence in these days or any other +days. Of course, there is generally a band which plays twice, +sometimes three times, a day; but it is not a band which ever does much +more than blast its way through a selection from "Carmen," or a +fantasia on "Faust." Of course, if you like crowds--well, a pier is +for you another name for Paradise. Nobody uses the tail-part except to +walk to the end, or _from_ it, on the side which is protected from the +wind. But the end of a pier--where it swells and the band plays--is a +kind of receptacle which receives the human debouch. There you have +the spectacle of what human beings would look like if they were put +into a bowl, like goldfish, and had nothing to do but swim round and +round. + +I suppose there _is_ an amusement in such a picture--because, look at +the women who come there every morning and bring their knitting! And +the "flappers" and the "knuts"--they seem never to tire of seeing each +other pass and re-pass for a solid hour on end! Why do they go there? +It cannot be to see clothes, because the most you see, as a rule, is a +white skirt and blouse and a brown neck all peeling with the heat! +They must go there, then, because to go on the pier is all part and +parcel of the seaside habit--and an English seaside, anyway, is one big +bunch of habits, from the three-mile promenade of unsympathetic +asphalt, with its backing of houses in the Graeco-Surbiton style, to +the railway station at the back of the town, where antiquated "flies" +won't take anybody anywhere under half-a-crown. It belongs, I suppose, +to that strain of fidelity which runs through the British "soul"--a +fidelity which finds expression in facing death sooner than forego +roast beef on Sunday, and will applaud an old operatic favourite until +her front teeth drop out. It is all very laudable, but it has its +"trying" side. One becomes rather tired of the average seaside resort, +which is built and designed rather as if the "authorities" believed +that God made Blackpool on the Seventh Day, and it was their religious +duty to erect replicas of His handiwork up and down the coast. And +under this delusion piers, I suppose, were born. + +Well, certainly they are convenient to throw yourself off the end of +them. Happily--or unhappily, whichever way you look at it--the town +council never seem to know quite what to do with them. Beside the +penny fair and the brass band, they only seem to be the haven of rest +for fifth-rate theatrical touring companies, who manage to pay for +their summer outing in the theatre erected at the end. Otherwise their +importance consists chiefly in being a convenient place for the +"flapper" to "meet mother," and to carry on a violent flirtation, +without the slightest danger, with any Gay Lothario in lavender socks +who kind o' tickles them with his eyes and makes them giggle. But for +myself, who have no mamma to meet, nor any desire to flop about with +"flappers," piers are deadly things. Their great excitement is when +the sea washes half of them away at a moment when, apparently, five +thousand people living in boarding-houses had only just vacated them. +And sometimes even that miraculous escape seems a pity! What do you +think? + + + + +_Visitors_ + +I always think that visitors are charming "interruptions." They are +delightful when they arrive; they are equally delightful--perhaps more +so--when they go. Only on the third day of their visit are they +tiresome, and their qualities distinctly below the par we expected. +Almost anybody can put up with almost anybody for three days. There is +the delight of showing him over the house, bringing out all our +treasures and listening the while our visitor shows us his envy (or his +hypocrisy) by his compliments; there is the pleasure of taking him +round the garden and pointing out our own pet plants and bulbs. Even +the servants can keep smiling through three days of extra work. But +the second night begins to see us becoming exhausted. We have said +everything we wanted to say. We have taken him up to the attic and to +the farthest ends of the pig sty, we have laid down the law concerning +our own pet enthusiasms and tolerated him while he told us about his +own. But a sense of boredom begins to creep into our hearts at the end +of the second evening, which, if there were not the pleasure of bidding +him "Good-bye" on the morrow to keep our spirits up, would end in +exasperation to be fought down and a yawn to be suppressed. The man +who invented "long visits" ought to be made to spend them for the rest +of his life as a punishment. There is only one thing longer--though it +sounds rather like a paradox to say so--and that is a "long day." To +"spend a long day" with anyone sees both you and your hostess "sold up" +long before the evening. Happily, that infliction is a country form of +entertainment, and is reserved principally for relations and family +friends who might otherwise expect us to ask them for a month. + +You see, most of us are creatures possessing habits as well as a liver. +Visitors are a fearful strain on both--after forty-eight hours. The +strain of appearing at our most hospitable and best--from the breakfast +egg in the morning to the "nightcap" at night--is one which only those +who are given a bed-sitting-room and a door with a key in it can come +through triumphantly. Visitors usually have nothing to do, while we +have our own work--and the two can rarely mate for long. Of course, +there are visitors who seem born with a gift for visiting; they give us +of their brightest and best for forty-eight hours and have "letters to +write" up in their bedroom during most of the subsequent days of their +sojourn. Also there are hostesses who seem born with the "smile of +cordiality" fixed on to their mouths. They also give of their best and +brightest for forty-eight hours and then, metaphorically, give their +guests a latch-key and a time-table of meals, and wash their hands of +them until they meet again on the door-step of "farewell." But the +majority of visitors seem incapable of leading their own lives in any +house except their own. They follow you about and wait for you at odd +corners, until you are either driven to committing murder or going out +to the post-office to send a telegram to yourself killing off a great +aunt and giving an early date for her funeral. Also there are some +hostesses who cannot let their guests alone; who must always be asking +them "What are they going to do to-day," or telling them not to forget +that Lady Sploshykins is coming to tea especially to meet them! +Frantic for our entertainment, they invite all the dull people of the +neighbourhood to meals, and drag us along with them to the dull +people's houses on the exchange visit. They are always terrified that +we are "feeling it dull," whereas the dulness really comes of our not +being allowed to stupefy in peace. + +"Never outstay your welcome" is one of the social adages I would +impress upon all young people; and "Be extremely modest concerning the +length to which that welcome would be likely to extend" is an addenda +to it. Failing any other calculation, forty-eight hours of being a +"fixture" and twelve hours of packing up are generally the safe limit. +Following that advice, you will generally enjoy the dullest visit and +will want to come again; following that advice, also, your hostess will +enjoy seeing you and hope you will. Not to follow it is to risk losing +a friend. Everybody hates the visitor who comes whenever he is asked +and stays far too long when he arrives. + + + + +_The Unimpassioned English_ + +I have just been to see the latest musical comedy. Of course, I feel +in love with the heroine. Could I help myself? Even women have fallen +in love with her--so what chance has a mere male, and one at the +dangerous age at that? But what struck me almost as much as the +youthful charm and cleverness of the new American "star" and the +invigoratingly "catchy" music, was the way in which _all the young men +on the stage put both their hands into their trouser pockets the moment +they put on evening clothes_! They didn't do it in their glad day-rags +. . . or, at least, only one hand at a time, anyway. But immediately +they appeared _en grande tenue_, both their hands disappeared as if by +magic! _C'ètait bien drôle, j'vous assure!_ Perhaps . . . who knows? +. . . they were but counting their "moneys." . . . For the chorus +ladies are certainly rather attractive, and even a svelte figure _has +been known_ to hold a big dinner! But the fact still remains . . . if +one night some wicked dresser takes it into his evil head to stitch up +their trouser pockets, every one of the young men will have to come on +and do physical "jerks," or go outside and cut his own arms off! + +But then, most Englishmen seem at a loss to know what to do with their +limbs when they are not using them for anything very special at the +moment. Have you ever sat and watched the "niggly" things which +people--especially Englishmen--do with their hands when they don't know +what to do with them otherwise? It is very instructive, I assure you. +I suppose our language does not lend itself to anything except being +spoken out of our mouths. Unlike Frenchmen, we have not learnt to talk +also with our hands. We consider it "bad form" . . . _like scratching +in public where you itch_! Well, perhaps our decision in this respect +has added to the general fun of existence. In life's everyday, one +doesn't notice these things, maybe. One has become so habituated to +"Father" drumming "Colonel Bogey" on the chair-arm; or "Little Willee" +playing "shakes" with two ha'pennies and a pen-knife--that one has +ceased to pay any attention to these minor irritations. And, when we +are among strangers, we are so busy watching that people don't put +_their_ hands into _our_ pockets, that we generally put our own hands +into them for safety. . . . Which, perhaps, accounts for the +Englishman's habit . . . who knows? + +But on the stage, this custom is an almost mesmeric one to watch. We +certainly do see other people at a disadvantage when they are strutting +the Boards of Illusion . . . men especially. But to a foreigner, who +is not used to seeing a man's hands disappear the moment he is asked to +stand up, the sight must come with something of a shock. For my own +part, I think his amazement is justified. Surely God gave a man two +hands for other needs than to pick things up with or hide them? + +Personally, I always think that it is a thousand pities that men are +not expected to knit. They grew up to be idle in the drawing-room, I +suppose, in times when every other woman was a "Sister Susie." But the +"Sister Susie" species is nowadays almost extinct. It requires a +German offensive to drive the modern woman towards her darning needles. + +In a recent literary competition in EVE, the subject was "Bores, and +how to make the best of them." Well, personally, I could suffer +them--if not more gladly, at least with a greater resignation--if I +were allowed to recite, "Two plain; one purl" so long as their +infliction lasted. As it is, I am left with nothing else to do except +furtively to watch the clock, and secretly to ring up "OO Heaven" to +send down a bombing party to deliver me. + +Men of the Latin races are far more wise in this respect. If you tied +the hands of a Frenchman, or an Italian, or even a Spaniard, up behind +his back, the odds are he would be struck dumb! But we Englishmen--we +only seem able to become eloquent when, as it were, we have voluntarily +placed our own hands into the handcuffs of our own trouser pockets. +Even Englishwomen are singularly un-self-revealing with anything except +their tongues. You have only to watch an Englishwoman singing to +realise how extremely limited are her powers of expression. She places +both hands over her heart to represent "Love," and opens them wide to +illustrate every other emotion. + +And this self-restriction--especially when you can't hear what she is +singing about, which is not seldom--leads more quickly to the wrinkles +of perplexity than even does the problem of how to circumvent the +culinary soarings of Mrs. Beaton, and yet obtain the same results . . . +with eggs at the price they are! If some producing genius had not +conceived the idea of ending off nearly every musical-comedy song with +a dance, and yet another genius of equally enviable parts had not +created the beauty chorus, I don't know how many a prima donna of the +lighter stage would ever be able to get through her own numbers. For, +to dance at the end of her little ditty, and to have the chorus girls +relieve her of further action at the end of the first verse, brings as +great a relief to her as well as to the audience, as do his trouser +pockets to the young man who makes-believe to love her for ever and for +ever . . . and then some, on the stage. + +And, because we have taken the well-dressed "poker" as our ideal of +masculine "good form" in society, English men and women always seem to +exude an atmosphere of "slouching" indifference to everything except +their God--and football. It has such a very chilling effect upon +exuberant foreigners when they run up against it. Emotionally, I am +sure we are as developed as any other nation . . . look at our poetry, +for example! But we have so long denied the right to express it, that +we have forgotten how it should be done. + +"_I shall love you on and on . . . throughout life; after death; until +the end of eternity . . . !_" declares the impassioned Englishman, the +while he carelessly shakes the dead-end off his cigarette on to +somebody else's carpet. + +"_And for you, Egbert, the world will be only too well lost. I will +willingly die with you . . . at any time most convenient to yourself,_" +answers his equally-impassioned mistress, gently replacing an errant +kiss-curl behind her left ear. + +Well, I suppose it does take another Englishman to realise that these +two are preparing for a _crime passionel_. But a simple foreigner, +more used to the violence of the "movies" in everyday life than we are, +might be excused if he merely believed them to be protesting a +preference for prawns in aspic over prawns without. + +Not, however, that it really matters . . . so long as the lovers, like +Maisie, "get right there" at the finish. For, after all, does not +passion mostly end in the same kind of old "tripe" . . . either here in +England or . . . well, let us say . . . the tropics? + + + + +_Relations_ + +Our Relations are a race apart. They are not often our friends; rarer +still are they our enemies. They are just "relations"--men and women +who treat our endeavours towards righteousness with all the outspoken +hostility of those who dislike us, whom yet we do not want to quarrel +with because then there may be nobody left except the village doctor to +bury us. + +Relations always seem to know us too little, and too well. The good in +us is continually warped by the bad in us--which, in parenthesis, is +the only one of our secrets relatives ever seem able to keep. To tell +the world of our faults would be like throwing mud at the family tree. +Moreover, relations always seem born with long memories. There is no +one in this world who remembers quite so far back, nor quite so +vividly, as a mother-in-law. And one's relations-in-law are but one's +own relations in a concentrated and more virulent form. And yet +everybody is somebody's relation. You consider that remark trite, +perhaps? Well, "trite" it undoubtedly is, and yet it is extremely +difficult to realise. The middle-aged woman whom you find so charming, +so sympathetic, so very "understanding," may send her nephews and +nieces fleeing in all directions the moment she appears among them. +The man you look upon as being an insufferable bore may still be Miss +Somebody-or-other's best beloved Uncle John. It is so hard to explain. +It is almost as hard to explain as the charm of the man your closest +woman-friend marries. What she can see in him you cannot for the life +of you perceive, while he, on his part, secretly wonders why the woman +he loves ever sought friendship with such a pompous, dull ass as you +are. Love is blind, so they say. Well, so is friendship--so are +relations--blind to everything except your faults. + +Another odd thing about relations is that only very rarely can you ever +make friends with them. At best, your intimacy amounts to nothing more +than a truce. You are extremely lucky if it isn't open warfare. They +know at once too little about you and too much. They never by any +chance acknowledge that you have changed, that you are a better man +than once you were. What you have once been, in their opinion, you +will always be--so help-them-heaven-to-hide-the-wine-cellar-key! You +may change your friends as you "grow out" of them, or they "grow out" +of you; but your relations are for ever immutable. The friends of your +youth you have sometimes nothing in common with later on, except +"memories"; and except for these "memories" there is little or no tie +between you. But the "memories" of friends centre around pleasant +things, whereas the "memories" of relations seem to specialise at all +times in the disagreeable. Moreover, relations will never acknowledge +that you have ever really _grown up_. This is one of their most +tiresome characteristics. To them you will always be the little boy +who forgot to write profusive thanks for the half-a-crown they gave you +when you first went to school. You can always tell the man or woman +who live among their relatives. They possess no individuality, no +"vision"; they are narrow, self-centred, pompous, clannish--with that +clannishness which means only complete self-satisfaction with the clan. +They take their mental and moral "cue" from the oldest generation among +them. The younger members are, metaphorically speaking, patted on the +head and told to believe in grandpapa as they believe in God. + +No, the great benefit of having relations is to come back to them. To +visit them is like stirring up once more the memories of your lost +youth, which time and distance have rendered faint. And to return once +more to one's youth is good for every man. It makes him realise +himself, and the "thread" which has been running through his life +linking all the incidents together. And, as I said before, relations +are agreeable adjuncts at your own funeral, since you may always depend +upon them saying nice things about you when it's too late for you to +hear them. Friends will never do that. They don't need to. They +carry your epitaph with them written on their own hearts. The "nice" +things have been said--they have been said to YOU. + + + + +_Polite Conversation_ + +A man may live to be a hundred; he may have learnt to speak twelve +different languages--all badly; he may know, in fact, everything a man +ought to know, and have done everything a man ought to have done; but +one thing he probably won't have learnt--or, if he has done so, then he +ought to be counted among the Twelve Apostles and other "wonders"--and +that is the fact that, what interests him enormously to talk about +won't necessarily be anything but a bore for other people to listen to. +Most people talk a great deal and tell you absolutely nothing you want +particularly to know. The man or woman who can talk _impersonally_ is +as rare as a psychic phenomenon when you want to see it but won't _pay +for_ a manifestation! Most people can talk of nothing but themselves +because nothing else really interests them. I don't mean to say that +they boast, but, what they talk about is purely their own personal +affair--ranging from golf to grandchildren. That is what makes dogs +the most sympathetic listeners in the world. Could they speak, I fear +me they would only tell us about their puppies, or of their new bone, +or of the rat they worried to death the last time they scampered +through the wood. Cats are far more egotistical, and consequently far +more human. They can't talk, it is true; neither can they listen. By +their manner we know exactly what interests them at the moment, and if +they appear to sympathise with us, it is only because what we want at +the moment fits in admirably with their own desires. And so many +people are just like cats in this. They invite us to their houses, +presumably because they desire our company, but, in reality, in order +that they may relate to us at length the incidents, big or small, which +have marked the calendar of their recent very everyday existence. + +But we, on our side, are not without our means of revenge. We invite +them back again, under protestations of friendship, and, when we have +got them, and, as it were, chained them down with the fetters of +politeness, we relate to them in our turn everything which has happened +to us and ours. We never ask ourselves if our children, or our cook, +or our new hat, or our next summer holiday can interest anybody outside +the radius of their influence. We demand another human being to smile +when we smile, show anger when we show anger, echo our own admiration +for our new hat, and generally retrace with us our life in retrospect +and journey with us into the problematical future. For, as I said +before, the wisdom which realises that the incidents of our own life +need not--very probably do not, although they may be too polite to show +it--interest other people, is the rarest wisdom of all. Most people +will never, never learn it. And the more people love their own +affairs, the more they seek the world for listeners whom, as it were, +they may devour. They usually have hundreds of intimates, and boast at +Christmas of having sent off a thousand cards! As a matter of fact, +they very probably have not one real friend. But that does not trouble +them. They don't require friendship. They only need, as it were, a +perpetual pair of ears into which to pour the trivialities of their +daily life. Personally, I get so tired of listening to stories of +children I have never seen; golfing "yarns" which I have heard before; +servants--all as bad as each other; Lloyd George; new clothes; +ailments; what Aunt Emily intends to do with last year's frock, and of +little Flora's cough. I wish it were the fashion for people to ask +their friends to _do_ something, instead of securing their society, +with nothing to do with it when they've got it, except to offer hours +for conversation with literally nothing to say on either side. I +should like to read a book in company, it is nice to work in company; a +visit to a theatre with a congenial companion is delightful--and this, +of course, applies to concerts, lectures, picture galleries, even +shopping. But the usual form of friendly entertainment is a deadly +thing. Only a cook, who at the same time is an artist, can make them +possible. For you can endure hours of little other than the personal +note in conversation with the compensation of a culinary _chef' +d'oeuvre_ in front of you. That is why you so often hear of a +"perfectly charming woman with a simply wonderful cook." It's the +cook, I fancy, who is the real charmer. + + + + +_Awful Warnings_ + +Old Age is bad enough, but a dyspeptic Old Age--that surely is fate +hitting us below the belt! For with advancing years the love of +adventure leaves us; the "Love of a Lifetime" becomes to us of more +real consequence than our pet armchair--but the _love of a good +dinner_, that, at least, can make the everyday of an octogenarian well +worth living. Young people little realise the awful prophecy implied +in that irritating remark--"Don't gobble!" There is another one, +almost equally irritating to youth--"Go and change your socks!" But, +if the truth must be told, you regret the "No" you said to Edwin when +he asked you to "fly with him"; the louis you failed to place _en +plein_ on thirty-six, which you _felt_ was coming up, infinitely less +than that you still persisted to "gobble" when you were warned not to, +and you failed to change your socks while there was yet time. Now it +is too late, alas! How true it is, the saying--"If Youth knew how, and +Age only could." The trouble is that, when elderly people would warn +youth, they rarely ever give concrete examples. They always imply some +_moral_ loss which will happen to young people if they do not follow +their elders' advice. But youth would be far more impressed if age +drew a vivid picture of their own physical and digestive decrepitude. +But, of course, age won't do that. Why should it? No one likes to +think that their "every movement tells a story." + +Personally, I can foresee a new profession open to those elderly people +who are the victims of their own early indiscretions. Why should they +not tour the country as a collection of _awful warnings_! Fancy the +joy there would be in the hearts of all those who, as it were, stand +bawling at the cross-roads that the "narrow path" is the broader one in +the long run, if they woke up and saw on the hoardings some such +announcement as this:-- + + Coming! Coming!! Coming!!! + + FOR ONE WEEK ONLY! + + The Awful End of the Man who + Gobbled his Food! + + Mary of the Hooked Figure; or, the Girl who Wouldn't + Change her Wet Socks! + + A Picture of Living Vermin; or, the Man who + Never Washed! + + The End of the Girl who Would Take the + Wrong Turning! + + Parents, Free. Children, One Penny. Schools and + Large Parties by Arrangement. + + +It would ease the burden of parenthood enormously. It might even "Save +the Children." Maybe they would thank their mother from the bottom of +their hearts because she took them to see these living examples of +youthful folly instead of lugging them to a dull lecture on hygiene. +For half the silly things we do, we do because we don't realise the +consequences. The man who _knows everything_ would gladly give up all +his knowledge if he could turn back the hands of the clock, and, +instead of studying the origin of Arabic, learn to recognise a pair of +damp sheets when he got in between them; while a Woman of a Thousand +Love Affairs would forego the memory of nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine of +these if she could return to the early days and drink a glass of hot +water between every meal! For, as I said before, Love leaves us and +enthusiasms die; but Old Age which can sit down to a good dinner and +thoroughly enjoy it without having to have a medical bulletin stuck up +outside its bedroom door for days afterwards, is an Old Age which no +one can call really unhappy. To eat is, at last, about the only joy +which is left to us. The "romantic" will shudder at my philosophy, I +know; but the "romantic" have generally such a lot to live for beside +their meals. Old Age hasn't. That is why elderly people who can begin +to look forward to their dinner--say at five o'clock in the +afternoon--can be said to have reached the "ripe old age" of the +Scriptures. If they _can't_?--well, over-ripe to _rottenness_ is the +only description. + + + + +_It's oh, to be out of England--now that spring is here!_ + +I don't know if you, fair reader, find that in the spring your fancy +turns to thoughts of love--I know mine doesn't! On the contrary, it +turns to thoughts of sulphur tablets and camomile tea and other sickly +or disagreeable circumventions of the "creakiness" of the human body. +For among the things I could teach Nature is that, when she made man, +she did not permit him to "flower" in the spring and start each year +with something at least resembling his pristine vigour--if he ever had +any. But, whereas the spring gives a new glory to birds, and trees, +and plants, she only gives to us--built in the image of God--spots, a +disordered liver, and a muddy complexion. It seems a piece of gross +mismanagement, doesn't it? It would be so delightful if, once a year, +we were filled with extra energy; if our hair sprouted once more in the +colour with which we were born; if the old skin shed itself and a new +one came on so beautiful as to ruin the business of all the "Mrs. +Pomeroys" of this world. But Nature seems, once having made us, to +leave us severely alone; to let us wither on our stalks, as it were, +until we drop off them and are swept away into the dustbin of the worms +and weeds. The mind is a far kinder ally. Oh, no; say what you will +in the praise of spring, to all those who, as it were, have commenced +the "bulge" of anno domini, it is a very trying season. Besides--here +in England anyway--it is as uncertain as a flirt. Sometimes it +suddenly comes upon us in the early days of March or lets mid-winter +pay us a visit in the lengthening days of May. One never quite knows +what spring is going to do. One never knows what kind of clothes to +wear to please it. So often one sallies forth arrayed in winter +underwear, because the morning awoke so coldly, only to spend the rest +of the day eating ices to keep the body calm and cool. Or, again, the +spring morning greets us with the warmth of an August day; we jump up +gaily, deck ourselves out in muslin, sally forth, take a sudden +"chill," and spend the rest of the week in bed! + +One is always either too hot or too cold. It is the season of the +unaccountable draught. True, it often turns the fancy towards sweet +thoughts of love--but the fancy usually ends with an influenza cold +through indulging in sentimental dalliance upon the grass. On the +whole, I always think that spring in England is nicer to sing about +than experience. It is delightful as a season of "promise"--but, like +humanity, it often treats its promises like pie-crusts. Still, it _is_ +spring, and--although the body rarely recognises the fact except to +ruin by biliousness the romance which is surging in its heart--summer +is, as it were, knocking at the door. And from June to mid-July--that +surely is the glory of the year! After July, summer becomes a little +dusty at the hem. Still, dusty, or even dirty, it makes life worth +living. Nevertheless, I only wish that it were greedier and stole +three months away from winter. For winter is too long, and spring is +too uncertain, and autumn too full of "Farewell." + +But summer never palls. And we have five summers to make up for, +haven't we? For no one could really enjoy anything during the war +except the war news--when it was favourable. But now we can--well, if +not enjoy ourselves, at least lie back, just whispering to ourselves +that, when the sun shines the world is a lovely place, and, so far as +England is concerned, there is at any rate a kind of camouflaged peace. +And so we have to be very very old if we cannot feel in our hearts a +breath of youth and spring. After all, when the sun shines, we are, or +feel we are, of any age--or of no age whatever. And if we cannot burst +into flower like the roses, we can at least enjoy the beauty of the +rose when it blooms--which other roses cannot do. Thus, with a few +small mercies, life is very good when the sun shines, isn't it? + + + + +_Bad-tempered People_ + +I would sooner live with an immoral man or woman than a bad-tempered +one. An immoral person can often be a very charming companion, quite +easy to live with--if you take the various excuses for sudden absences +at their face value, and don't probe too deeply into the business; in +fact, if you are not in love with the absentee. A bad-tempered person +in the house may have the morality of the angels--but life with him is +a daily "hell," like always living with strangers, or a mad dog, or in +a room full of those ornaments which belong, almost exclusively, to +lodging-houses everywhere. Briefly, he is always _there_--ready to +burst into flames at any moment, ready to misunderstand everything +anybody does or says, a perpetual bugbear; and not even the emotional +repentances, which are often the only partially saving grace of +bad-tempered people, can atone for the atmosphere of disturbance which +they always inflict. And the man or woman who loses his temper +whenever anything goes in the slightest bit wrong--well, from them may +the Lord deliver me for ever, Amen! They carry their ill-nature about +with them all day and under all circumstances. Sometimes they seem to +imagine that their spirit of disagreeableness is a sign of the +super-man, or of that dominating personality of which Caesar and +Napoleon are historical examples. They frequent restaurants and harry +the already over-harried waiters. It is such a very easy victory--the +victory over a paid servant. But the conquerors stamp themselves for +ever and for ever among Nature's "cads" nevertheless. Anybody who is +rude enough can give a quelling performance of "God Almighty" before +menials. Some people delight to do so, apparently. They possess +everything except an instinctive respect for a man and woman, however +lowly, who are earning their own living. And the lack of it places +them among the inglorious army of the "bounders" for all time. When +there is no "inferior" upon whom to vent the outbursts of their own +supreme egoism, they find their wives extremely useful. In the days +when the divorce laws are "sensible," freedom will be granted for +perpetual bad temper sooner than for occasional unfaithfulness. + +Of course, we all have our days when we are like nothing so much as +gunpowder looking for a match. We can't be perfect and serene all the +time. And if ever, as I have just hinted, we do wake up in the morning +feeling as if we could get up and quarrel with a bee because it buzzes, +a Beecham pill will probably soon put us in a regular "click" of a +humour. ("Mr. Carter" never offered me anything; nor did Sir Thomas +Beecham. But being fond of grand opera, I mention the pills "worth a +guinea a box" for preference. Besides, they tell us a "Beecham at +night makes you sing with delight!" So there!) That is one of the +reasons why I always advocate a "silence room" in every household which +otherwise is large enough to put the biggest room aside to play +billiards in. I would have it quite small, and decorated in restful, +neutral tints, with the finest view from the window thereof that the +house could supply. I would also have a little window cut out of the +door, through which food could be pushed in to the sufferer without him +having to tell the domestic that it is a fine day and that he hopes her +bunion's better. This little room would be devoted to those inmates of +the house who got up on the wrong side of the bed because both sides +were "wrong sides" that morning. There he, or she, would stay until +the world seemed to be bright again. And they would come forth in +their new and serener state of mind, blessing the idea with all their +hearts. For if, as they have to do now, they had come downstairs in +the mood in which they woke up, the whole house would have known of it +to curse it, and most of its members would not be on polite speaking +terms for days afterwards. Of course, the idea could be recommended +also for those people whose temper is always in a state of uproar. The +only difficulty, however, would be, then--they might live in the +silence room all their lives and die there--beloved, because _unseen_. +But that is the only thing to do with an habitually disagreeable +person--_lock him up_, and, if you be wise, _take away the key of the +dungeon with you_! + + + + +_Polite Masks_ + +You never really know anybody--until you have either lived with them, +travelled with them, or drunk a glass of port with them quietly over +the fireside. In almost every other instance, what you become +acquainted with is one of a variety of _masks_! And everyone has a +fine assortment of these, haven't they? For the most part you don them +unconsciously--or rather, you have got so used to assuming them +suddenly that you have lost all consciousness of effort. But they are +_masks_, nevertheless--and a mask always hides the truth, doesn't it? +Not that I am one of those, however, who dislike camouflage because it +_is_ camouflage. In fact, most of the time I thank Heaven for it--my +own and other people's! The "assumed" is so often so much more +agreeable than the natural, and nine times out of ten all you require +of men and women is that they should at least _look_ pleasant. You've +got to get through this life day after day somehow, and time passes +ever so much quicker for everyone if the hypocrite be a smiling +hypocrite at all times. At every moment of the everyday--preserve me +from the _sour_-visaged saint. + +After all, only love and friendship and the law demand the truth and +nothing but the truth. Among acquaintances, among all the many +thousands you meet through life only to discuss the weather and your +own influenza symptoms--all you ask of them is that they should bring +out their smiling mask as readily as you struggle to assume your own. +Only, as I said before, in love and friendship and the courts of law is +the mask an insult, a tragic disillusion and a sham. In every other +circumstance it is usually a blessing. Without it society, as a social +entertainment, would become impossible. For society is but a +collection of men and women wearing masks, each one vying with the +others to make his mask the most attractive, and, at the same time, the +most concealing. But the worst of wearing masks is, that we become +tired at last of holding them in front of our features. This makes the +entertainment of watching the truth peering through the camouflage one +of the most amusing among the many unpremeditated amusements of the +social world. After all, as I said before, so long as your lover and +your friend, and the witnesses you have subpoenaed on behalf of your +own case, show you _truth_--all you ask of the others is the most +agreeable mask they can put on for the occasion. But even lovers and +friends may deceive you, while some witnesses' idea of the truth in the +law courts hasn't that semblance of reality possessed by the Medium's +description of life in the world beyond. That is what makes matrimony +often such a gamble with loaded dice, and holidays so often more +tedious than work. To be in the company of one's lover for one +ecstatic hour tells one nothing of what he will be when, day after day, +one has to live with him in deadly intimacy until death doth part us +both. + +Neither do you really know how much, or how little, your friend means +to you, until you have been with her on a cold railway station for +hours, when fate has done its best to make you both lose your tempers +and your luggage. Only a very _real_ love can survive smiling through +that period when, from almost maudlin appreciation, a husband gradually +sinks into the commonplace mood of taking his soul's mate "for +granted." Only _real_ friendship can live through the disillusionment +of irritable temper, lack of imagination, and boredom so often revealed +while travelling in the company of friends. More than half the mutual +life of lovers and friends is spent behind masks--for masks are +sometimes necessary to keep love and friendship great and true. But +one must, nevertheless, know _something_ of the real man and woman +_behind the mask_--even though that which lies behind it may prove +disappointing--before you can prove that your love is _real_ love, that +your friendship is _real_ friendship, that you love your lover or your +friend, not only for what they are, but also in spite of what they are +_not_. + + + + +_The Might-Have-Been_ + +It is rare to come across anybody with very definite ideas; it is rarer +still to meet a man and woman brave enough to put their ideas into +practice. The hardest battle in life--and one of the longest--is the +battle to live your own life. No one realises what fighting really +means until they stand in battle-array face to face with relations. +But most of us have to fight this battle sooner or later, and if we +fight and yet make a "hash" of the victory we gain, is it not better +so? Relations always think they know what is best for you. Well, +perhaps they do, if the "best" be a circumspect kind of goodness. But +they rarely know what you _want_, and, until you have got what you +really want, even though you find it is "Dead Sea fruit" after all, the +thought always haunts the disappointed Present by visions of the +glorious Might-Have-Been. + +Relatives always seem to imagine that, when you say you want to lead +your own life, it is always a "bad" life you want to lead. They seem +to think that a girl leading her own life is a girl entertaining men +friends, until goodness knows what hour of the night, alone in her +bachelor flat, they picture a man leading his own life as a man whose +memoirs would send shudders down a really nice woman's spine. They +never realise that there is happiness in personal freedom and +liberty--happiness which is happy merely in the independent feeling of +self-respect which this freedom and liberty gives. They would like +boys and girls to continue to maturity the same life which they led +when they were children, subject to the same restrictions, bowing to +the same parental point of view. No one knows of what he is capable +until he has begun the battle of life in the world of men, independent +and on his own. Better make a "hash" of everything; better suffer and +endure and grow old in disappointment, than live in a gilded cage with +clipped wings, while kind-hearted people feed you to repletion through +the bars. + +A girl or boy, who has no occupation, other than the occupation of mere +amusement, who has no Ideal; who has no interest other than the +interest of passing the time, is not only useless, but detestable as a +member of human society, while his old age is of unhappiness the most +unhappy. For what is Old Age worth if it has no "memories"; and what +are "memories" worth if they are not memories of having lived one's +life to the full? To me, to live one's own life is to live--or, +perhaps I ought to say, to strive to live--all those ideals which +Reflection has shown you to be good, and Nature has given you the power +to accomplish. That to me is the fight to live your own life--the +fight to realise yourself, to live the "best" that is in you. For a +man and woman must be able to hold up their heads high, not only face +to face with the world, but face to face with their own selves, before +they can say that Life is happy, that Life has been worth while. The +tragic cases are those who cannot live their own lives because the +lives of other people demanded their sacrifice, a sacrifice which +cannot be withheld without loss of self-respect, of that good +fellowship with your own "soul" which some people call Conscience. + +This sacrifice is generally a woman's sacrifice. You may see the +victims of it in any church, in any town, at almost any hour of the +day. They are grey-haired, and sad, and grim, and they hold the more +tenaciously to the promise of happiness in After Life because they have +sacrificed, or permitted to pass by, the happiness of this. To a great +extent it is a "Victorian" sacrifice. They are victims of that passing +Belief which was convinced that a girl of gentle birth ought to +administer to her parents, pay calls, uphold the Church, and do a +little needlework all her life, unless some man came along to marry her +and give her emancipation. The happiness which goes with a career, +even if that career fails, is saving daughters from this parentally +imposed "atrophy." They are learning that to live one's own life is +not necessarily to live a "bad" life, but a "fuller" life. Thus the +young are teaching the Old People wisdom--the knowledge that youth has +its Declaration of Rights no less than Middle Age. + + + + +_Autumn Sowing_ + +I sometimes think the man who first said that "the road to hell is paved +with good intentions" must have said it in November. The autumn is full +of good intentions--just as spring is full of holiday and hope, and +summer of heat and _dolce far niente_. But, just as the first warm day +in June fills you with a physical vitality which you feel convinced that +you must live for ever, so autumn makes you realise that life is fleeting +and the mind has not yet reached its full development, nor intellectual +ambition its complete fruition. Perhaps it is the touch of winter in the +air which braces your mind and soul and gives you the impression that, +given the long autumn evenings over the fire undisturbed, your brain will +soon be capable of tackling the removal of mountains. If you are +unutterably silly (as so many of us are--alas! for the world's sanity; +but thank heaven for the world's humour!) you will plan a whole +curriculum of intellectual labour for the quiet evenings over the +fireside. Oh, the books--good books, I mean--you will read! Oh, the +subjects you will study! Perhaps you will learn Russian, or maybe +something strange and out-of-the-ordinary, like Arabic! You dream of the +moment when, speaking quite casually, you will inform your friends that +you are reading the whole of the novels of Balzac; that you are studying +for the law and hope to pass your "Final" "just for the fun of the +thing"; that you are learning Persian, and intend to retranslate the +Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám and discover other Eastern philosophers. In +fact, there is no end to the things you intend to do in the autumn +evenings over the fireside when your labours of the day are over. +Briefly, you are going to "cultivate your mind"; and when people talk +about "cultivating their minds," they usually regard the mind as a kind +of intellectual allotment which anyone can till--given determination, an +easy-chair near a big fire, and the long, long autumn evenings. + + + + +_What You Really Reap_ + +But alas! all you do . . . all you _really_ do, is . . . Well, as I said +before, the man who first said that "the way to hell is paved with good +intentions," must have said it in the autumn, or perhaps, in the spring, +when he realised how few of the good intentions he had lived up to. +Well, maybe the most enjoyable part of going to hell is paving the way +with, as it were, your back turned to your eventual goal. And sometimes +I rather fancy, in spite of all the moralist may say, the paving-stones +of good intent that you have laid on your way to perdition will be +counted in your favour, and the Recording Angel will place them to your +credit--which she can't do if, metaphorically speaking, you have not +paved a way anywhere, but just been content to live snugly on the little +plot upon which Fate planted you at the beginning, and you were too dully +inert either to cultivate hot-house orchids thereon or even let it become +overgrown with wild oats and roses. And I think sometimes that on good +intentions we eventually mount to heaven. I certainly know that the good +intentions of the early autumn make me very nearly forgive the cycle of +the seasons which robs me of summer and its joys. And after all, there +is always this to be said for a good intention, nobody knows, yourself +least of all, if you may not one day fulfil it. That is what makes +dreaming so exciting. In your dreams you _have_ learnt Russian; you +_have_ read all the novels of Balzac; you _will_ be able to understand +Sir Oliver Lodge when he leaves the realms of spiritualism and talks +about the stars. And maybe--who knows?--by the time that your dreams +have materialised into reality and spring has just arrived, you _will_ be +able to tell Lenin, if you happen to meet him, that you have "seen the +daughters of the lawyer and lost the pen of your aunt"; and you _will_ +have read the books of Paul de Kock because you couldn't struggle through +Balzac; and you _will_ know the composition of the moon and the +impossibility of there being a man in it--which, after all, is a far +greater achievement than having played countless games of bridge, learnt +sixty-two steps of the tango, evolved a racing system, and arrived at +loving the Germans, isn't it? + + + + +_Autumn Determination_ + +But unless your determination be something Napoleonic, you won't have +achieved very much more than this. It has all been so invigorating and +delightful to contemplate; and the way of your decline has been so cosy +and so comfortable, and it has so often ended in a glass of hot "toddy" +and so to bed. You had stage-managed your self-education so beautifully. +You had brought the most comfortable easy-chair right up to the fire; you +had put on your "smoking"--not that garment almost as uncomfortable as +evening-dress, but that coat which is made of velvet, or flannel, softly +lined with silk and deliciously padded: you had brought out all your +books--the "First Steps to Russian," "How to appreciate Balzac," +"Introduction to Astronomy"--put your feet on the fender, cut the end of +your best cigar. Everything simply invited peace and comfort and an +intellectual feast. Then, just _one more_ glimpse at the evening +paper--and you would begin . . . oh yes! you _would begin_! And so you +read about the threatened strike; the murder in East Ham; the leading +article, the marriage of Lady Fitzclarence-Forsooth to--well, whoever she +married, the funny remark the drunken woman made to the judge when he +fined her two-and-six for kissing a policeman; Mr. Justice Darling's +latest _mot_; the racing, the forthcoming fashions; the advertisement of +Back-Ache Pills; Mr. C. B. Cochran's praise of his own productions, Mr. +Selfridge's praise of his own shop; the "Wants," the "Situations Vacant," +the . . . Then somebody woke you up to ask if you were asleep . . . +which, of course, you _weren't_ . . . Well . . . well . . . It is past +midnight! So what can one do now? What _can_ one do? Why, go to bed, +of course. Another autumn evening is over. But then, there are plenty +more . . . oh, plenty more. "Good-night." + + + + +_Two Lives_ + +I often wish that we could all of us lead two lives. I don't mean I wish +that we could live twice as long--though, in reality, it would come to +the same thing. But I would like to live the two lives which I want to +lead, and only do lead in a sort of patchwork-quilt kind of way. I would +like to live a life in which I could wander gipsy-like over the face of +the globe--seeing everything, doing everything, meeting everybody. I +should also like to live a purely vegetable existence in some remote +country village--sleeping away my life in happy domesticity, away from +the crowd, free from care, tranquil, and at peace. I suppose that, even +as dreams, they are only too futile--but they are very pleasant dreams +nevertheless. I know that they _are_ dreams--since I am quite sure that +the reality would be far less satisfactory than it seems in anticipation. +There is "always a fly in the amber" as the saying goes, and my +experience is, that the truth more nearly resembles a great big fly with +a tiny speck of amber sticking somewhere to its back. For in our dream +voyages we overlook the fleas, the mosquitoes, the hunt for lodgings, the +struggle with languages, the hundred-and-one disturbances of the spirit +which are inseparable from real voyages of any kind and bombard our inner +tranquillity at every turn. In the same way, when we gaze at the +peaceful landscape of some hidden-away English countryside, we yearn to +live among such peacefulness, forgetting that, though life in the country +may _look_ peaceful to the stranger's eye, experience teaches us that +gossip and scandal and the continual agitation round and round the +trivial--an agitation so great that the trivial becomes colossal--at last +rob life of anything resembling _dolce far niente_ mid country lanes and +in the shadow of some country church. In fact, it seems to me that the +emotion which we seek--the emotion of strange wonderplaces, the emotion +of utter restfulness which falls upon the soul like a benediction--do +come to us from time to time, but at the most unexpected moments and in +the most unlikely places. They come--and we hug them in our memory like +precious thoughts. And sometimes we try to reproduce them artificially, +only to discover that "never anything twice" is one of the lessons of +life--and quite the last one we ever learn, even if we ever do learn +it--which is doubtful. + + + + +_Backward and Forward_ + +Thus for the most part, things look most beautiful when we anticipate +them, or as we look back upon them in memory over the fireside. For +distance lends enchantment, not only to most views, but also to memories +and love. As, metaphorically, we stand on the Mount of Olives gazing +down at the city of Jerusalem, thinking of all that tiny corner of the +earth has meant to men and women, we forget--as we look back--the beastly +little mosquito which bit us on the nose, the interruption or our +companion who wondered what the stones might tell us if they could only +speak. So (also metaphorically), as we set our faces towards the Holy +City, filled with the anticipation of those sublime thoughts and emotions +which would surge through our souls when we eventually arrived there, we +were happy in our ignorance of the fact that, when we did arrive, we felt +unutterably dirty and our head ached, and the corn on our little toe felt +more like a cancer than a corn! Meanwhile, the emotion of the soul, +which we expected to find upon the Mount of Olives, has sometimes come to +us quite unexpectedly while standing in the middle of Clapham Common in +the moonlight; and that glorious spirit of adventure, which to us means +"travel," we have felt riding on a motor-bike through the New Forest at +nightfall when the forest seemed full of pixies and the fading sunset was +red and grey and golden like the transformation scene of a pantomime. +But alas! the next day we found the forest unromantic, and Clapham Common +looked indescribably common in the morning sunlight. Our mood had +vanished, and although we tried to reproduce the same uplifting emotion +the following evening, we couldn't--we had a headache and the gnats were +about. So, although I often yearn to live _two_ lives--one full of +travel and adventure, and the other peacefully over the fireside mid the +peace and beauty of the country--I am quite sure that, were my wish +granted, I should find both lives just the same mixture of unexpected +happiness and unanticipated disappointment which I find this one to be, +yet still go smiling on. Very rarely the Time and the Place and the +Mood. But when they do happen to come together--well, life is so +wonderful and so beautiful that to throw in the "Loved one" too would +seem like gilding the rose--a heaven worth sacrificing every stolen +happiness in life for. + + + + +_When?_ + +One of the greatest--perhaps _the_ greatest--problems which parents have +to face is--when to tell their children the truth about sexual life; how +to tell it; how little to tell--how much. And most parents, alas! are +content to drift--to trust to luck! They themselves have got through +fairly well; the probabilities are, then, that their children will get +through fairly well too. So they, metaphorically speaking, fold their +hands and listen, and, when any part of the truth breaks through the +reticence of intimate conversation, they shake their heads solemnly, +strive to look shocked--and often are; or else they make a joke of +it--believing that their children regard the question in the same +reasonable light as they do themselves. But ignorance is never +reasonable, and half ignorance is even more excited. There is a +"mystery" somewhere, and ignorant youth is hot after its solution. And +the "mystery" is solved for them in a dozen ways--all more or less dirty +and untrue. Better far be too frank, so long as your frankness isn't the +frankness of coarse levity, than not to be frank enough. The reticence +of parents towards their children in this matter has turned many a young +life of brilliant promise into a life-long hell. We don't _see_ this +hell for the most part, and, because we don't see it, we fondly believe +that it does not exist--or, if it does exist, that it exists so rarely as +scarcely to demand more than a passing condemnation and a sigh. We hear +a great deal about the Hidden Plague. We hear of the 80,000 cases of +syphilis which are registered every year in the United Kingdom. But we +don't know any individual sufferer--or we _think_ we don't; and so, +although we take the figure as an acknowledged fact, we nevertheless +don't realise it--and in any case, it isn't a nice subject of debate, +and, should the word be even mentioned in the presence of our dear, dear +children, we would ask the speaker to leave the house immediately and +never again return! I, too, was one of these poor fools--although I have +no children to suffer from my foolishness. I knew it was a fact, but +like others I didn't realise that fact--like we didn't realise the horror +and filth and tragedy of war, we who never were "out there"; we who never +"went over the top." But lately I have had to visit a friend in one of +the largest lock hospitals in London. And one day I was obliged to walk +through the waiting-room where the men are forced to sit until they are +summoned to see the doctor. And truly I was appalled! There were +_hundreds of them_ of all ages--from 16 to 60. They were not the serious +cases, of course, and we should pass them in the street without realising +that they were any but physically sound men, often of a very splendid +type. But each one represented a blighted life--a future robbed of +splendid promise, a present of misery and unhappiness stalking through +the world like shame beneath a happy mask. I tell you, it brought the +truth home to me in a way mere figures and statistics could never do. As +I said before, I was appalled: I was also very angry. For I knew that +ignorance was at the bottom of many of these sad tragedies--the criminal +reticence of the people _who know_, too mock-modest to discuss openly a +fact of life which, beyond all other facts of life, should be spoken of +bluntly, honestly, therefore decently and cleanly. + + + + +_The Futile Thought_ + +Too many fond parents like to imagine that their children know nothing at +all of sexual matters--that they are clean and innocent and ignorant, and +that, as long as they can be kept so, they will not run into danger and +disgrace. But no parent really knows how much or how little their +children know of this matter. Children have ears and imagination, and +once they know anything at all--which is at any time from eight years of +age, sometimes, alas! earlier--they should be told everything, not in a +nasty, furtive fashion, glossing over the ugly part and elevating the +decent side until it is out of all proportion to the truth, but quietly, +with dignity, laying stress on the fact that sexual morality is not a +thing of religion and of God, but of self-respect, of care for the coming +generation, and, especially, of that great love which one day will come +into their lives. It should not be called a "sin"; at the same time it +should not be laughed at and made the subject of a whispered jest. +Sexual laxity should be treated in the same way as dishonesty and +untruthfulness--a sin against oneself, against the beauty of one's own +soul, and against those who believe in us and love us and are our world. +Children should be taught to respect the dignity of their own bodies, of +their own minds and soul; not by leaving them in half-ignorance, but by +telling them everything, and telling them it in the right way--which is +the clean and truthful way. + + + + +_The London Season_ + +If only the people who repeat the words of wisdom uttered by philosophers +lived as if they believed them, how much happier the world would be! It +is, however, so much easier to give, or to repeat, advice, than to follow +it, isn't it? Conventionality is far stronger than common sense, and a +fixed habit more powerful than a revolution. Besides, most people +realise that to give advice is a much more impressive ceremony than +merely to receive it. And I think that the majority of people would far +sooner look _impressive_ than be _wise_. The _appearance_ of a thing +sometimes pleases them far more than the thing itself. Besides, to give +advice is a rather pleasant proceeding, and those who habitually indulge +in it seem incapable of discouragement. They will inform the "rolling +stone" that if he continues his unresisting methods he will gather no +moss, but the rolling stone usually continues to roll merrily onward. +They will protest to the ignorant that "to be good is to be happy," but +very few of them will go out of their way to do good, if, by being "bad," +they can snatch a personal advantage without anybody being any the wiser. +"Life would be endurable if it were not for its pleasures," they declare +in the face of a pile of social invitations. Yet they still endure that +treadmill of entertainments which makes up a London season, only showing +their real feelings by moaning to themselves in the process. They freely +acknowledge that very few of these entertainments really entertain, but +to miss being seen at them would be to risk a disaster which they would +not dare to take. So they go wearily smiling to amusements which don't +amuse, to dances which are too crowded to dance at, to dinner parties at +which they pay in boredom for the food they eat; to "at homes" which are +the most "homeless" things imaginable--travelling here and there, from +one entertainment to another which proves as unutterably dull as the +first one. Not content with these things, they must perforce be seen at +the Opera--although they _hate_ music; visit all the exhibitions of +art--when Maude Goodeman is their favourite painter; talk cleverly of +books which they would never read did not people talk about them, and +generally follow for three long months a time-table of "enjoyment" which +very few of them really enjoy. In the meanwhile, the only affairs which +give them pleasure are the little impromptu ones arranged on the spur of +the moment between friends. + +Of course I am not speaking of the débutante. She, "sweet young thing," +always enjoys any entertainment at which there are plenty of young men +and ices. Nor, judging from observation, do I include among those who +willingly go through the three months' hard labour of a London season +those henna haired ladies--thickening from anno domini--who seem +perfectly happy in the delusion that their juvenile antics are still +deliciously girlish, and whose décolleté dresses would seem to declare to +the world that, though their faces may begin to show the wear and tear of +life, their plump backs don't look a day over twenty-five. The one is so +young that she will enjoy anything which requires the endurance of youth. +The other is of that age which is happy hugging to its bosom the adage +that a woman can't possibly look a day older than champagne makes her +feel. + +No, the person whose life of amusement I pity is the person who accepts +invitations because she daren't refuse them. If the world doesn't see +her in all places where she _should be_ seen, the world always presumes +her to be dead--and people would rather die in reality than live to be +forgotten. But what a price they have to pay to keep their memories +green. + +No, as I said before, the only entertainments which people really enjoy +are those at which they can be perfectly natural--natural, because they +are perfectly happy. Rarely are they fixed affairs, advertised weeks +beforehand. Mostly are they unpremeditated---delightful little impromptu +amusements made up of people who really desire to meet each other. Large +entertainments are almost invariably dull. Upon them hangs the heavy +atmosphere or a hostess "paying off old debts in _one_." The only really +amusing part of them is to watch the amazement on the faces of one half +of the guests that the other half is there at all! That is invariably +funny. In the big affairs the chef and the champagne are the real hosts +of the evening. If England went "dry," I think the London season would +join the dodo--people couldn't possibly endure it on ginger "pop" and +cider. But champagne and a good chef could, I believe, make even a +Church Congress seem jolly. They only bring an illusion of +happiness--but what's the odds? A London season is but an illusion of +joy after all. + + + + +_Christmas_ + +Christmas comes but once a year--and the cynic cries, "Thank God!" And +so, perhaps, do the very lonely. But then Christmas is not a festival +for either the cynic or the desolate. The cynic is as welcome at the +annual feast of turkey and plum pudding as Mr. "Pussyfoot" would be at a +"beano"; while the lonely--well, one likes to imagine that there are no +lonely ones at Christmas-time; or, if there are--that somebody has asked +them out, or they have toothache and so wouldn't appreciate even the +society of jolly seraphims. Christmas, except to the young, is +essentially a festival of "let's pretend"--let's pretend that we love +everybody, that everybody loves us, that Aunt Maria isn't a prosy old +bore, that Uncle John isn't a profiteer; that everybody has his or her +good points and that all their bad ones are not sticking out, as they +usually appear to us to be, as painfully apparent as those on the back of +a porcupine should you happen to sit down upon one in a bathing costume! +And it is quite wonderful how this spirit of good will towards all men +can be self-distilled, as it were! You try to feel it, and, strangely +enough, you do feel it--at least, up to tea time. The public exhibition +of ecstacy you give at receiving a present you don't want seems to come +to you quite easily and naturally on Christmas morning. Even Aunt Maria +can pretend enthusiasm quite convincingly at the gimcrack you have given +her which her artistic soul loathes, the while she furtively examines its +base to discover if peradventure you have forgotten to erase the price. +You yourself declare, while regarding the sixpenny pen-wiper, that it is +not the gift so much as the _thought_ which pleases you, and you can +declare this lie to the satisfaction, not only of yourself, but, more +difficult by far, to the satisfaction of the wealthy donor who gave it to +you because she couldn't think what to give you--and because, as she +piously declares, "Thank God, you have everything you want!" Yes, +indeed, there is something about Yuletide which makes all men benign, and +the joyful hypocrisy of Christmas Eve sounds quite the genuine emotion +when uttered on Christmas Day. I am bound, however, to confess that the +"good will" becomes a trifle strident towards nightfall. Many things +conduce to this. The children are suffering from overfeeding; Mother is +sick of Aunt Maria, her husband's sister; and Father is more than fed up +with the pomposity of Uncle John. There is a general and half-uttered +yearning among everybody to go upstairs and lie down. The jollifications +of the coming evening, when the grown-ups come into their own and the +children are being sick upstairs, presume the necessity for such a +retirement--a kind of regeneration of that charitable energy required for +the festival "jump off." After which the digestive organs begin to +realise what sweated labour means, and Father makes a speech about his +pleasure at seeing so many members of the family present, and Mother +weeps silently for some trouble which always revives over Christmas +dinner and nobody has yet been able to sympathise with, because nobody +has yet known what it is. And, because Christmas night would otherwise +prove somewhat trying even to a family determined to be loving or to die +in the attempt, somebody or other has invented champagne. It is quite +wonderful how the dullest people seem to take unto themselves wings after +the third bottle of Veuve Clicquot has been opened. + +So Christmas Day is thus brought to a triumphant conclusion of good will. +And the next morning, of course, is Boxing Day--a most appropriately +named event. Even if fighting isn't strictly legal, backbiting +unfortunately is. Still, the wise relation seeks the frequent seclusion +of his own bedroom during that mostly inglorious day of Christmas +aftermath. You see, there is no knowing what sparks may fly when the +digestions of a devoted family have gone on strike! + +Only the children seem to be able to raise the jolly ashes of their dead +selves, phoenix-like from the carcase of the devoured turkey (whose bones +in the morning light of Boxing Day resemble somewhat the Cloth Hall at +Ypres by the end of the war). Even they (bless 'em!) seem able to +recover from the fact that the lovely toys which Uncle John gave them lie +broken at their feet because Uncle John would insist upon playing with +them all by himself. Children can always become philosophers in half a +day. It is their special genius. + +Only grown up people have forgotten how to forget. And Christmas, +although the most lovable of all the festivals of the year, is also the +saddest--and the most lonely, alas! There are so many "gaps"--so many +empty places in the heart which the passing of the years will never, +never be able to fill. That is why Mother weeps--it is her privilege. +And, truth to tell, so many people would like to weep too, only they dare +not--they dare not. So they throw themselves into the feverish jollity +which Christmas seems to demand for the sake of the children, and for the +sake of the young people who, because they were so young, will never +realise the aftermath of loneliness which to-day elder people know _meant +war_! So they say to themselves, "Let us eat and drink and appear merry +because to-morrow . . . to-morrow--who knows?--peradventure we may all +meet again!" Thus the true spirit of Christmas is always as a +benediction. + + + + +_The New Year_ + +There is something "tonic" about the New Year which there isn't about +Christmas, and Birthdays certainly do not possess. After thirty, you +wake up on Christmas morning, look back into the Long Ago, and sigh; +after forty, you wake up on the morning of your birthday, look forward, +and ofttimes despair. But New Year's Day has "buck" in it, and, when +you wake up, you lay down the immediate future with those Good +Intentions which somebody or other once declared paved the way to Hell, +but are nevertheless a most invigorating exercise. Christmas, besides, +has been seized upon by tradesmen and others in whose debt you happen +to be to remind you of the fact. I suppose they hope that the Good +Will of the Season will make you think kindly of their account--which, +in parenthesis, perhaps it might, did not that same Good Will run you +into debt in other directions. As for Birthdays--well, the person who +remembers Birthdays is the person at whose head I should like to hurl +the biggest and heaviest paving-stone with which, as I lie in bed on +New Year's morning, I lay out my way to Hell. No, as I said before, +Christmas Days and Birthdays are failures so far as festivity goes. +The former brings along with it bills and accounts rendered, and you +are fed with rood which immediately overwhelms any feeling of +kindliness you may happen to have in your heart, while the latter is +like a settlement day with Time, and Time certainly lets you have +nothing off your account. But New Year's Day, except in Scotland, +where, I believe, you are expected to go out and get drunk--always an +easy obligation!--brings with it nothing but another year, and +possesses all the "tonic" quality of novelty, besides the promise of a +much happier and luckier one than the Old Year which has just been +scratched off the calendar. It is like an annual Beginning Again, and +beginning again much better. Besides, New Year's Day seems to be an +anniversary which belongs to you alone, as it were. On Christmas Day +you are expected to do things for other people, and you do (usually +just the things they don't want); while on Birthdays people do things +for you (and you wish to Heaven they'd neglect their duty). But New +Year's Day doesn't belong to anybody but yourself, and you prospect the +future with no reference to anybody whomsoever, and, better still, with +no one likely to refer to you. Oh, the New Leaves you are going to +turn! The blots you are going to erase! The copy-books you are going +to keep spotless! The Big Things you are going to do with what remains +of your life, and the big way you are going to do them! Besides, say +what you will, there comes to you on New Year's Day the very first +breath of Spring. The Old Year is dead, and you kick its corpse down +the limbo of the Past and Done-with the while you plan out the New. +So, looking forward in anticipation, you feel "bucked." You aren't +expected to show "good will to all men" after a previous night's +debauch on turkey, plum-pudding, and sweet champagne. Nobody comes +down to breakfast on New Year's morning and weeps because "Dear Uncle +John" was alive (and an unsociable old bore) "this time last year." +Nobody adds to the day's joy by wondering if they will be "alive next +New Year's Day," nor become quite "huffy" if you cheerfully remark that +they very probably _will_. It doesn't invite the melancholy to become +reminiscent, nor the prophet to assume the mantle of Solomon Eagle. +New Year's Day belongs to nobody but yourself, and what you are going +to make of the 365 days which follow it. You regard the date as a kind +of spiritual Spring Cleaning, and to good housewives there is all the +vigorous promise of a Big Achievement even in buying a pot of paint and +shaking out a duster. And, though Fate usually helps to enliven +Christmas-time by arranging a big railway accident or burning a London +store down, and the newspapers, in search of something to frighten us +now that the war is over, by referring to Germany's "hidden army" and +an unprecedentedly colossal strike in the New Year, the human spirit +soars above these things on the First of January, and Hope, +figuratively speaking, buys a "buzzer" and makes high holiday. Who +knows if the New Year may not be your year, your _lucky_ year? And in +this feeling you jump out of bed, clothe yourself in your "Gladdest +Rags," collect your "Goodest" intentions, and sally forth. Nobody +wishes you anything, it's true, but you wish yourself the moon, and in +wishing for it you somehow feel that the New Year will give it to you. + + + + +_February_ + +February is the month when, cold-red are the noses--and so (oh help!) +are the "toes-es." No one ever sings about February: scarcely anyone +speaks about It. It is indeed unspeakable. Its only benefit is that, +once every four years, it keeps people younger a day longer. If you're +thirty-nine, you're thirty-nine for an extra twenty-four hours, and at +that period of life you're glad of any small mercy. It is the month +when the new-rich depart to sun themselves in their new-found sun, and +the new-poor, and others who are quite used to poverty, swear at them +in secret. Oh, yes, indeed! If the Clerk of the Weather has a left +ear it must surely at this moment be as 'ot as 'ell! Nobody likes +February--it is the step-child of the months. + +One simply lives through it as one lives through a necessary duty. +It's a month--and that's all. Thank Heaven! somebody once made it the +shortest! By the end of January most people have had more than enough +of the English Winter even if the English Winter thinks we can ever +have enough of it, and comes back saying "Hello!" to us right into +Summer, and starts ringing us up, as it were, to tell us it's coming +back again as early as October. Just as if we didn't know--just as if +we ever wanted to know! The English Summer is far more modest. +Usually it's gone before we have, so to speak, washed our hands, tidied +our hair, and dressed ourselves up to meet it. But Winter in England +not only comes before it is wanted, but outstays its welcome by weeks. +And of all the months it brings with it, February, though the shortest, +seems to linger longest. March may be colder, but the first day of +Spring is marked on its calendar; and we wait for it like we wait for a +lover--a lover in whose embrace we may not yet be, but who is, as it +were, downstairs washing his hands, he has arrived, he is here--and so +we can endure the suspense of waiting for him with a grin. April may +fill the dykes fuller than February, whose skies are supposed to weep +all day long, but generally only succeed in dribbling, but April +belongs to Spring--even though our face and hands and feet are still in +Mid-Winter. + +February always reminds me of the suburbs--appalling but you've got to +go through them to get to London. Were I a rich man, I would follow +Spring round the World. In that way I should be able to smile through +life like those people who, in snapshots from the Riviera, seem +composed principally of wide grins and thin legs, and whose joie de +vivre is usually published in English illustrated journals in seasons +when the English weather makes you feel that Life is just a Big Damn in +a mackintosh. To follow Spring round the world would be like following +a mistress whose charms never palled, whose welcome was never too warm +to be sultry, whose friendship was never too cold to freeze further +promise of intimacy. What a delightful chase! and what a +sweet-tempered man I should be! For, say what you will, the weather +has a lot to do with that spotless robe of white which is supposed to +envelop saints. If you can't be pure and good and generous and +altogether delightful in the Spring, you might as well write yourself +off for evermore among the ignoble army of the eternally disgruntled. +And if you _can_ be all these things in weather that is typically +English and typically February, then a hat would surely hide your halo. + +And this is about all the good that February does, so far as I can see. +True, once in four years it also allows old maids to propose. But the +three years when they had to wait to be asked have usually taken all +their courage out of them. Besides, the married people and others who +are otherwise hooked and secure have turned even that benefit into a +joke--and no woman likes to place all her heart-yearnings at the mercy +of a laugh. So that, what Leap-Year once allowed, people have turned +into a jeer. But then, that is all part and parcel of February. +Somebody once tried their best to make it as attractive as possible, +even if it could only be so once every four years. But everybody else +has since done their best to rob it of its one little bit of anaemic +joy. Perhaps we ought not to blame them! Nobody ought to be blamed in +February. It is a month which brings out the very worst in everybody. + + + + +_Tub-thumpers_ + +I often wonder what born tub-thumpers are like in their own homes. +Perhaps they are as meek and mild as watered buttermilk. Thinking it +over, I think they must be. No self-respecting woman could be +tub-thumped at daily without eyeing furtively the nearest meat-carver. +For the genius of a tub-thumper is that he is usually born deaf. I +don't mean to say that he cannot hear, but he only hears what is +convenient for his own arguments to hear, and the more an explanation +is convincing the more he tries to shout it down, deafening himself as +well as the poor fool who is struggling to make his meaning clear. +Each one of us, I suppose, has to "let off steam" some time somewhere, +and round about the Marble Arch, where fiery orators "let themselves +go," must be the safety-valve of many an obscure home. Occasionally I +go there--just to listen to men and women giving an example of that +proverb about "a little knowledge being a dangerous thing." Moreover, +there is a certain psychological interest in this rowdy corner of a +peaceful park. It is typical of England, for one thing. I don't mean +to say that tub-thumping is typical of England, but England is +certainly the harbour of refuge of the crank. You can see there the +crankiest of cranks being as cranky as they know how to be; and you can +see also the utterly good-humoured indifference with which the crowds +who listen to them regard their crankiness--which also has its meaning. +The other evening a middle aged woman of untidy locks was crying that +England alone was responsible for the war. Another--in this instance a +young man--was deploring the recent blockade of Germany, viewing at the +same time in quite a tender light the Zeppelin raids on towns and +villages and the bombardment of undefended ports. In any other +country, I think, these people would have been lynched. But D.O.R.A., +as a strenuous female, is now as dead as 1914 fashions, and the people +who heard these friends or Germany crying out their friendliness +listened to them in laughing tolerance, which must have annoyed the +speakers considerably, seeing that laughter renders unconvincing the +very fiercest argument. But they laughed, and, passing on their way, +heard God being described as an "old scoundrel," and this seemed to +amuse them even more. + + + + +_I Wonder If . . ._ + +But I sometimes wonder if this indifference towards the facts which are +"big" to so many people and ought, perhaps, to be "big" to everybody, be +a sign of national weakness or of national strength. Personally, I +longed, metaphorically speaking, to tear that female limb from limb and +send that young man to a village under bombardment, there to make him +stay a week in the very hottest portion of Hell's Corner. But had I done +so, I realised that I should not have accomplished the very slightest +good. The moment that you take a crank seriously, from that very moment +he imagines that his "crankiness" is divinely inspired. Far better laugh +at him and let him alone. Laughter is the one unanswerable +contradiction, and ridicule is a far more deadly thing to fight against +than fury, no matter if fury wields a hatchet. Perhaps this utter +indifference to the firebrand is our national strength--even though it +comes from a too-sluggish imagination, a too great imperviousness to new +dangers. English people possess too great a sense of humour ever to +become Bolshevik. They may not be witty and vivacious and effervescingly +bright, but they possess an innate sense of the ridiculous which is their +national safeguard against any very bloody form of revolution. So we +suffer infuriated cranks--if not gladly, at least, in the same manner as +we suffer baboons in the Zoo--interesting, and even amusing in their +proper place, but to be shot at sight should they venture to play the +"baboon" amid those hideous red-brick villas which have been termed an +Englishman's castle and his home. After all, every new system has its +ridiculous side, and strangely enough, it is this ridiculous side which +is most apparent at the outset. Only after you have delved below the +"comic froth" do you begin to realise that there is a very vital truth +hidden beneath. Well, a sense of humour blows away that froth in time, +and then--as for example after the Suffragette antics--the real argument +behind the capers and the words becomes known. Thus in England all +revolutions are gradual, and in their very slowness lies their +incalculable strength of purpose. + + + + +_Types of Tub-thumpers_ + +But the various types of cranks always provide a psychological interest +to the student of intellectual freakishness. There are the "cranks" you +laugh at; others who make you wish to murder them outright. Then there +are a few pathetic cases--elderly men, who bring their own little wooden +box as well as the vast majority of their own audience, including a wife, +a sister, and a convert in spectacles--men who, in a mild tone of voice, +earnestly strive to paint as a real story the fable of Jonah and the +Whale to a few casual passers-by--those same passers-by who, because +there is no real "fun" to be got out of such lecturers, pass by with such +unsympathetic rapidity. Yet I always love to listen to these speakers. +They are such an illustration of "a voice crying in the wilderness," and +they are so dead-in earnest, and they mean so well--two direct +invitations, as it were, to the world's ridicule. You can't help +admiring them, although mingled with your admiration there is a strong +streak of pity. The simplicity of their faith is colossal. They believe +_everything_. They believe in the miraculous conversion of drunkards in +a single night through one verse of the Gospel; they believe that we +shall all rise again and sing on and on eternally; they believe that all +men and women are born to evil, and they would feel positively indignant +were not the whitest soul among us really steeped in double-dyed sin. +And how they believe in God!--Oh, yes, how they do believe in God! I +cannot say whether they bring God into their daily lives, but they +certainly drag Him to the Marble Arch. And all the while a very sedate, +middle-aged woman and a grim bespectacled maiden of forty-five try their +utmost--or seem so to do--to look as if they had led lives of the most +scarlet sinfulness until they had heard their elderly friend preach The +Word. Nothing ever disturbs these meetings. They just go on to their +appointed close, when the "stand" is promptly taken by someone who +believes in nothing at all, God least of all, and will tell you the +reasons of his disbelief for hours and hours, and still leave you +unconvinced. + + + + +_If Age only Practised what it Preached!_ + +The Boy Scouts have, I believe, a moral injunction to do at least one +good action every day. Older people applaud that injunction wildly. It +is so admirable--_for Boy Scouts_. They consider it to be so admirable, +indeed, that they declare it should form part of the moral curriculum of +every young boy and girl. In fact, they declare it to be applicable to +everyone--everyone except themselves. Personally, I think it would be +even more admirable when followed by grown-up people. But most grown-up +people seem to consider that they have done their one world-beneficial +action when they get out of bed in the morning. The rest of the day they +will be unselfish--if it suits their purpose. If only grown-up people +practised what they preached to children we should have the millennium +next Monday. If the world is still "wicked," it isn't because there are +not enough moral precepts being flung about all over it. The trouble is +that the people to whom they most apply pass them on. They consider they +don't apply to them at all. + +If only children could chastise their parents for telling lies, and being +greedy and selfish, and doing the hundred and one things which they ought +not to have done, ninety-nine per cent. of the mothers and fathers, +spiritual pastors and masters, and "all those who are set in authority +over them"--would not be able to sit down without an "Oo-er!" for weeks. +Happily children are born actors, and can simulate an air of belief, even +in the face of their elders' most bare-faced inconsistency. But--if you +can cast back your memory into long ago--you will remember that one of +the most "shattering" moments or your youth was the time when it first +burst upon your inner vision that all men, and especially grown-up men, +are liars. Certainly, if we really do come "trailing clouds of glory," +the clouds soon evaporate and we lose the glory, not through listening to +what men tell us, but in watching what men _do_. + +Selfishness is surely of the deadly sins the most deadly. Yet +selfishness is what elder people tell youth to avoid most carefully. If +everyone only lived up to half the moral "fineness" which they find so +admirable in the tenets of the Boy Scouts, the world would be worth +living in to-morrow. Think of the hundreds of millions of unselfish acts +which would then take place every day! In a short time there would +surely be hardly any more good to do! As it is, a few kind-hearted, +generous, sympathetic people are kept so busy trying to leaven the +selfishness, the hardness, the all-uncharitableness of those who are out +to live entirely for themselves, that, poor things, they are usually worn +to a shadow long before their time! + +The virtues are very badly distributed. Some people have so many, and in +such "chunks," and others possess so few and even seem determined to get +rid of those they have as soon as they can. If only youth had a sense or +humour it would surely die from laughing. But it hasn't. It has only +faith. Besides, as I said before, it is a born actor--and in face of the +big stick it is far safer to pretend faith than show ridicule. If we can +have children in the next world--and I have just received a communication +from an ardent spiritualist informing me that an earthly wife can become +a mother through keeping in touch with her dead husband--I think that, +metaphorically speaking, the paternal cane will be "sloshed" both ways. +That is to say, Little Johnny, who has been laid across mother's knee and +beaten by her with a slipper for stealing jam, will, in his turn, strike +mother across the knuckles with a ruler when she, too, is caught +"pinching" half-a-crown out of father's trouser pocket. If heaven be +nothing else, it will surely be a place of justice. The trouble with +this old earth is that justice is only meted out by those who have not +yet been found out. In heaven I hope that people who preach will be +punished if they do not put their preaching into practice. It will, I +fear, empty any number of pulpits--alike in the churches, the public +parks, and the home. + +But heaven will be none the worse for a little silence. As it is, we +earth-wallahs hear such a lot of high-falutin and observe so much low +cunning that no wonder youth, as it grows more "knowing," becomes more +cynical. It is only when a young man has arrived at years of discretion +that he realises that the most discreet thing to do is to be indiscreet +while holding a moral mask up. When he realises this, he will find it +more politic to keep one eye closed. Brotherly love has to be blind in +one eye. Justice finds it safer to be blind in both. And the fool is he +who keeps both eyes open, yet sees nothing. And so most grown-up people +are fools! That is why they stick together in war-time and always +_quarrel_ at a Peace Conference. + + + + +_Beginnings_ + +Beginnings are always difficult--when they are not merely dull. People +worth knowing are always hard to get to know. On the other hand, people +with whom you become friendly at once usually end by boring you unto +death by the end of the first fortnight. People whom it is easy to get +to know, as a rule know so many people that to be counted among their +acquaintances is like belonging to a friendly host, each one of whom +ought to wear around his neck a regimental number to differentiate him +from his neighbour. But the friend who is born a friend--and some people +are born friends, just as other people are born married--dislikes to be +one of a herd. Friendship, like love, is among autocrats, the most +autocratic. There is no such thing as communism among the passions. +But, as I said before, the people worth getting to know are so difficult +to get to know. One has to hack away, as it were, and keep on hacking +away, until one breaks through the crusts of reserve and prejudice and +shyness which always surround the "soul" of pure gold--or, in fact, the +"soul" of any type or quality. But "to hack" is a very dull occupation: +that is why I say all beginnings are difficult when they are not merely +drab. I always secretly envy the people who let themselves be known +quite easily, although I realise that, when you get to know them, there +is usually very little worth knowing. But there are so many lonely men +and women wandering through this sad old world of ours who are lonely, +not because there is not plenty of sympathy and understanding ready, as +it were, to be tapped by the rod of friendship and love, but because they +are too shy to make friends, too reserved to show the genius of +friendship which burns within them. So they go through the world with +open arms which merely clasp thin air. They are too difficult to get to +know, and they do not possess the key which unlocks the secret of +dignified "self-revelation." Between them and the world there is thrust +a mask of reserve and shyness--a mask the expression of which they +positively hate, but are unable to tear it down from their faces. Thus +they live lonely in a world of other lonely souls; no one can help them, +and they are too timid of rebuff to help themselves. + +But Friendship cannot be cultivated and tended by a third party--that is +an axiom. It either springs to life inevitably or, metaphorically +speaking, it doesn't turn a hair. The well-meaning person who introduces +one friend to another with the supreme assurance that they will both get +on splendidly together, usually begins by making two people enemies. The +friends of friends are very rarely friends with one another. And +jealousy is not entirely the cause of this immediate estrangement. One +friend appeals to one side of your nature and another friend appeals to a +different side, but very, very rarely do you find two people who make the +same appeal--since Heaven only knows how great is the physical attraction +in Friendship as well as in Love! On the whole, then, the wise man and +woman keep their friends apart. And this for the very good reason, that, +either the two friends will become friends with each other, leaving you +out of their soul-communion altogether, or else they will wonder in a +loud voice what on earth you can find in your other friend to make him +seem so attractive to you! In any case, a tiny thread or malignity is +woven into that fabric of an inner life in which there should be nothing +whatever malign. + +Friendship resembles Love in the fact that there are usually three +stages. The first stage seems thrilling--but how thankful you are, when +you look back upon it, that it is over! The second stage is full of +disappointment--how different the friendship realised is from the +friendship anticipated! The third stage is philosophical, peaceful, and +so happy!--since the worst is known and the best is known, but how +immeasurably the best outweighs the worst! and how deliciously restful it +is to realise that you, too, are loved, as it were, in spite of yourself +and for those qualities in you which are the _real_ you, although you +need must hide them under so much dross. Thus you both find happiness +and peace. And surely friendship--true friendship--is the happiest and +most peaceful state in life? It is the happiest and most peaceful part +of Love: it is the one thing which, if you really find it, makes the +Everyday of life seem worth the while; seem worth the laughter and the +tears, the failures and the victories, the dull beginnings, and the even +more tedious beginnings-over-again, which are, alas! inevitable, except +in the Human Turnip, who, in parenthesis, is too pompously inert ever to +make a start. + +A very well-known actress once confessed to me that, no matter how warm +had been her welcome, she invariably felt a feeling of hostility between +the audience and herself when she first walked on the stage. But I +rather think that everyone, except the Human Turnip, who feels nothing +except thirst and hunger and cold, has that feeling at the beginning. No +matter if your advent has been heralded by a fanfare of trumpets, you +invariably feel within yourself that your _début_ has been accompanied by +the unuttered exclamation: "Oh, my dear! Is that all?" It wears off in +time, of course; but it only bears out my theory that beginnings are +always difficult--when they are not merely dull. I can quite imagine +that the first day in Heaven will be extremely uncomfortable. I know +there is no day so long as the first day of a holiday--or any day which +seems so short as the last one. For one thing, at the beginning of +anything you are never your true, natural self. The "pose," which you +carry about with you amid strange surroundings, hangs like a pall upon +your spirits, to bore you as much as it bores those on whom you wish to +make the most endearing impression. Later on, it wears off--and what you +are--_you are_! and for what you are--you are either disliked intensely +or adored. But you are never completely happy until you are completely +natural, and you are never natural at the beginning. That is why you +should forgive beginnings, as you, yourself, hope to be forgiven when +you, yourself, begin. + + + + +_Unlucky in Little Things_ + +They say it is better to be born lucky than beautiful. Which contains, +by the way, only small consolation for those of us who have been born +both lucky and ugly. For, after all, to have been born beautiful is a +nice "chunk" of good luck to build upon, and anyway, if you are a woman, +constitutes a fine capital for the increase of future business. But to +have been born lucky is much more exciting than to have been born +beautiful; moreover the capital reserve does not diminish with time. All +the same, I don't want to write about either lucky people or beautiful +ones. There are already too many people writing about them as it is. I +want to write about the _unlucky_ ones--because I consider myself one of +them. I do so in the hope that my tears will find their tears, and, it +we must drown, metaphorically speaking, it is a crumb of comfort to drown +in company. + +Most unlucky people when they speak about their ill-luck always refer to +such incidents as when they backed the Derby "favourite" and it fell down +within a yard of the winning post. True, that is ill-luck amounting +almost to tragedy. But there is another kind of unlucky person--and +about him I can write from experience, because it is my special brand of +misfortune. He is the unlucky person who is unlucky in _little things_. +After all, not many of us back horses, and presently fewer of us than +ever will be able to do more in the gambling line than play +Beg-o'-my-Neighbour with somebody's old aunt for a thr'penny-bit stake. +Let me give a few instances of this ill-luck, in the hope that my plaint +will strike a responsive chord in the hearts of those who read this page. + +(_a_) If I am sitting on the top of a 'bus and a fat man gets on that +'bus, that fat man will sit down beside me as sure as houses! (_b_) If I +am sitting in a railway carriage hugging to my heart the hope that I may +have the compartment to myself throughout the long non-stop run, for a +surety, at the very last moment, the Woman-with-the-squalling-brat will +rush on the platform and head straight for me! Or, I have only to see +the Remarkably Plain Person hesitating between two tables in a restaurant +to know that she will invariably choose _mine_! (_c_) If there is a bad +oyster--_I get it_! If a wasp flies into the garden seeking repose--I +always look to it like a Chesterfield couch! If one day I have not +shaved--my latest "pash" _is sure to call_! Should I invest my +hard-earned savings in Government Stock it is a sign for an immediate +spread of Bolshevism, and consequent depreciation in all Government +securities. If one day I plan to make a voyage to Cythere--I will surely +catch a cold in my head the night before and, instead of quoting +Swinburne, shall only sneeze and say, "Dearest, I do hope I didn't splash +you!" I fully expect to wake up and find myself rich and famous--the day +I "wake up" to find myself _dead_! And of course, like everybody with a +grievance, I could go on talking about it for ever. Still, I have given +a sufficient number of instances of my ill-luck for ninety per cent. of +people to respond in sympathy. The "big things" so seldom happen that +one can live quite comfortably without them. + +But the "Little Things" are like the poor--they are always with us; or +like relations--perpetually on the doorstep on washing day. Perhaps one +ought to live as if one were not aware of them. To have your eyes fixed +steadfastly on some "star" makes you oblivious, as it were, to the +creepy-crawly things which are creepy-crawling up your leg. The +unfortunate thing, however, is, that there seem so few stars on which to +fix your gaze. If you are born beautiful, or born lucky--you have no use +for "stars." To a certain extent you are a "star" in yourself. But for +_nous autres_ there only remains the exasperation of Little Things which +perpetually "go wrong." The only hope, then, for us is to cultivate that +state of despair which can view a whole accumulation of minor disasters +with indifference. When you are indifferent to "luck" it is quite +astonishing what good fortune comes your way. Luck is rather like a +woman--it is, as it were, only utterly abject before a "shrugged +shoulder." + + + + +_Wallpapers_ + +Life is full of minor mysteries--conundrums of the everyday which usually +centre round the problem: "Why on earth people do certain things and what +on earth makes them do them?" And one of these mysteries is that of +their choice in wallpapers. Of course some wallpapers are so pretty that +it is not at all difficult to realise why people chose them. On the +other hand, some are so extraordinarily hideous that one would really +like to see, for curiosity's sake, the artist who designed them and the +purchaser whose artistic needs they satisfied. Those bunches of +impossible flowers linked together by ribbons, the whole painted in +horrible combinations of colour--how we all know them, and how we marvel +at their creation! One imagines the mental difficulty of the purchaser +as to which among the many designs most appealed to her artistic "eye." +Then one pictures how her choice wavered among several. One figures to +oneself how she sat in consultation with that friend whom most people +take with them when they go out to choose wallpapers, asking her opinion +concerning the design which showed nightmare birds swarming about among +terrible trees, and the one which illustrated brown roses with blue buds +growing in regulated bunches on trellis-work of a most bilious green. +One can almost hear the arguments for and against, and at last, the +definite conclusion that the one with the brown roses and blue buds was +the more uncommon--therefore the better of the two. And one day fate +leads your steps towards the bedroom wherein that wallpaper hangs. As +you throw yourself into the one easy chair you take out your cigarette +case to enjoy that "just one more" which is the more enjoyable because it +symbolises that feeling of being "enfin seul" which always follows +conversations with landladies or several hours making yourselves +agreeable to hostesses. + +Then you see it! + +At first you are amusedly contemptuous. "How perfectly hideous," you say +to yourself. And then, in your idleness of mind, your eye follows the +roses and ribbons in horrible contortions from the skirting board to the +ceiling. Realising what you are doing, and knowing that in that +direction madness lies, you immediately turn your gaze towards the +window. You imagine that you have gained the day. But, alas! _you are +wrong_! Comes a moment in the early morning when you wake up two hours +before you wanted to, with nothing else to do except to lie awake +thinking. And all the while the brown roses with their blue buds have +unconsciously stretched their tendrils to seize your wandering regard. +Before you realise what they are doing, your eyes are riveted on that +horrible bunch half-way up the wall which being cut in half by the sudden +termination of the width of one paper roll, does not exactly fit the +corresponding half of the other. How it suddenly begins to irritate +you--this break in the symmetry of the design! You force your eyes from +contemplating its offence, only to discover that the bunches of roses +which are exposed between the sides of the picture representing "The +Soul's Awakening" and the illuminated text painted by your hostess when +she was young, make _an exact square_. Above the pictures you perceive +that these same bunches form a "diamond," resting on one of its right +angles! That there are only five of these terrible bunches between the +side of "The Soul's Awakening" and the corner of the wall, and _six_ +between that of "Trust in the Lord" and the door. And all the time you +are becoming more and more irritable. You cannot close your eyes because +you know that when you open them again the same illustrations from Euclid +will await you. The only thing that comforts you is the determination to +write immediately to your Member of Parliament insisting that he drafts a +Bill creating a censor of wallpapers, with dire penalties for any +"circumventors" of the law. That at least would put every seaside +landlady in prison. + + + + +_Our Irritating Habits_ + +Far more than the Big Things are the Teeny Weeny Little Ones which more +quickly divide lovers. A woman may conveniently overlook the fact that +her husband poisoned his first wife in order to marry her, when she +cannot ignore the perpetual example which he gives her of the truth that +Satan finds some evil still for idle hands to do--by always picking his +teeth. All of us possess some little irritating personal habit, which +makes for us more enemies than those faults for which, on our knees, we +beg forgiveness of Heaven. A woman can drink in the poetry of her +lover's passionate eloquence for ever and ever, amen. But if, in the +middle of the night, she wakes up to find her eloquent lover letting +forth the most stentorian snores she, metaphorically, immediately sits up +in bed and begins seriously _to wonder_. And the moment love begins to +ask itself questions, it is, as it were, turning over the leaves of the +time-table to discover the next boat for the Antipodes. As I said +before, more homes are broken up, not by the flying fire-irons, but by +the irritating little personal idiosyncrasies which men and women exhibit +when they are, so they declare, "quite natural and at their ease." Only +a mother's love can survive the accompaniment of suction noises with +soup. Vice always makes the innocent suffer, but suffering is often +bearable, and sometimes it ennobles us; but chewing raw tobacco--even +perpetually chewing chewing gum--is unbearable, and has a most ignoble +effect on the temper, especially the temper of life's Monday mornings. + +Even for our virtues do we sometimes run the risk of being murdered by +those who, because they think they know us best, consequently admire us +least. Virtue which is waved overhead like a banner is always a +perpetual challenge, and the moment we seem to issue a challenge--even +though we merely challenge the surrounding ether--someone in the concrete +bends down somewhere to pick up a brickbat and, gazing at us, mutters, +"How far? Oh Lord, how far?" Even the expressions of love, in the wrong +place, have been known to hear hatred as their echo. I once knew a man +who left his wife because she could never speak to him without calling +him "darling." She had so absorbed Barrie's theory that the bravest man +is but a "child," that "home" for her husband became a kind of glorified +nursery. At last his spirit became bilious with the cloying sweetness of +it all. The climax came one evening when, after accidentally treading on +her best corn and begging her pardon, she got up, put her loving arms +around his neck and, kissing him, whispered, "_Granted_, darling, +_granted_ before you did it!" Soon after that he left her for a woman +who, herself, trod on every corn he possessed, and had not the least +inclination to say she was sorry. Of course, he lived to regret his +first wife. Most men do. + +"Tact," I suppose, is at the bottom of all the difficulty--tact not only +to know instinctively what to do and when to do it, but when to realise +that a wife is still an "audience" and when to realise that, so far as +being completely natural in her company is concerned, she has absolutely +ceased to exist. But, alas! no one has the heart to teach us this +necessary lesson in "tact." We can tell a man of his sin when we dare +not tell him it were the better plan to go right away by himself when he +wishes to take his false teeth out. A wife will promote an angry scene +with her husband over the "other woman"--of whom she is not in the least +bit jealous--when she will never dream of telling him that he doesn't +sufficiently wash--which was the real cause of their early estrangement. +Everybody knows his own vices, whereas most people are blissfully +ignorant of their own irritating idiosyncrasies. I would far sooner be +told of my nasty habits than of my own special brand of original sin. +Sin has to be in very disgusting form to evoke lasting dislike, whereas a +"nasty habit" breeds DISGUST, which is a far more terrible emotion than +hatred. + + + + +_Away--Far Away!_ + +"The bird was there, and rose and fell as formerly, pouring out his +melody; but it was not the same. Something was missing from those last +sweet languishing notes. Perhaps in the interval there had been some +disturbing accident in his little wild life, though I could hardly +believe it since his mate was still sitting about thirty yards from the +tree on the five little mottled eggs in her nest. Or perhaps his +midsummer's music had reached its highest point and was now in its +declension. And perhaps the fault was in me. The virtue that draws and +holds us does not hold us always nor very long; it departs from all +things, and we wonder why. The loss is in ourselves, although we do not +know it. Nature, the chosen mistress of our heart, does not change +towards us, yet she is now, even to-day-- + + Less full of purple colour and hid spice, + +and smiles and sparkles in vain to allure us, and when she touches us +with her warm caressing touch, there is, compared with yesterday, only a +faint response." I cull this paragraph from Mr. W. H. Hudson's +enchanting book, "Birds in Town and Village," because, or so it seems to +me, it expresses in beautiful language a fact which has puzzled me all +through my life, making me fear to dare in many things, lest the +enthusiasm I then felt were not repeated when the time for action +arrived. We are all more or less creatures of mood, some more than +others, and I, alas! among the moodiest majority. All through the long, +dark, chilly, miserable winter I live in town, longing sadly, though +rapturously, for the summer to come again, and with its advent my own +migration into rural solitudes, far away from the crowd, surrounded by +Nature and lost in her embrace. Yet the end of each summer finds me with +my pilgrimage not yet undertaken. Something has held me back--a +friendship, business, links which were only imaginary fetters, a host of +trivial unimportances masquerading in my mood of the moment as serious +affairs. So the summer has come and gone, and only for an all-too-brief +period have I "got away." Nor have I particularly enjoyed my respite +from the roar of omnibuses, the tramp, tramp, tramp of the crowded +pavements. Somehow or other the war has robbed me of my love of solitude +Somehow or other the peace and beauty and solitude of Nature still "hurt" +me, as they used to hurt me during the years of the great world tragedy +when, across the meadows brilliant with buttercups and daisies, there +used to come the booming of the guns not so very far away "out there." +So, in order to force my mood, and perhaps deaden remembrance of its +pain, I have taken along with me some human companion, only once more to +realise that, when with Nature, each of us should be alone. One yearns +to watch and listen, listen and watch, to lie outstretched on the +hill-side, gazing lazily, yet with mind alert, at every moving thing +which happens to catch one's eye. You can rarely do this in company. So +very, very few people can simply exist silently without sooner or later +breaking into speech or falling fast asleep. Alone with Nature books are +the only possible company--books and one's own unspoken thoughts. + + + + +"_Family Skeletons_" + +The worst of keeping a "Family Skeleton" shut up in a cupboard is that +the horrid thing _will insist_ on rattling its old bones at the most +inopportune moments--just, for example, when you are entertaining to tea +the nearest local thing you've got to God--whether she be an "Honourable" +(in her own right, mark you!) or merely the vicar's wife! Whatever +family skeletons do or do not possess, they most assuredly lack _tact_. +They are worse than relations for giving your "show away" at the wrong +moment. If relations do nothing else, they at any rate sit tightly +together around family skeletons, if only to hide them from full view by +the crowd. But, of course, the crowd always sees them. The crowd always +sees _everything_ you don't want it to see, and is quite blind to the +triumphal banners you are waving at it out of your top-room window. +Sometimes I think that the better plan in regard to family skeletons is +to expose them to public view without any dissembling whatsoever, crying +to the world at large, and to the "woman who lives opposite" in +particular, "There! that's _our_ family disgrace! Everybody's got one. +What's _yours_?" I believe that this method would shut most people up +quite satisfactorily. People only try to learn what they believe you do +not want them to know. If you push the truth before them, they turn away +their heads. To pretend is usually useless. Not very many of us get +through life without experiencing a desire to hide something which +everybody has already seen. Wiser far be honest, even if it costs you a +disagreeable quarter of an hour. Better one disagreeable quarter of an +hour than months and years sitting on a bombshell which any passer-by can +explode. Honesty is always one of the very few invulnerable things. No +pin-pricks can pierce it--and pin-pricks are usually the bane of life. +It's like laughter, in that nobody has yet been found to parry its blows +successfully. Shame is a sure sign of possible defeat--and the world +always ranges itself every time on the side of the probable victor. If +you once show people that you _can't_ be hurt in the way they are trying +to hurt you, they soon leave off trying, and begin to think of your +Christian virtues in general and their own more numerous ones in +particular. It's only when your courage is sheer camouflage that the +world tries to penetrate the disguise. Not until a woman dips her hair +in henna and, metaphorically speaking, cries, "See how young I look now!" +that other women begin to remark, "You know, dear, she is _not so +youthful as she was_!" It's only when the rumour goes round that a man +has had a financial misfortune that everybody to whom he owes anything +fling in their bills. And thus it is with family skeletons. If, as it +were, you ask them to live with you downstairs, everybody ignores them +and finds them "frightfully dull." But the moment you relegate them into +the topmost attic--lo and behold, every single one of your acquaintances +expresses a desire to rush upstairs, ostensibly to look at the view. + +Everybody has something which they do not want to expose--like dirty +linen. But everybody's linen gets dirty--that is always something to +remember. There are some poor old fools, however, who really do seem to +imagine that they and theirs are alone immaculate. How they manage to do +so I can never for the life of me imagine. They must be very stupid. +But stupid people are a very great factor in life's everyday, and we must +always try to do something with them, like the left-over remnants of +Sunday's dinner. And, unless we do something with them, they--like +Sunday's dinner--meet our gaze every time we go into the kitchen. At +last we hate the sight of them. But, just as the remnants clinging to an +old mutton-bone lose their terror when Monday arrives without the +butcher, so these interfering old fools sometimes fade away into harmless +acquaintances when you show them that you and your family skeleton are +part and parcel of the same thing, and if they wish to know the one +they'll have to accept the other. In any case, it's usually useless to +try and pretend that Uncle George died of heart failure when he really +died of drink, or that the young girl whom Aunt Maria "adopted" was a +waif-and-stray, when everybody knows she is her own daughter; or that +your first wife isn't still alive--probably kicking--or that your only +child suddenly went to Australia because he was seized by the +wander-lust, when everybody knows he had to go there or go to prison. +You may, of course, pretend these things, and if you don't mind the +perpetual worry of always pretending, well and good. But if you imagine +for one instant that your pretending deceives the gallery, you'll be +extremely silly. Why, every time they speak of you behind your back +they'll preface their remarks with information of this kind: "Yes, +yes . . . a _charming_ family. What a thousand pities it is that they +all _drink_!" + +But the "skeletons" of our own character--_they_ are the ones which no +cupboard can hold, nor any key lock in. Some time, sooner or later, out +they will come to do a jazz in front of the whole world. The life we +lead in the secret chambers of our own hearts we shall one day enact on +the house-roof. Strive as we may to conform to the conventional ideal of +public opinion, we cannot conform _all_ the time, and our lapses are our +undoing--or maybe, our happy emancipation, who knows? We cannot hide the +pettiness of our nature, even though we profess the broadest principles. +Only one thing can save the ungenerous spirit, and that is to be up +against life single-handed and alone. To know suffering, spiritual as +well as physical; to know poverty, to know loneliness, sometimes to know +disgrace, broadens the heart and mind more than years spent in the study +of Greek philosophy. Life is the only real education, and the philosophy +which we evolve through living the only philosophy of any real importance +in the evolution of "souls." + + + + +_The Dreariness of One Line of Conduct_ + +We have lots of ways of expressing that a man is in a "rut" without ever +giving the real reason of our adverse criticisms. An author who has +"written himself out," an artist whose pictures we can recognise without +ever looking at the catalogue, the "conventional," the "dull," the lovers +who have fallen out of love--these are all so many victims of the "rut" +in life. It is not their fault either. "Ruts" seem so safe, so +delightful--_at the beginning_. We rush into them as we would rush into +Heaven--and Heaven surely will be a terrible "rut" unless people have +described it wrongly! But, although "ruts" may often mean a comfortable +existence, they are the end of all progress. We dig ourselves in, and +make for ourselves a dug-out. But people in dug-outs are only _safe_; +they've got to come out of them some time and go "over the top" if they +want to win a war. Unfortunately, in everyday life, the people who +deliberately leave their dug-outs generally get fired at, not only by +their enemies but also by their friends. But they have to risk that. So +few people can realise the terrible effect which "staleness" has upon +certain minds. Staleness is the breeding ground for all sorts of social +diseases which most people attribute to quite other causes. There is a +staleness in work as well as in amusement, in love as well as in hate. +Variety is the only real happiness--variety, and a longing for the +improbable. What we have we never appreciate after we have had it for +any length of time. Doctors will tell you that an illness every nine +years is a great benefit to a man. It makes him appreciate his health +when it returns to him; it gives his body that complete rest which it can +only obtain, as a rule, during a long convalescence, while "spiritually" +it brings him face to face with death--which is quite the finest thing +for clearing away the cobwebs which are so apt to smother the joy and +beauty of life. In the same way a complete change in the mode of living +keeps a man's sympathies alive, his mental outlook clear, his enthusiasms +bright; it gives him understanding, and a keener appreciation of the +essentials which go to make up the real secret of happiness, the real joy +of living. The people we call "narrow" are always the people whose life +is deliberately passed in a "rut." They may have health, and wealth, and +nearly all those other things which go to make a truce in this battle we +call Life, but because they have been used to all these blessings so +long, they have ceased to regard them. And a man who is not keenly alive +to his own blessings is a man who is neither happy nor of much good to +the world in which he lives. You have to be able to appreciate your own +good fortune in order to realise the tragedy of the less fortunate. + + + + +_The Happy Discontent_ + +What is the happiest time of a man's life? Not the attainment of his +ambitions, but when the attainment is _just in sight_. Every man and +woman must have something to live for, otherwise they become discontented +or dull. People wonder at the present unrest among the working classes. +But to me this unrest is inevitable to the conditions in which they live. +They have no ideal to light up their drudgery with glory. They cannot +express themselves in the dull labour which is their daily task. They +just have to go on and on doing the same monotonous jobs, not in order to +enjoy life, but just in order to live at all. Their "rut" is well-nigh +unendurable. Of what good, for example, is education, an appreciation of +art and beauty, any of those things, in fact, which are the only things +which make life splendid and worth living, if all one is asked to do, day +in, day out, is to clean some lift in the morning and pull it up and down +all the rest of the day! To me the wonder of the working classes is, not +that they are restless, but that they are not all _mad_! Were they doing +their tasks for themselves, I can imagine even the dullest work might +become interesting, because it would lead, if well done, to development +and self-expression. But to do these mechanical labours solely and +entirely for other people, and to know that you must keep on doing them +or starve, well, it seems to me a man needs for his own sanity everything +_outside_ his work to make life worth living. The man who is working for +himself, no matter how dreary his occupation may be, is rarely restless. +He has ambition; there is competition to keep his enthusiasms alive, he +feels that, however lowly his labour may be, it belongs to him, and its +success is his success, too. But can anyone imagine what a life must be, +we will say, cleaning other people's windows for a wage which just +enables him to live? I can imagine it, and, in putting myself in that +position, I cast envious eyes on the freedom of tramps! It seems to me +that, until the world wakes up to the necessity of enabling work-people +to fill their leisure hours with those amusements and pleasures, of the +intellect as well as of the body, which are the reward of wealth, there +will always be a growing spirit or revolution in the world. I could +endure almost any drudgery for eight hours provided during the rest of +the day I could enjoy those things for which my spirit craved. But to do +that same drudgery, day in, day out, with nothing but a Mean Street to +come home to, nothing but a "pub" to give me social joy, while people who +appear to live entirely for enjoying themselves bespatter me with mud +from their magnificent motor-cars as they drive past me with, +metaphorically speaking, their noses in the air, I think I, too, should +turn Bolshevik, not because I would approve of Bolshevism, or even +understand what it meant, but because it would seem to give me something +to live for. Except for the appalling suffering, the death, the disease, +the sad "Good-byes" of those who loved one another, I am beginning to +realise that the world was a finer place in war time. It mingled the +classes as they have never been mingled before, for the untold benefit of +every class, it brought out that spirit of kindness and self-sacrifice +which was the most really Christian thing that the world has seen on such +a large scale since the beginning of Christianity; it seemed to give a +meaning to life, and to make even the meanest drudgery done for the Great +Cause a drudgery which lost all its soul-numbing attributes--that +horrible sense of the drudgery of drudgery which is sometimes more +terrible to contemplate than death. Religion ought to give to life some, +if not all this noble meaning. But, alas! it doesn't. I sometimes think +that only those who are persecuted for their beliefs know what real +religion is. The Established Church doesn't, anyway. The world of +workers is _demanding_ a faith, but the Church only gives it admonition, +or a charming address by a bishop on the absolute necessity of going to +church. The clergy never seem to ask themselves what the people are +going to receive in the way of rendering their daily toil more worth +while when they do go to church. But the people have answered it with +tragic definiteness. They _stay away_! Or perhaps they go to see a +football match. Well, who shall blame them, after the kind of work which +they have been forced to do during the week? I always think that if only +the Church followed the crowd, instead of, metaphorically speaking, +banging the big drum outside their churches and begging them to come +inside, they would "get hold" of their flock far more effectively. After +all, why should religion be so divorced from the joy of life? Death is +important, but life is far more so. If the clergy entered into the _real +life_ of the people they would benefit themselves through a greater +understanding, and the people would benefit by this living example of +Christianity in their midst. But so many of the clergy seem to forget +the fact that the leisured classes possess, by their wealth alone, the +opportunity to create their own happiness. The poor have not this +advantage. Their work is, for the most part, deadening. The +surroundings in which they live offer them so little joy. They have only +the amusements which they can snatch from their hours of freedom to make +life worth living at all. And these amusements are the all-important +things, it seems to me. If you can enter into the hours of happiness of +men and women, they will be willing to follow you along those pathways +which lead to a greater appreciation of the Christ ideal. I always think +that if the Church devoted itself to the happiness of its "flock" it +would do far more real good than merely devoting itself to their +reformation. Reformation can only come when a certain amount or inner +happiness has been attained. + + + + +_Book-borrowing Nearly Always Means Book-stealing_ + +Whenever I lend a book--and, in parenthesis, I never lend a book of which +I am particularly fond--I always say "good-bye" to it under my breath. I +have found that, whereas the majority of people are perfectly honest when +dealing with thousands, their sense of uprightness suddenly leaves them +when it is only a question of a thr'penny-bit. As for books and +umbrellas, people seem to possess literally no conscience in regard to +them. Umbrellas you _may_, perhaps, get back--if you were born under the +"lucky star" with a "golden spoon" in your mouth, and had an octogenarian +millionaire, with no children, standing--or peradventure _propped up_--as +god-parent at your christening. Few people have qualms about asking for +the return of an umbrella, whereas a book always gets either +"Not-quite-finished-been-so-busy" for an answer, or else the borrower has +been so entranced by it that he has "taken the liberty" to lend it to a +friend because he knew you wouldn't _mind_! (Of course you don't--you +only feel like murder!) Nor do you really mind, providing that you are +indifferent as to the ultimate fate of the volume. If you are not +indifferent . . . well, you won't have lent it, that's all; it will +recline on the bookshelf of the literary "safe"--which is in your own +bedroom, because your own bedroom is the only place where a book ever is +really safe. (Have you noticed how reluctant people always are to ask +for the loan of a book which lies beside your bed? It is as if this +traditional lodgment of the family Bible restrained them. Usually they +never even examine bedside books. They are always so embarrassed when +they happen to pick up a volume of the type of "Holy Thoughts for Every +Day of the Year." They never know what to say to that!) But a book which +lies about downstairs is the legitimate prey of every book "pincher" who +strays across your threshold. Moreover, no one has yet invented a decent +excuse for refusing to lend a book. I wish they had; I would use it +until it was threadbare. You can't very well say what you really think, +since no one likes to be refused the loan of anything because the owner +feels convinced that he will never get it back. So, unless you have a +particular gift for the Lie-Immediate, which embraces either the +assertion that the book in question does not belong to you or else that +you have promised it to somebody else, you meekly utter the prayer that +you will be delighted if the borrower thereof will only be kind enough to +let you have it back soon, which, all the time, you know he won't, and he +knows he won't, and you know that he knows he won't, and he knows that +you know that he won't--all of which passes through your respective minds +as he pockets the book, and you in your heart of hearts bid it a fond +farewell! + + + + +_Other People's Books_ + +I have come to the conclusion that the only books which people are really +fond of are those which rightly belong to other people. To them they are +always faithful. They are faithful to them not _in spite of themselves_, +which is the way with those "classics" which everybody is supposed to +have read while they were young, and which most people only know by name, +because they belong to that dim and distant future in which are included +all those things which can be done when they are old--they are faithful +to them for the reason that nobody wants to borrow them; they belong to +the literature which people seek in _free_ libraries, if they seek it at +all. The books they really adore are those which somebody else has +purchased. Nor are they ever old books. On the contrary, they are "the +very latest." You see it gives a room a certain _cachet_ if it includes +the very recent literary "sensation," the "novel of the season," which +everybody is reading because everybody is talking about it. So they +stick to the books which you yourself have purchased, under the fond +delusion that what you buy is necessarily yours to do what you like with. +Alas! you have forgotten the borrowing fiend. The borrowing fiend is out +for borrowed glory--and few things on earth will ever stop the progress +of those who are out for self-glorification. True, I once knew a +book-lover who was not afraid of telling the would-be borrower that he +_never lent books_. Needless to say, he had very few literary friends. +But his bookshelves were filled with almost everything worth reading that +had been published. + + + + +_The Road to Calvary_ + +She was sitting half dreaming, half listening to the old preacher, when +suddenly one sentence in a sermon, otherwise prosy and conventional, +arrested her attention. For the moment she could not remember it, and +then it came to her. "All roads lead to Calvary." Perhaps he was +going to be worth listening to at last. "To all of us sooner or +later," he was saying, "comes the choosing of the ways: either the road +leading to success, the gratification of desires, the honour and +approval of our fellow men--or the path to Calvary." And yet it seems +to me that the utterance is only a half-truth after all. It is the +half-truth which clergymen like to utter. They always picture worldly +success as happiness, the gratification of desires happiness also, but +gained at the price of one's own "soul." But there they are wrong. It +seems to me that all roads do lead to Calvary--yes, even the road of +the worldly success, the limelit path of gratification. Whichever path +you take, it leads to Calvary--though there is the Calvary which, as it +were, has peace behind its pain, and the Calvary which has merely +loneliness and regret. But life, it seems to me, leads to Calvary +whichever way you follow--the best one can do is merely to bring a +little ray of happiness, ease a little the pain, share the sorrow and +the solitude of those who walk with us along the rough-hewn pathway. +If you live only for yourself you are lonely; if you live only for +others you are also left lonely at last. For it seems to me that the +"soul" of every man and woman is a lonely "soul," no matter if their +life be one long round of pleasure-seeking and success, or merely +renunciation. Only occasionally, very, very occasionally--maybe only +once in a lifetime!--do we ever really feel that our own "soul" and the +"soul" of another has met for an all-too-brief moment, shared for a +flash its "secret," mutually sympathised and understood. For the +rest--well, we live for the most part holding out, as it were, shadowy +arms towards shadows which only _seem_ to be substance. The road to +Calvary is a lonely road, and each man and woman is forced to follow +it. There remains then only God--God who knows us for what we are; +God--and the faith that in a life beyond we shall by our loved ones be +also recognised and known. For the rest, we but look at each other +yearningly through iron bars--and from a long, long distance. The +least lonely road which leads to Calvary is the road which leads to +God; the least lonely pilgrims are those who walk with Him. But not +everybody can believe in God, no matter how they yearn. They seek +"soul" realisation in success, in self-gratification, in the applause +and passion of the crowd. The "religious" men condemn and despise +them. But they are wrong. They are more to be pitied. For they do +not find consolation in the things by which they have sought to drug +the loneliness of their inner life. Their Calvary is often the most +terrible of all. So it seems to me that Calvary is at the end of +whichever road we take. We are wise when we realise that it is in our +own power to make that road brighter and happier for others, and that +there are always halts of interest and delight, entertainment and joy, +dotted along it for ourselves as well--if we look for them. But we do +not escape Calvary even though we struggle for success, gratify our own +desires, seek the honour and approval of our fellow-men. It is just +the Road of Life, and, provided that we harm no other man in so doing, +let us realise ourselves in worldly ambition and in love and in +enjoyment as often as we may. That is my philosophy, but it is no less +lonely in reality than other people's. Old age is each man's Calvary. + + + + +_Mountain Paths_ + +And the worst of that road to Calvary which we all of us must follow, +whether it be a long or short way, is that it is always, as it were, a +lonely journey into the Unknown. It is a mystery--a terrific +mystery--and sometimes it frightens us so terribly that men and women +have been known to kill themselves rather than take it. But there is +always this to be said of sorrow--like happiness, it looms so very much +larger when seen from a long way off. As we approach it it becomes +smaller. When we reach it, sometimes it does not seem so very terrible +after all; either it is small or else Nature or God gives to all of us +some added courage which helps us to bear even the greatest affliction. +For several years past I have been intimately associated with a tragedy +which most people regard as well-nigh unsurmountable even by the +bravest heart. I have thought so myself--and there are moments when I +think so still, in spite of my long familiarity with it, and the +miracles of bravery I have seen displayed in hearts so young and so +tender that one would have thought they must of necessity fall helpless +beneath the burden laid upon them by Fate. I speak, of course, of the +Blinded Soldier--than whom no better example of courage on the road to +Calvary could possibly be given. Personally, I feel that I would +sooner be dead than blind; but I realise now that I only feel this way +because I still, thank Heaven, have remarkably good sight. Were I to +lose my eyes, I hope--perhaps I _know_--that I should still strive to +fight cheerfully onward. And this, not because I am naturally brave--I +am not--but because I have lived long enough to see that when, +metaphorically speaking, the axe falls, some added strength is given to +the spirit which, granted bodily health, can fight and go on fighting +an apparently overwhelming foe. This is one of the most wonderful +miracles of Human Life, and I have myself seen so many instances of it +that I know it to be no mere fiction of an optimistic desire, but an +acknowledged fact. And this miracle applies to nations as well as to +individuals. In Maurice Maeterlinck's new volume of essays there is +one on "The Power of the Dead." "Our memories are to-day," he writes, +"peopled by a multitude of heroes struck down in the flower of their +youth and very different from the pale and languid cohort of the past, +composed almost wholly of the sick and the old, who had already ceased +to exist before leaving the earth. We must tell ourselves that now, in +every one of our homes, both in our cities and in the country-side, +both in the palace and in the meanest hovel, there lives and reigns a +dead young man in the glory of his strength. He fills the poorest, +darkest dwelling with a splendour of which it had never ventured to +dream. His constant presence, imperious and inevitable, diffuses and +maintains a religion and ideas which it had never known before, hallows +everything around it, makes the eyes look higher, prevents the spirit +from descending, purifies the air that is breathed and the speech that +is held and the thoughts that are mustered there, and, little by +little, ennobles and uplifts the whole people on a scale of unexampled +vastness." Surely, in beautiful words such as these, Maeterlinck but +echoes the consolation of many a very lonely heart since the tragedy of +August, 1914. Without "my boy"--many a desolate heart imagined that it +could never face the road of Calvary which is life now that he is gone. +And yet, when the blow came, something they thought would have vanished +for ever still remained with them. They could not tell if it were a +"presence," felt but unseen, but this they _knew_--though they could +not argue their convictions--that everything which made life happy, +which lent it meaning, was not lost, had not faded away before the +life-long loneliness which faced them; it still lived on--lived on as +an Inspiration and as a Hope that one day the road to Calvary would +come to an end, that they would reach their journey's end--and find +their loved one _waiting_. + + + + +_The Unholy Fear_ + +She didn't object to the celebrations for the anniversary of the +signing of Armistice--in fact, she quite enjoyed them--but she did +object to the few minutes' silent remembrance of the Glorious Dead. It +depressed her. She brought out the old "tag" so beloved of people who +dread sadness, even reverential sadness, that "the world is full enough +of sorrow without adding to it unnecessarily!" Not much sorrow had +come her way, except the sorrow of not always getting her own way; and +the anniversary of the Armistice meant for her the Victory Ball at the +Albert Hall, a new dress of silver and paste diamonds, a fat supper, +and that jolly feeling of believing that a real "beano" is justified +because, after all, _we_ won the war, didn't we? Therefore, she +disliked this bringing back to the world of the tragic fact--the fact +of what war really means beyond the patriotic talk of politicians, the +Victory celebrations, the rush to pick up the threads which had to be +dropped in 1914, and the excitement of getting, or missing, or +declining the O.B.E. The war is over, she keeps saying to herself, +thus inferring to everybody that they ought to forget all about it now. +So she ignores the maimed and the wrecked, the war poor, the sailors +and the soldiers, war books, war songs, all reference to the war, in +fact, and most especially the dead. "Why should we be depressed?" she +keeps crying, "the world is sad enough. . . ." Well, you know the old +"tag" of those who are not so much frightened of sorrow as frightened +by the fact that they can neither sympathise with it nor understand it. +She is an exceptional case, you declare. But alas! she isn't. There +are thousands of men and women who, behind a plea of war-weariness, +really mean a desire to forget all those memories, all those +obligations, all that work and faith in a New and Better World which +alone make justified--this war, or any other war. She has not +forgotten, so much as never realised what men suffered and endured in +order that she, and all the rest of her "clan" who remained at home, +might live on and rebuild the happiness and fortunes of their lives. +So she dislikes to be reminded of her obligations to the Present and +the Future; she dislikes to remember in reverence and sorrow the men +and boys who, without this war, would now be continuing happily, safe +and sound, the even tenor of their lives. "The world is sad enough," +she again reiterates, and . . . oh, well, just BOSH! + + + + +_The Need to Remember_ + +For myself, I consider that it would do the world good if it had one +whole _day_ of silent remembrance each year. And if it be +depressing--well, that will be all to the good. The world will come to +no harm if it be depressed once a year--depressed for such a noble +cause. After all, we give up one day per year to the solemn +remembrance of the One who died for us--it would not, therefore, do +anything but good if we were to give up one day a year to the memory of +those millions who died for us no less. Sunday, too, is kept as a +quiet day, in order that the world may be encouraged to contemplate +those ideals for which it has erected churches in which it bows the +knee. Well, one whole day in the year given up to the memory of those +who died that the civilised world might live--who also died for an +ideal--will help us to remember that they died at all. Without some +such enforced remembrance, the world will, alas! only too quickly +forget. And in forgetting _how_ they died, will also forget _what they +died for_. Some people--the vast majority perhaps--will never remember +unless remembrance is forced upon them. And if the world ever forgets +the Glorious Dead, and the "heritage" which these Glorious Dead left to +those who still live on--well, don't talk to me of Christianity and +civilisation and the clap-trap of those high ideals which everyone +prates of, few understand, and still fewer strive to live up to. If +the war has not yet taught the political and social and Christian world +wisdom, nothing ever will; and, moreover, it does not deserve to learn. +Yet, only the other day, I heard some elderly gentlemen discussing the +next war--as if the last one were but a slight skirmish far away amid +the hills of Afghanistan. Well, better an era of the most +revolutionary socialism than that the world should once again be +plunged into such another tragedy as it has passed through during the +last five years. + + + + +_Humanity_ + +"Humanity is one, and an injury to one member is an injury to the +whole." I cull this line from Mr. Gilbert Cannan's book, "The Anatomy +of Society." And I quote it because I believe that it sums up in a few +words, not only the world-politics of the future, but the religion--the +real, practical religion, and therefore the only religion which counts +in so far as this life is concerned--of the future as well. The +snowball--if I may thus describe it symbolically--has just begun to +roll, but it will gather weight and impetus with every succeeding year, +until, at last, there will be no nations--as we understand nations +to-day--but only _one_ nation, and that nation the whole of the human +race. The times are dead, or rather they are dying, which saw +civilisation most clearly in such things as the luxury of the Ritz +Hotels, the parks and palaces of Europe, the number of tube trains and +omnibuses running per hour along the rail and roadways of London, and +the imitation silk stockings in which cooks and kitchenmaids disport +themselves on Sundays. A New Knowledge is abroad--and that New +Knowledge is a fuller realisation that the new world is for all men and +all women who work and do their duty, for all humanity, and not merely +for the few who get rich upon the exploitation of poverty and +helplessness of the masses. And this realisation carries with it the +realisation that the governments of the future will be more really +governments of the people for the people--and by people I do not mean +merely those of Britain or France, or whichever nation men happen to +belong to, but humanity all over the world. The things which nowadays +only money can buy must be brought within the grasp of the poorest, and +civilisation must be recognised as coming _from the bottom upwards_, +and not only from the _top_--a kind of golden froth which strives to +hide the dirt and misery and suffering beneath. So long as slums +exist, so long as poverty is exploited, so long as the great masses of +men and women are forced to lead sordid, unbeautiful, cramped, +hopeless, and helpless lives, as they are forced to live now--call no +nation civilised. So long as these things exist--call no nation +religious. The one is a mockery of human life; the other is a mockery +of God. + +It always strikes me that the greatest lack in all education--and this +applies to the education of princes as well as paupers--is the spirit +of splendid vision. Most things are taught, except the "vision" of +self-respect and responsibility. The poor are not taught to respect +themselves at all, and certainly their lives do not give them what +their education has forgotten. They are never encouraged to learn that +each individual man and woman is not only responsible to him and +herself, but to all men and all women. Certainly the rich never teach +it them. For the last thing which rich people ever realise is that +their wealth carries with it human obligations, human responsibilities, +as well as the gratifications of their own appetites and pleasures. +The only objects of education seem to be to teach men to make money, +nothing is ever done to teach them how best to make life full of +interest, full of human worth, full of those "visions" which will help +to make the future or the human race proud in its achievements. The +failure of education as an intellectual, social, and moral force is +best shown the moment men and women are given the opportunity to do +exactly as they please. Metaphorically speaking, the poor with money +in their pockets immediately go on the "booze," and the rich "jazz." +And men of the poor work merely for the sake of being able to booze, +and the rich merely for the sake of being able to jazz. And the rich +condemn the poor for boozing, and the poor condemn the rich for +jazzing--but this, of course, is one of life's little ironies. + + + + +_Responsibility_ + +Personally, I blame the poor for boozing less than I blame the rich for +"jazzing." If I had to live the lives which millions of working men +and women lead, and amid the same surroundings, and with the same +hopeless future--I would booze with the booziest. You can't expect the +poor to respect themselves when the rich do not respect them. Without +any feeling of human responsibility in the wealthier classes, you +cannot expect to find any human responsibility in the lower orders. +And by human responsibility I do not mean some vague thing like +"Government for the People," or subscriptions to hospitals, or bazaars +for the indigent blind, or anything of that sort--though these things +are excellent in themselves. I mean something more practical than +that. Hospitals should be state-owned, and the indigent blind should +be pensioned by the state. These things should not be left to private +enterprises, since they are human responsibilities and should be borne +by humanity. I mean that all owners of wealth should be made to +realise their moral responsibilities to their own workmen--the men and +women who help to create their wealth--and that with poverty there +should not go dirt and drudgery and that total lack of beauty and +encouragement to a cleaner, finer life without which existence on earth +is Hell--Hell being preached at from above. + + + + +_The Government of the Future_ + +The worst of government by the people is that the moment the people put +them into power they are gracefully forgotten. The only _real_ +government by the people comes through the people themselves in the +form of disturbances and strikes and revolutions. Then, alas, the tiny +craft of Progress is borne towards the ocean on a river of bad +blood--which means waste and unnecessary suffering, and leaves a whole +desert of anger and revenge behind it. The most crying need of the +times is the very last to be heard by governments. They are so +engrossed in the financial prosperity of the country that they forget +the social and moral prosperity altogether--and financial prosperity +without social and moral progress is but the beginning of bankruptcy +after all. A government, to be a real government and so to represent +authority in the eyes of the people, has not only to nurse and to +harbour, but also to _rebuild_. It does something more than govern. +It has been placed there _by the people_ in order that it may help +rebuild the lives _of the people_--so that, besides helping capital to +increase and develop, it at the same time safeguards the people against +exploitation by capital, and sees to it that, through this capital, the +people are enabled to live cleaner, better, happier lives, are given an +equal chance in the world, and encouraged and given the opportunity to +live self-respecting lives--lives full not only of responsibility to +themselves, but to humanity at large. That to my mind is the true +socialism--and it is a socialism which could come within the next ten +years, and without any sign of revolution, were the Government to +realise that it is something more than the foster-mother of +capital--that it is also a practical rebuilder of the human race--yes, +even though it has to cut through all the red-tape in the world and +throw the vested interests, owners and employers, on the scrap-heap of +things inimical to human happiness in the bulk. Sometimes I think that +the franchise of women will do a great deal towards this juster world +when it comes. Women have no "political sense," it is said. Well, +thank God they haven't, say I! They have the _human sense_--and that +will be the only political sense of any importance in the world of +to-morrow. + +And this war has been the great revelation. Masses of men and women +who never thought before--or, rather, who thought but vaguely, not +troubling to put their thoughts into words--have by war become +articulate. They are now looking for a leader, and upon their faces +there is the expression of disappointment. They do not yet realise +that they have discovered within their own minds and hearts that +Splendid Vision which once came through one, or, at most, a small group +of individuals. This vision is the vision of humanity as apart from +the vision of one special nation. It sees a new world in which +science, the practical knowledge and the material advancement of the +West, combine with the greater peace and happiness of the East, to make +of this world an abiding place, an ideal nearer the ideal of Heaven. +Man, after all, possesses mind. His failure has been that, so far, he +has not learned wisdom--the wisdom to employ that mind for the +realisation of his own soul--that realisation without which life +becomes a mockery and civilisation a sham. + + + + +_The Question_ + +Can a man love two women at the same time? If he be married to one of +them--Yes. If he isn't--well, I cannot imagine it possible. Nor can I +imagine that every man is capable of this double passion. Some people +(in parenthesis, the lucky ones!) have characters so simple, so direct, +so steadfast, so very peaceful. Their soul is not torn asunder, first +this way, then that, perfectly sincere in all its varying moods, though +the mood changes like the passing seasons. Once having liked a thing, +they like it always, and the opposite has no attraction for them. +These people are, as it were, born husbands and born wives. They are +faithful, though their fidelity may not be exciting. This type could +hardly love two people, though they are quite capable of loving twice. +As individuals they are to be envied, because for them the inner life +is one of simplicity and peace. But there are other people who, as it +were, seem to be born _two people_. They are capable of infinite +goodness; also they are capable of the most profound baseness. And +never, never, never are they happy. For the good that is in them +suffers for the bad, and the bad also suffers, since it knows that it +is unworthy. So their inner life is one long struggle to attain that +ideal of perfection which they prize more than anything else in the +world, but are incapable of reaching--or, rather, they are incapable of +_sustaining_--because, within their natures, there is a "kink" which +always thwarts their good endeavour. Thus for ever do they suffer, +since within their souls there is a perpetual warfare between the good +which is within them and the bad. These people, I say, can love two +people at the same time, since two different people seem to inhabit the +same body, and both yearn to be satisfied; both _must_ be satisfied at +some time or another. The Good within them will always triumph +eventually, even though the Bad must have its day. But do not blame +these people. They suffer far more than anyone can suspect. They +suffer, and only with old age or death does peace come to them. If +there are people born to be unhappy in this world, they are surely in +the forefront of that tragic army! + + + + +_The Two Passions_ + +Yet these people, as I said before, _must be married_ to one of the two +Adored, if their sentiment for each can be called Love. Love, in which +passion plays the larger part, is so all-absorbing while it lasts, that +only the deep affection and respect which may come through the intimacy +of matrimony can exist within the self-same heart great enough to be +called Love. A man may adore and worship the woman who has proved +herself a perfect mate, who is the mother of his children, and yet be +unfaithful to her--not with any woman who crosses his path and beckons, +but with the _One_ who appeals to the wild, romantic adventurer which is +also part of his nature, though neither the best part, nor the strongest. +But I cannot imagine a man adoring and respecting a woman who is not his +wife the while he loves with a burning passion another woman who promises +rapture, passion, and delight. Passion is so intense while it lasts that +there is in the heart of man no equal place for another woman who holds +him by no legal and moral tie. But a man, having a double nature, can +worship his wife, yet love with passion another woman--even though he +hates and despises himself for so doing. But it is rare, if not +impossible, for one woman to completely satisfy the man whose nature is +made up of good and bad, of high ideals and low cravings, of steadfast +fidelity, yet with a yearning for the wild, untrammelled existence of the +mountain tops. With such a man--and how many there are, if we but +knew!--the woman he respects will always win in the end, even though the +woman who entices has also her day of victory. The Good Woman will +suffer--God knows she will! But the man will suffer too. A man has to +be wholly bad to thoroughly enjoy evil. The man who is only half a +saint--secretly goes through hell. That is his punishment, and it is far +more difficult for him to bear than the finger pointed in contempt. +Therefore, I believe that the happiest men and women are the men and +women who are born good and steadfast, simple and true, or those who +cultivate with delight scarcely one unselfish thought. That is why the +vast majority of people live so really lonely, so secretly sad at heart +and soul. Only the born-good or the born-bad know the blessedness of +inner peace. + + + + +_Our "Secret Escapes"_ + +I suppose that we all of us have our own little secret +"dream-sanctuary"--our way-of-escape which nobody knows anything about, +and by which we go when we are weary of the trivialities of the domestic +hearth and sick unto death of the "cackle-cackle" of the crowds. When we +are very young we long to share this secret little dream-sanctuary with +someone else. When we are older and wiser, we realise that if we don't +keep it to ourselves we are spiritually lost; for, with the best +intentions in the world, the best-beloved, to whom in rapture we give the +key, either, metaphorically speaking, leaves the front gate open or goes +therein and turns on a gramophone. We come into this world alone, and we +leave it by ourselves; and the older we grow the more we realise that, in +spite of our own heart's longing to share, we are most really at peace +when we are quite alone in our own company. When we are young we hope +and expect our "dreams" to become one day a glorious reality. When we +are older we realise that our "dreams" will always remain "dreams", and, +strange as it may sound, they become more real to us, even as "dreams," +than do any realities--except bores and toothache. For the "dreams" of +youth become the "let's pretend" of age. And the person who has +forgotten the game of "let's pretend" is in soul-colour of the dulness of +ditch-water. And "let's pretend" is a game which we can best play by +ourselves. Even the proximity of a living being, content to do and say +nothing, robs it of its keenest enjoyment. No, we must be by ourselves +for the world around us to seem really inhabited by people we love the +most amid surroundings nearest our ideal. There are no bores in our +dream-world. Nothing disagreeable happens there. And, thank Heaven, we +can enter it almost anywhere--sometimes if we merely close our eyes! And +we can be our real selves in this dream-world of ours too, there is +nobody to say us nay; there are no laws and no false morals; we are fairy +kings and queens in a fairy kingdom. I always pity the man or woman who +is no monarch in this very real kingdom of shadows which lies all around +us, and which we can enter to reign therein whenever the human "jar" is +safely out of the way. There we can be our true selves and live our true +life, in what seems a very real world--a world, moreover, which we hope +one day will be the reality of Heaven. + + + + +_My Escape and Some Others_ + +Everybody, as I said before, has his or her own receipt for "getting +away." Some find it in long "chats" over the fireside with old friends; +some in reading and music and art; some in travel, some in "good works" +and just a few in "bad" ones. A new hat will often lift a woman several +floors nearer to the seventh heaven. A good dinner in prospect will +sometimes elevate the spirit of man out of the dreary "rut" and give that +_soupçon_ of something-to-live-for which can take the ordinary everyday +and turn it into a day which belongs to the _extraordinary_. For myself, +I like to get out into the country alone; or, if I can't do that, or the +weather sees to it that I shan't, I like to get by myself--anywhere to +dream, or, preferably, to explore some unknown district or street or +place in my own company. Sometimes I find that to open a new book or a +favourite old one, soon takes the edge off "edgyness," and makes me see +that the pin-pricks of life are merely pin-pricks, from which, unless +there are too many of them, I shan't die, however much I may suffer. But +even when reading--I like best to read alone--I am never really at ease +when at any moment a companion may suddenly break the silence and bring +me back to reality by asking the unseen listening gods "if they've locked +the cat out?" You condemn me? Well, perhaps I am wrong. And if you can +find happiness perpetually surrounded by people, then I envy you. It is +so much easier to go through life requiring nothing but food, friends, +and a bank balance, than always to hide misanthropic tendencies behind a +social smile. I envy you, because I realise that the fight to be alone, +the fight to be yourself, is the longest fight of all--and it lays you +open to suspicion, unfriendliness, even dislike, everywhere you go. But, +if I must be honest, I will confess that I _hate_ social pastimes. To +work and to dream, to travel, to listen to music, to be in England in the +springtime, to read, to give of myself to those who most specially need +me--if any there be?--that is what I now call happiness, the rest is +merely boredom in varying degree. My only regret is that one has +generally to live so long to discover what the constituents of happiness +are, or what is worth while and what worthless; what makes you feel that +the everyday is a day well spent, and not a day merely got through +somehow or other. You lose so much of your youth, and the best years of +your life, trying to find happiness along those paths where other people +informed you that it lay. It takes so many years of experience to +realise that most of the things which men call "pleasure" are but, as it +were, tough dulness covered with piquant sauce--a tough mess of which, +when you tire of the piquant sauce the toughness remains just so long as +you go on trying to eat it. + + + + +_Over the Fireside_ + +Most especially do I feel sorry for those people who cannot find a +certain illusion of happiness in reading. I thank whatever gods there be +that I can generally find the means of "getting-away" between the covers +of a book. A book has to be very puerile indeed if I cannot enjoy it to +a certain extent--even though that extent be merely a mild ridicule and +amusement. I can even enjoy books about books--if they are very well +done, which is rare. I am not particularly interested in +authors--especially the photographs of authors, which usually come upon +their admirers with something approaching shock--because I always think +that the most interesting part of an author is what he writes, not what +he looks like. What he writes is generally what he _is_. You can't keep +everything of yourself out of anything you may write--and thank Heaven +for it! Apart from the story--often indeed, before the story itself--the +most delightful parts of any book are the little gleams of the writer's +point of view, of his philosophy, of his own life-experiences, which +glint through the matter in hand, and sometimes raise a commonplace +narrative into a volume of sheer entrancing joy. And perhaps one of the +most difficult things to write is to write about books--I don't mean +"reviews." (Almost anybody can give their opinion on books they have +read, and tell you something about them--which is nine hundred and ninety +per cent. of literary reviews.) But to write about books in a way which +amuses you, or interests you, and makes you want immediately to read the +book in question--that is a more difficult feat. And sometimes what the +writer about books says about books is more entertaining than the books +themselves. But then that is because of those little gleams of the +personal which are always so delightful to find anywhere. + + + + +_Faith Reached Through Bitterness and Loss_ + +Looking back on one's life, I always think it is so strange that just +those blows of fate which logic would consider as certain to destroy such +things as Faith and Belief, optimism and steadfastness of soul-vision, so +many times provide their very foundations. How often those whose Belief +in a Life Hereafter is the firmest have little reason to encourage that +belief. We often find through sorrow, a happiness--no, not happiness, +but a peace--which is enduring. When the waves of agnosticism and +atheism have broken over our souls, the ebb tide is so often Faith and +Hope. And, as we approach nearer and nearer to the time when, in the +ordinary course of events, we so soon _shall know_, there creeps into our +hearts a certainty that all is not ended with life, a belief which defies +reason, and logic, and common sense, and which, to outsiders, often +appears to be merely a clutching at straws. But these straws save us, +and, through their means, we eventually reach the shore where doubts +cannot flourish and agnosticism gives way to a Faith which we _feel_ more +than we can actually define. + + + + +_Aristocracy and Democracy_ + +I believe in the _heart_ of democracy, but I am extremely suspicious of +its _head_. Popular education among the masses is the most derelict +thing in all our much-vaunted civilisation. To talk to the masses +concerning anything outside the radius of their own homes and stomachs +is, for the most part, like talking to children. It is not their fault. +They have never had a real chance to be otherwise. When I contemplate +the kind of education which the average child of the slums and country +villages is given--and the type of man and woman who is popularly +supposed to be competent to give it--I do not wonder that they are the +victims of any firebrand, crank, or plutocrat who comes to them and sails +into the Mother-of-All-Parliaments upon their votes. For the last six +years I have been placed in circumstances which have enabled me to +observe the results of what education has done for the average poor man. +The result has made me angry and appalled. The figure is low when I +declare that ninety per cent. of the poor not only cannot write the +King's English, but can neither read it nor understand it--beyond the +everyday common words which a child of twelve uses in his daily +vocabulary. Of history, of geography, of the art and literature of his +country, of politics or law, of domestic economy--he knows absolutely +nothing. Nothing of any real value is taught him. Even what he knows he +knows so imperfectly that absolute ignorance were perhaps a healthier +mental state. Until education is regarded with the same seriousness as +the law, it is hopeless to expect a new and better world. For education +is the very foundation of this finer existence. You can't expect an A1 +nation among B3 intellects. Ornamental education is not wanted--it is +worse than useless until a _useful education_ has been inculcated. And +what is a useful education? It is an education which teaches a man and +woman to be of some immediate use in the world; to know something of the +world in which they live, and how best to fulfil their duty as useful +members of a community and in the world at large. At present the average +boy and girl are, as it were, educationally dragged up anyhow and +launched upon the world at the first possible moment to earn the few +shillings which two hands and an undeveloped intelligence are worth in +the labour market. No wonder there is Bolshevism and class war and +anarchy and revolution. Where the ruled are ignorant and the ruling +selfish--you can never expect to found a new and happier world. + + + + +_Duty_ + +As for a sense of duty, to talk to the average man and woman, no matter +what may be their class in life, of a sense of duty, is rather like +reading Shakespeare to a man who is stone deaf. And yet, an education +which does not at the same time seek to teach duty--duty to oneself, to +the state, to humanity at large--is no real education at all. But in the +world in which we live at present, a sense of duty is regarded as +nonsense. Labour does not realise its duties, neither does wealth; +neither does the Church, except to churchmen; nor Parliament, except to +the party which provides its funds. And yet, as I said before, a sense +of duty is the very foundation of all real education. + +Even if the children of the poor were taught the rudiments of some trade +while they were at school, the years they spend there would not be so +utterly and entirely wasted. Even though they did not follow up that +trade as their occupation in life, it would at any rate give them some +useful interest in their hours of recreation. As it is they know +nothing, so they are interested in nothing. And this, of course, applies +to the so-called educated people as well. It always amuses me to listen +to the well-to-do discussing the working classes. To hear them one would +think that the working classes were the only people who wasted their +time, their money, and their store of health. It never seems to strike +them that the working classes for the most part live in surroundings +which contain no interest whatsoever--apart from their work. They are +given education--and _such_ education! They are given homes--and _such_ +homes! They are plentifully supplied with public houses--and ye gods, +such public houses! The Government hardly realises yet that it is there, +not to listen to its own voice and keep its own little tin-pot throne +intact, but as a means by which the masses may arrive at a healthier, +better, more worthy state of existence. The working-classes are not +Bolshevik, nor do I think they ever will be; but deep down in their +hearts there is a determination that they and their children shall +receive the same educational advantages, the same right to air and light +and decent amusement, as the children of the wealthy. Because I am poor, +they say to themselves, why should I therefore have to inhabit a home +unfit for decent habitation, receive education utterly useless from every +practical point of view--be forced to live in surroundings which +absolutely invite degradation of both mind and body? There will always +be poverty, but there ought never to be indecent poverty. Better +education; better housing; better chances for healthy recreation--these +are the things for which the masses are clamouring. Why is it wrong for +a workman who has made money during the war to buy a piano--and to hear +people talk that seems to be one of their most dastardly crimes--when it +is quite all right for his employer, who has made more money out of the +war, to pay five pounds for one good dinner, or a night's "jazzing"? + + + + +_Sweeping Assertions from Particular Instances_ + +And this mention of the piano-crime among the munition-makers brings me +to another fact--how utterly impossible it is for the majority of people +to judge any big scheme without having regard to the particular instances +which threaten its success. Because some working people are so utterly +bestial that they are unfit to live in decent homes--so the majority of +poor people are unworthy of better surroundings. You might just as well +judge the ruling classes by the few units who advertise their own +extravagant tom-fooleries! In all questions of reform you have to work, +as it were, up to the vision of an ideal. The real, however +disappointing at the outset, will eventually reach the higher plane--of +that I am certain. And in no question am I more certain of this than in +the question of the working classes. The heart of democracy, as I said +before, is absolutely in the right place; only its "head" is as yet +undeveloped. Its mental "view" is restricted--and no wonder! Everything +that has so far been done has helped to restrict that view. This war has +let more "light" into the "soul" of democracy than all the national +so-called education which has ever been devised and made compulsory. +Confiscation of property and all those other tom-fool cries are but the +screams of a handful of silly Bolsheviks. There is no echo in the heart +of the real labouring men and women. If they applaud it, it is only that +these cranks, at least, seem to be fighting for that human right to an +equal share of the common good things of this life which ought to be the +possession of all labour, however lowly. Take the education of the +masses out of the hands of the for the most part ignorant men and women +who nowadays make it their profession to teach it; raise the standard of +payment so that this all-important branch of citizenship will encourage +educated and refined men and women to take up that duty--and give the +working classes decent homes, plenty of air, and the chance of healthful +recreation close at hand, and you have solved the most vital labour +problems of this old world of ours and laid the foundation stones of the +new. + + + + +_How I came to make "History"!_ + +Only those who have worked in the offices of an important newspaper, know +that the Power Behind the Throne--which is the Editorial Chair--is rarely +the Church, scarcely ever the State, infrequently the Capitalist, and +_never_ Labour,--but simply the Advertisement Department. + +I was sitting the other afternoon--dreaming, as is my wont; and smoking +cigarettes, which is one of my bad habits,--when the head-representative +of this unseen Power rushed into my sanctum. + +"Will you do something for me?" he demanded, with that beneficent smile +on his face which, through experience, I have discovered to be the +prelude of most disagreeable demands. + +"Certainly," I answered, inwardly collecting my scattered brains +preparatory to a brilliant defence. "What is it?" + +Without more ado he, as it were, threw his bomb. + +"Will you write me an Essay on Corsets?" + +"On _what_?" I asked incredulously--knowing that he had been a +distinguished soldier, and suspecting that he had suddenly developed what +the soldiers describe as "a touch of the doolally." + +"On _Corsets_!" + +"But I don't know anything about them," I protested, "except that I +should not like to wear them!" + +"That doesn't matter," he answered reassuringly. "All we want is a page +of 'matter.'" + +Then he proceeded to explain that he had secured several highly-paid +advertisements from the leading corsetières, and that his "bright idea" +was to connect them together by an essay illustrated by their wares, in +order that those who read might be attracted to buy. + +Then he left me. + +"Just write a history of corsets," he cried out laughing. Then, by way +of decorating the "bitter pill" with jam, he added: "I'm _sure_ you'll do +it _splendidly_!" + +"Splendidly" I know I could not do it, but to do it--rather amused me. + +After all, there is one benefit in writing of something you know nothing +about (and you are certain that ninety-nine per cent. of your readers +will not be able to enlighten you) the necessity for accuracy does not +arise. And so, I settled myself down to invent "history," and, if my +historical narrative is all invention, I can defend myself by saying that +if it isn't _true_--it _might be_. And many historical romances cannot +boast even that defence. + +Most people who write about the early history of the world have to guess +a good deal; so I don't see why I shouldn't state emphatically that, +after years and years and years of profound research, the first corset +"happened" when Eve suddenly discovered that she was showing signs of +middle-age in the middle. So she plaited some reeds together, tied them +tightly round her waist-line, and, sure enough, Adam had to put off +making that joke about "Once round Eve's waist, twice round the Garden of +Eden" for many moons. But Eve, I suppose, discovered later on, as many a +woman has also discovered since her day, that, though a tight belt maketh +the waistline small, the body bulgeth above and below eventually. So Eve +began making a still wider plait--chasing, as it were, the "bulge" all +over her body. In this manner she at last became encased in a belt wide +enough to imprison her torso quite _un_comfortably, but "she kept her +figure"--or thought she did--and thus easily passed for one hundred and +fifty years old when, in reality, she was over six hundred. + +And every woman who is an "Eve" at heart has followed in her time the +example of the mother of all of 'em. As they begin to fatten, so they +begin to tighten, and the inevitable and consequential "bulge" is +imprisoned as it "bulgeth" until no _corsetière_ can do more for them +than hint that men like their divinities a trifle plump in places. But +to arrive at this--the last and only consolation--a woman has to become +rigidly encased from her thighs almost to her neck. She can scarcely +walk and she can hardly breathe, and the fat which must go somewhere has +usually gone to her neck, but--thank Heaven!--"she has kept her figure" +(or she likes to think she has), and many a woman would sooner lose her +character than lose her "line." + +You may think that this only applies to frivolous and silly women, but +you are wrong. It applied even to goddesses! Historians inform us that +the haughty Juno, discovering that her husband, Jupiter, was going the +way of all flesh and nearly every husband, borrowed her girdle from +Venus, with the result that when Jupiter returned home that evening from +business, he stayed with his wife--the club calling him in vain. Thus +was Juno justified of her "tightness." + +But then, many a wife has cause to look upon a well-cut corset as her +best friend. And many a husband, too, has every reason to be grateful to +that article of his wife's apparel which the vulgar _will_ call "stays." +In earlier days a husband used to lock his wife in a pair of iron-bound +corsets when he went away from home, keeping the key in his pocket, and +thus not caring a tinker's cuss if his home were simply overflowing with +handsome gentleman lodgers! The poor wife couldn't retaliate by locking +her husband in such a virtuous prison, because men never wore such +things--which, perhaps, was one or the reasons why they didn't, who knows? + +Also, the corset--or rather, the "bulge" of middle-age, which was the +real cause of their ever being worn--has always strongly influenced the +fashions. I don't know it as a positive fact, though I suspect it to be +true nevertheless, that the woman of fashion who first discovered that no +amount of iron bars could keep her from bulging in the right place, but +to the wrong extent, suddenly, thought of the pannier and the crinoline +and--well, that's where _she_ found that she was laughing. For almost +any woman can make her waist-line small: her trouble only really comes +when she has to tackle other parts of her anatomy which begin to show the +thickening of Anno Domini. Panniers and the crinoline save her an +enormous amount of mental agony. On the principle of "What the eye +doesn't see, to the imagination looks beautiful"--the early Victorian +lady was wise in her generation, and her modern sister, who shows the +world most things without considering whether what she exhibits is worth +looking at, is an extremely foolish person. One thing, however, which +women have never been able to fix definitely, is _exactly where_ her +waist should be. Men know where it is, and they put their arms round it +instinctively whenever they get the chance. But women change their mind +about it every few years. Sometimes it is down-down-down, and sometimes +it is under their armpits. A few years ago a woman who had what is known +as a "short waist" was referred to by other women as a "Poor Thing." +Then the short-waisted woman came into fashion--or rather, fashions +fashioned themselves for her benefit--and her long-waisted sister had to +struggle to make her waist look to be where really her ribs were. Only a +few weeks back a woman's waist and bust and hips had all to be definitely +defined. Nowadays they bundle them all, as it were, into clothes cut in +a sack-line, and are the very last letter of the very latest word in +fashion. I can well imagine that a few years hence women will be as +severely corseted as they were a short time ago. + +I can well remember the time when a woman who held "views" and discarded +her stays sent a shudder through the man who was forced to dance with +her--though whether they were pleasurable shudders or merely shuddery +shudders I do not know. Nowadays, the woman who wears an out-and-out +corset, tightly laced, is either a publican's wife or is just bursting +with middle age. The corset of to-day is little more than the original +plaited grass originated by Mother Eve--in width, that is; in texture it +is of a luxury unimaginable in the Garden of Eden. + +Women are not so concerned nowadays that their waist should be the +eighteen inches of 1890 beauty as that their figure elsewhere should not +presume their condition to be at once national and domestic. The modern +corset starts soon and finishes quite early. Thus the cycle from Mother +Eve is now complete. "As we were" has once more repeated itself. + +The only novelty which belongs to to-day is that _men_ are wearing +corsets more than ever. A well-known _corsetière_ has opened a special +branch for her male customers alone. Their corsets, too, are of a most +beautiful and elaborate description--ranging from the plain belt of the +famous athlete to the brocade, rosebud-embroidered "confection" of a +well-known general. Perhaps--say fifty years hence--my grandson will be +writing of male lingerie, and men will rather lose their reputations than +lose their figure. Well, well! if we live in a topsy-turvy world--as +they say we do--let's all be topsy-turvy! + + + + +_The Glut of the Ornamental_ + +How strange it is that human endeavour is, for the most part, always +expended upon accomplishing something for which no one has any particular +use, while the things which, as it were, are simply begging to be done, +are usually among the great "undone" for which we ask forgiveness every +Sunday morning in church--that is, presuming we go to church. While +there is a world shortage of cooks, the earth is stuffed with lady +typists far beyond repletion. Whereas you can always buy a diamond +necklace (if you have the money), you can hardly find a tiny house, even +if you throw "love" in with the payment. Where you may find a hundred +people to do what you don't want, you will be extremely lucky if you come +across even one ready and willing to do what you really require done. +Nobody seems to like to be merely useful; they would far sooner be +ornamental--and starve. Where a man can have the choice of a thousand +girls who can't even stitch a button on a pillow-case, the feminine +expert in domestic economy will go on economising all by herself, until +the only man who takes any real interest in her is the undertaker! It is +all very strange, and very unaccountable. But I suppose it will forever +continue thuswise until the world ceases to lay its laurels at the foot +of Mary and to give Martha the "go by." + +I never can quite understand why the bank clerk who marries a chemist's +"lady" assistant is not considered to marry very much beneath him, +whereas if he elopes with a cook we speak of it as a complete +mésalliance. But the cook would, after all, prove extremely useful to +him, whereas the chemist's "lady" assistant could only make use other +knowledge to poison him one evening without pain. In the same way, if a +bankrupt "Milord" takes in "holy matrimony" a barmaid with a good +business head, the world wonders what heaven was doing to make such an +appalling match. Should, however, he marry "a lady of title" who is +entitled to nothing under the will of her late father, the Duke of +Poundfoolish-pennywise, and can't earn anything herself, the marriage is +spoken of as a romance, and the Church blesses it--and so does the most +exclusive society in Balham. Utility seems never to be wanted. The +world only asks for ornaments. + +It is the same in the drama, where Miss Peggy Prettylegs of the Frivolity +Follies will draw the salary of a Prime Minister for showing her surname, +while Miss Georgiana de Montmorency, the actress who knows Shakspere so +intimately that she mutters "Dear old Will" in her sleep, is resting so +long in her top flat in Bloomsbury that if she lived on the ground floor +she would inevitably take root. + +It is the same in literature, where "Burnt Out Passion" runs through +sixty editions and dies gloriously in a cheap edition with a +highly-coloured cover on the railway book-stalls, while Professor I. +Knowall's wonderful treatise on "What is the Real Origin of Life?" has to +be bought by subscription, with the Professor's rich wife as principal +purchaser. + +It is the same in love, where the worst husbands have the most loving +wives, and a good wife lives for years with a positive "horror," and is +never known really to smile until she lies dead in her bed! + +It is the same in art . . . and yet it is not quite the same here, +because the picture which "sells," and is reproduced on post cards, +generally inculcates a respectable moral, even though the sight of it +sends the artistic almost insane. And yet, where you can find a hundred +houses the interiors of which are covered in wallpapers which make you +want to scream, you will find only a comparative few who prove by their +beauty of design just exactly why they were chosen--and these rooms, in +parenthesis, are never let as lodgings. + +Not that there seems any cure for this world-wide rage for the useless. +We have just to accept it as a fact--and _wonder_! Meanwhile we have to +make the best of the men and women who, metaphorically speaking, would +far sooner sit dressed in the very latest fashion, underclothed in cheap +flannelette, than buy dainty, real linen "undies," and make last year's +"do-up" do for this year's "best." + + + + +_On Going "to the dogs"_ + +I always secretly wonder what people mean when they say they are "going +to the dogs." Do they mean that they are going to enjoy themselves +thoroughly, with Hell at the end of it?--or do they mean that they are +going to raise Hell in their neighbourhood and prevent everybody else +from enjoying themselves? Personally, I always think that it is a very +empty threat--one usually employed by disillusioned lovers or children. +From the casual study I have made of the authorised "dogs," I find them +unutterably boring "bow-wows." Of course, I am not exactly a canine +expert. Like most men, I have ventured near the kennels once or twice, +and made good my escape almost at the first sound of a real bark. People +who are habitually immoral, who make a habit of breaking all the +Commandments, are rarely any other than very wearisome company. What +real lasting joy is there in a "wild night up West" if you have a "head" +on you next morning that you would pay handsomely to get rid of, and a +"mouth"? . . . "Oh, my dear, _such a_ 'mouth'! Appalling!" Besides, +the men and women who are in the race with you are usually such dreary +company. Either they are so naturally bad that they do not possess the +attraction of contrast or variety, or else they are so bitterly repentant +that one has to sit and endure from them long stories proving that they +are more sinned against than sinning, or that they all belong to old +"county families," or are the left-handed offspring of real earls. In +any case, one must needs open yet another bottle to endure the fiction to +the end. + +No, I have long since come to the conclusion that most people don't +really enjoy themselves a bit when they are _determined_ to do so. They +only have a thoroughly "good time" unexpectedly, or when they oughtn't to +have it. Of course, there is always the question whether people are most +happy when they don't _look so_, and whether they are usually most +miserable when apparently smiling their delight. At any rate, if there +be one day, or days, in the whole year when all England looks utterly +miserable, it is on a fine Bank Holiday or at a picnic. Of course, the +newspapers will tell you, for example, that Hampstead Heath was +positively pink with happy, smiling faces. But if you did find yourself +in the midst of the Bank Holiday crush, you would be struck by the hot, +irritated, bored, and weary look of this "happy crowd." Even at the +Derby, the only people you see there who, if they are not happy, at least +look so, are those who have just come out of the saloon bar. +Occasionally, someone here or there will let the exuberance of his +"spirits" overflow, but he won't get much encouragement from the rest of +his listeners squashed together in the same char-a-banc. At the most +they will look at each other and smile in a half-discouraging manner, as +if to say, "Yes, dear, he _is_ very funny. But what a common man!" It +is all rather depressing. Only a street accident or standing in a queue +will make the majority of English people really animated. No wonder that +foreigners believe that we take our pleasures sadly. They only observe +us when we are out to enjoy ourselves. But if they could see us at a +funeral, or when we're suffering from cold feet, then they'd see us +smiling and singing! No wonder the French have never really recovered +from the gaiety of the British soldier as he went into battle. But if +they really want to see the average Britisher looking every bit as +phlegmatic as his Continental reputation, they should look at him when +he's out for a day's gaiety. No wonder that men, when they "go to the +dogs," go to Paris. "The dogs" at home are too much like a moral purge +to make a long stay in the "kennel" anything but a most determined effort +of the will. We possess, as a nation, so strangely the joie de mourir +without much knowledge of the joie de vivre. + + + + +_A School for Wives_ + +All marriage is a lottery--that is why the modern tendency is to examine +both sides of the hedge before you ask someone to jump over it with you. +A single man may be said to have his own career in his own hands; but +once married, he runs the risk of having to begin all over again, and +recommence with a load on his back. A good wife can make a man, but a +bad wife can undo a saint. And how's he to know if she be a good wife or +a bad 'un _until she's his wife_, which is just too late, as the corpse +said to the tax collector. You see, a man has nothing to go on, except +to look at what might be his mother-in-law. A girl is far more +fortunate. If a man can afford to keep a wife, he's already passed the +examination as a "highly recommended." He, at any rate, has to take +marriage seriously. No man wants to put his hard-earned savings into a +purse with a hole at the bottom, nor live with a woman who begins to +"nag" the moment she ceases to snore. If only women were brought up with +the idea that marriage is a very serious business, and not merely the +chance to cock-a-snook at Mamma, marriage would be far less often a +failure. But most girls are brought up to regard the serious business of +matrimony from the problematical point of view of whether her husband +will earn enough money to give her a "good time." If it be a "serious +business," as Mamma and Papa and the parish priest assert it to be, then +let her begin as she would begin a business, by starting to learn it. I +don't see why there shouldn't be a School for Wives, and no girl be +allowed to marry until she has at least passed the fourth standard. +After all, it is only fair on the man that he should know that with the +sweetest-dearest-loveliest-little-darlikins-in-the-whole-world he is also +getting a woman who knows how to boil an egg, and make an old mutton bone +and a few potatoes go metaphorical _miles_. The knowledge would be a +great comfort to him when his little "darlikins'" feet-of-clay began to +show through her silk stockings. As it is, marriage to him is little but +a supreme example of buying a pig in a poke, followed by an immediate +slump in his own special purchase. + +I never can understand why women immediately become "ruffled" when a mere +man suggests that, if marriage be a serious business, the least a girl +can do is to learn the business side of that business before she enters +into partnership. But "ruffle" they do. Also they think that you have +insulted the sex, rather as if you had accosted a goddess with a +"tickler," or stood before the Sphynx and, regarding her mysterious +smile, said, "Give it up, old Bean!" For, after all, if the man has to +pay the piper, it's up to the woman to know how to make a tune! As it +is, so many husbands seem to make money for their wives to waste it. No +wonder there are so many bachelors about, and no wonder there is an +outcry to "tax them." Even then many men will pay the tax gladly, plus +an entertainment tax if necessary--who knows? For elder people are so +fond of drilling into the ears of youth the truism that passion dies and +that marriage, to be successful, must be founded upon something more +enduring than a feeling of delirium under the stars. That is why a +School for Wives would be so useful. After passion is dead, it would be +a poor creature of a husband who couldn't find comfort living in the same +house with a woman who had obtained her certificate for economical +housekeeping and sock-mending. You see, the home is the wife's part of +the business. The husband only comes in on sufferance, to pay the bills, +listen to complaints, and be a "man about the place," should a man be +required. A happy home, a comfortable home, that is a wife's creation. +But she can't create the proper atmosphere merely by being an expert on +Futurism in music, nor by possessing a back which it would be a crime of +fashion not to lay bare. She has got to know the business side of +housekeeping and home economics before an indifferent husband can be +turned into a good one. You ask, why not a School for Husbands? Well, +husbands have passed their "final" when they have earned enough money to +keep a wife. The husband provides the house and the wife makes the home. +But most wrecked homes are wrecked through ignorance, so why not let +wisdom be taught? A well-run home is three parts of a happy one. And if +the other part be missing--well, let's have a divorce. Easy divorce +certainly encourages domestic mess-ups, but they are not half such a +"mess" as the mess of a matrimonial "hash." The home is the other side +of a man's business, the side which his wife runs. Well, as he has had +to study to work up his side, why let hers be such a "jump in the dark," +for him? Let the home become a study, even a science, and let not so +many wives reach a forgivable level of domestic excellence on the "dead +bodies" of so many unforgivable "bloomers." Remember that in matrimony, +as in everything else it is the premier "bloomer" which blows up les +châteaux en Espagne. Afterwards you have to use concrete--and build as +you may. + + + + +_The Neglected Art of Eating Gracefully_ + +Were it not for the fact that we are usually eating at the same time, and +so in no mood to criticise the mastication of others, I am sure that not +half so many people would fall into love, nor be able to keep up the +passionate illusion when fate had pushed them into it. For to watch +people eat is, as a rule, to see them at the same disadvantage as the +housemaid sees them when she calls them in the morning. Very few people +can eat prettily. The majority "munch" in a most unbecoming fashion. +For, say what you will, to eat may possibly be delightful, but it is +certainly not a romantic episode of the everyday. True, restaurants have +done their best to add glamour to our daily chewing. And the better the +cuisine, the less time we have for regarding others. That is why +hostesses are usually so harassed over their menus. Very few guests +arrive really hungry. So she has to entice, as it were, the already +replete stomach by delicacies which it really doesn't want, but is not +too distended to enjoy. Thus they are kept busy all the time, and have +no leisure to observe. But I always wish that part of our education +included a course of lessons in the art of eating enough, and of eating +it elegantly. Not one person in a hundred is anything but a monstrous +spectacle in front of a plateful of stewed tripe. But, as I said before, +we are, happily, so busy with our own plateful at the time that we have +usually no leisure to regard their stuffing. Personally, I always think +that the only way to enjoy a really good dinner is to eat it alone. +People are delightful over coffee, but I want only my dreams with salmon +mayonnaise. + +Of course you _can_ eat _and_ talk, but only the exceptionally clever +people can talk and enjoy what they eat. I always envy them. Many an +excellent dinner have I lost to all intents and purposes because my +companion insisted on being "lively," and expected a "certain liveliness" +on my front at the same moment. If you _must_ eat in company--then two +is an ideal number. But don't place your companion opposite you. Many a +"sweet nothing" has been lost in bitterness because the person to whom it +was addressed saw inevitably a morsel of caviare preparing to become +nourishment. No, the best place for a solitary companion at meals is, +either on the right or on the left, never immediately in front. I have +sat opposite some of the most handsome people, and wished all the time +that I could have changed them into a "view of sheep"--even one of a +brick wall would have been better than nothing. When you are talking to +someone at your side, you can turn your face in their direction for the +first few words, and then look at something else for the rest of the +sentence. But if you turn your head away while talking to someone +immediately in front of you--if not necessarily rude, it gives at least +the impression that you are merely talking because to talk is expected of +you, otherwise you are slightly bored. I know that the popular picture +of an Ideal Dinner for Two is one of an exquisitely gowned woman sitting +so close to the man-she-loves that only a spiral table decoration +prevents their noses from rubbing; with a quart bottle of champagne +reclining in a drunken attitude in a bucket of ice, and a basket of +choice fruit untouched on the table. But if you examine that picture of +the ideal, you will always discover that the artist has missed the ugly +foundations of his fancy, as it were, by jumping over the soup and fish, +the joint, the entrée, and the sweet, and has got his lovers to the +coffee, the cigar-and-liqueur stage, when, if the truth be known, all the +hurdles over which the "horse of disillusion" may come a nasty cropper +have been passed. So, if you be wise, sit on the side of your +best-beloved until the nourishing part of your gastronomic "enfin seul" +is over; and then, if you must gaze into his eyes and he into yours, move +your seat round--and your evening will probably end by both of you being +in the same infatuated state in which you began it. It is only by the +strictest attention to the most minor among the minor details of life, +that a clever woman is able to keep up the reputation of charm and beauty +among her closest intimates. She realises that Nature has given to very +few people a "sneeze" which is not something of an offence, and that not +even one possessing the loveliness of Ninon de l'Enclos can look anything +but a monstrous spectacle when a crumb "goes down the wrong way." But +there are other "pitfalls" which it is in the power of all of us to +avoid, and the "pitfall" of eating ungracefully is not the least among +them. + + + + +_Modern Clothes_ + +I often think that, if those "Old walls only could speak"--as the +"tripper" yearns for them to do, because he can't think of anything else +to remark at the moment--all they would say to him would be the words, +"For God's sake, you guys, CLEAR OUT!" As a matter of fact, it is just +as well that old walls can't talk, or they might tell us what they +thought of us; and you can't knock out a stone wall--at least, not with +any prospect of success--in a couple of rounds. For we must look very +absurd in the eyes of those who have watched mankind get more absurd and +more absurd-looking throughout the ages. Take, for example, our clothes. +No one could possibly call them comfortable, and, were we not so used to +seeing them ourselves, we should probably call them ugly as well. In the +autumn of 1914 we suddenly woke up to the fact that we belonged to a very +good-looking nation. It was, of course, the cut of the uniform which +effected this transformation. It not only showed off a man's figure, but +it often showed it up--and that is the first and biggest step towards a +man improving it. Sometimes it gave a man a figure who before possessed +merely elongation with practically no width. But the days of khaki are +over--thank God for the cause, but aesthetically it's a pity. We have +returned to the drab and shoddy days of dress before the war, and men +look more shoddy and more drab than ever. + +Surely clothes are designed, apart from their warmth, to make the best +show of the body which is in them. Having discovered that style in which +the average man or woman looks his very best, it seemed so needlessly +ridiculous to keep changing it. Beauty and comfort--that surely is the +_raison d'être_ of apparel--apart from modesty, which, however, a few fig +leaves can satisfy. Fashion opens the gate, as it were, and we pass +through it, one by one, like foolish sheep--without a sheep's general +utility. Mr. Smith, who is short, fat, and podgy, dresses exactly like +Mr. Brown, who is tall, muscular, and well proportioned. Mr. Smith would +not look so dreadful if he wore a coat well "skirted" below the waist, +with tight-fitting knickerbockers and stockings. Mr. Brown's muscles and +fine proportions are very nearly lost in a coat and trousers, which only +make his muscular development look like fat and his fine proportions +merely breadth without much shape. Mrs. Smith, who is modelled on the +lines of Venus, bares her back at the dictates of some obscure couturiere +in Paris, and the result gives a certain aesthetic pleasure. Mrs. Brown, +determined also to be in the fashion, valiantly strips herself, and looks +like a bladder of not particularly fresh lard! Were she to wear a +modified fashion of the mode 1760 she would probably look almost charming. + +And so we might go on citing examples and improvements until we had +tabulated and docketed every human being. For an absolute proof that the +present mode of dressing for both men and women is generally wrong, is, +that the men and women who look best in it are those who possess bones +without flesh, length with just that one suggestion of a curve common to +all humanity. And think how much more interesting the world would be +were each of us to dress in that style which showed our good points to +advantage. For, after all, what is the object of clothes, apart from +modesty and warmth--which a blanket and a few safety pins could +satisfy--if it be not to create an effect pleasant to the eye. And why, +when once we have discovered a style which certainly makes the majority +of people look their best, should we wilfully discard it and return to +the unimaginative and drab? We complain that the world of to-day, +whatever may be said in its favour, cannot possibly be called +picturesque. Well let us _make_ it picturesque! And having made it more +beautiful--for Heaven's sake let us _KEEP_ it beautiful. Let it be a +sign of cowardice--not one of the greatest signs of courage of the +age--to fail to put on overalls, if we look our best in them! After all, +every reform is in our own hands. But most people seem so entirely +helpless to do anything but, metaphorically speaking, flick a fly off +their own noses, that they leave reformation to God, and look upon their +own unbeautiful effect and the unbeautiful effect of other men as an act +of blind destiny. So we, as it were, sigh "Kismet"--in front of garments +which a monkey, with any logic or reason in his composition, would not +deign to wear. Yes, certainly, if "these old walls could only speak," +they would tell us a few home truths. Our ears would surely burn at +their eloquence. + + + + +_A Sense of Universal Pity_ + +Nearly everybody can "feel sorry"--some, extremely so! Lots of people +can exclaim, "How ghastly!" in front of a mangled corpse--and then pass +shudderingly on their way with a prayer in their hearts that the dead +body isn't their own, nor one belonging to their friends and +acquaintances. But very few people, it seems to me, possess what I will +call a sense of universal pity, which is the intuition to know and +sympathise with people "who have never had a chance"; with men and women +who have never had "their little day"; with the poor, and hungry, and +needy; with those whom the world condemns, and the righteous consider +more worthy of censure than of pity. That is to say, while nearly +everybody can sympathise with a tragedy so palpable that a dog could +perceive it, there are very few people who can sympathise with the misery +which lies behind a smiling face, that sorrow of the "soul" which would +sooner die than be found out. They can realise the tragedy of a broken +back, but they cannot realise the tragedy of a broken heart, still less +of a broken spirit. And if that heart and that spirit struggle to hide +their unshed tears behind a mask of cheerfulness, or bravado, or +assumed--and sometimes very real--courage, they neither can perceive it +nor realise it, and the well-spring of their sympathy, should it be +pointed out to them, is a very faint and uncertain trickle indeed. Most +of us like to take the sorrows of other people merely at their face +value, and if the face be cheerful our imagination does not pierce behind +that mask to take, as it were, the secret sorrow in its all-loving arms. +But personally, to my mind, the easiest sorrows of all to bear are the +sorrows which need not be hidden, which, maybe, cannot be hidden, and +which bring all our friends and neighbours around us in one big echoing +wail. The sorrows which are the real tragedies are the sorrows which we +carry in our hearts every hour of our lives, which stalk beside us in our +days of happy carelessness, and add to the misery of our days of woe. We +do not speak of them--they are too personal for that. We could not well +describe them--their history would be to tell the whole story of our +lives. But we know that they are there nevertheless. And the men or +women who are our intimates, if they do not perceive something of this +shadow behind our smiles, can never call themselves our friends, although +we may live in the same house with them and exist side by side on the +most friendly terms. That is why, if we probe deep down into the hearts +of most men and women, we discover that, in spite of all their gaiety and +all their outward courage, inside they are very desolate, and in their +hearts they are indescribably lonely. + + + + +_The Few_ + +But just a few people seem to be enabled to see beneath the surface of +things. Around them they seem to shed an extraordinary kind of +understanding sympathy. They are not entirely the "people in trouble" +who appeal to them; rather they seem able to perceive the misery of a +"state of life"--something which obtains no sympathy because people +either condemn it or fail to realise the steps which led up to it--in the +long, long ago. To them, everybody unfortunate--whether it be by their +own fault or by the economic, moral, or social laws of the +country--arouses their sympathy. It would seem as if Nature had given +them the gift of intuition into another's sorrow--especially when that +sorrow is not apparent to the outside world. You will find these people +working, for the most part, among the poor and needy, in the slums of big +cities, in the midst of men and women whose life is one long, hard +struggle to keep both ends meeting until death releases them from the +treadmill which is their life. They do not advertise themselves nor +their philanthropy. One often never hears of them at all--until they are +dead. They do not seek to hide their light under a bushel, because to +them all self-advertisement is indecent. They do not realise that what +they do is "light" at all. But the world does not realise all that it +owes to these unknown men and women, whose sympathies are so wide, so +all-absorbing, that they can give up their lives to minister to the +sorrows and hardships of others--and, in succouring them, find their only +reward. I have known one or two of these people in my life, and they +have given me a clearer insight into the nobility inherent in human +nature than all the saints whose virtues were ever chronicled, than all +the wealthy philanthropists whose gifts and generosity were ever +overpraised. + + + + +_The Great and the Really Great_ + +I always think that one of the most amusing things (to watch), in all +life, is what I term the "Kaiser-spirit" in individuals. Nearly everyone +mistakes the trimmings of greatness for the real article, and most people +would sooner expire than not be able to flaunt these wrappings, or the +rags or them, before somebody's eyes. And this spirit exists in +individuals in almost every grade of society; until you get to the rock +bottom of existence, when the immediate problems of life are so menacing +that men and women dare not play about with the gilded imitations. This +"Kaiser-spirit"--or the spirit which, if it can't inspire homage, will +buy the "props" of it and sit among the hired gorgeousness in the full +belief that their own individual greatness has deserved it--is +everywhere. Very few men and women are content to be simply men and +women. They all seek strenuously to be mistaken for Great Panjandrums. +The woman who takes a little air in the park in the afternoon with two +full-grown men sitting up, straight-backed and impassive, on the box of +the carriage, is one example of this. The chatelaine of a jerry-built +villa, who is pleased to consort with anybody except servants and the +class below servants, is another. The majority of people need money, not +in order to live and be happy, but in order to impress the crowd that +they are of more value than those who are thereby impressed. The drama +which goes on around and around the problem of whom to "call upon" and +whom to "cut," fills the lives of more men and women than the problem of +how to make the best of life and pave one's way to the hereafter. If +Christ came back to earth, He would have to choose one set or +another--Belgravia, Bayswater, or Brixton. + + + + +_Love "Mush"_ + +I was standing outside a music shop the other day, gazing through the +windows at the songs "everybody is singing." Their titles amused me. +Not a single one promised very much real sense. They were all what I +will call love "mush"--"If you were a flowering rose," and "Come to my +garden of love," were two typical examples. The remainder of the +verses--with which the suburban sopranos will doubtless break the +serenity of the suburban nights this summer--were of a "sloppy" +sentimentality combined with a kind of hypersexual idiocy unparalleled +except in an English ballad of the popular order. On such belief, I said +to myself, are young lovers brought up. Well, I suppose it would be +difficult for a youthful soprano to put "her soul" into a song which +asked, "What shall I give my dear one every morning for his breakfast?" +or, "Who'll soothe your brow when the Income Tax is due, dear?" And yet, +sooner or later, she will be faced with some such problems, and then her +beloved won't ask her if she be a flowering rose or invite her into his +garden of love unless she can find an answer which will carry them both +over to the next difficulty fairly successfully. But to live in an +eternal state of love-mush is what young people are brought up to regard +as matrimony. The plain facts of matrimony are carefully hidden from +them, as either being too "prosaic" or too indelicate. The most +responsible position in all life for a man and a woman is entered upon by +them with an ignorance and an irresponsibility which are neither +dignified nor likely to be satisfactory. A woman goes in for several +years' training before she can become a cook; a worker in every grade of +life has to go through a long period of initiation before she can be said +to be really fit for her "job." But any girl thinks she is fit to become +a wife, with no other qualification except that she is a woman, and can +return endearment for endearment when required. She is not expected to +know or do anything else. But her husband expects many and more +important things from her if he is not to live to regret his bargain. He +may not know it when he is asking her to live with him in his garden of +love, but he will realise it a few years later, especially if she has +turned that garden of love into a wilderness of expensive weeds. + + + + +_Wives_ + +The wife of a poor man really can be a helpmate, but the wife of a rich +man is so often only asked to be a mistress who can bear her husband +legitimate children. Everything which a woman can do, a rich woman pays +other women to do for her, while she graces the results of their labour +with a studied charm which receives its triumph in the envy of her +husband's male friends. No wonder there are so many wild and +discontented wives among the middle and upper classes. Where a man or a +woman has no "ideal," where they have nothing to do which is really worth +doing, they always approach the primitive in morals. We may pretend to +spurn the _cocotte_--but to look as nearly as she looks, to live as +nearly as she lives, to resemble her and yet to place that resemblance on +a legal and, consequently, secure foundation, is becoming more and more +the life-work of that feminine "scum" which the war stirred up and peace +has caused to overflow. Beneath it all I know there is a strata of the +Magnificent, but the surface-ground is weedier than ever. I am not a +prude (I think!), but the eternally amusement-seeking and irresponsible +lives led by many of the rich, and the really appalling looseness of +morals now being led by girls without a qualm, bode very seriously ill +for the future of that New World which we were promised the war would +make safe for--well, I believe we were told it was to be Democracy, but +the Government official and the profiteer still seem the most firmly dug +in of us all. I go to the fashionable West-end haunts, and I see the +crowds of wealthy women getting as near the nude as they and their +dressmakers can manage; I go to the poor parts of London, and I am really +shocked by the immense number of girls, some only children, who are +practically and _voluntarily_ on the streets. These may only be the +minority of women and girls, I admit, but they are a minority which is +having, and is going to have, a very sinister influence on the +future--and the peace and beauty of that future. For the out-and-out +prostitute one can feel understanding, and with understanding there is a +certain respect; but these amateur "syrens" are a menace and a disgrace +to the "homes" which breed them so carelessly, and look after them so ill. + + + + +_Children_ + +I suppose the most absurd fetish of modern so-called democratic politics +is that fetish of the liberty of the subject. In theory it is ideal--let +there be complete liberty of ideas by all means; but when that liberty, +as is nearly always the case, means that the liberty of one man is gained +by the sacrifice of another--then it is the enemy of humanity as well as +of nature. I always consider that, in the really Socialistic state, +children will not entirely belong to their parents, but will also be +guarded and looked after as an asset to the world. This will, of course, +give complete liberty to _good_ parents, but it will prevent _bad_ +parents from wrecking the lives of their children, as is the case to-day, +unless the parents' wickedness is so disgracefully bad that they come +under the eye of the N.S.P.C.C. But the law always shields the +wrong-doer. We are far more concerned that mothers and fathers should +have complete control of their children even when they have proved +themselves unfit to bring up children, than that the children themselves +should be protected. We are far more concerned that the drunkard should +be given complete freedom to go out and get drunk than that the misery +which his drunkenness causes to innocent people should be punished, or +prevented. The helpless must always suffer for the selfishness of other +people--that is one of the "divine" laws of civilisation. The liberty of +the subject is not only a farce, but a crime, when the liberty +jeopardises the lives of the minority. The liberty to harm others will +be a "liberty" punishable by law in the state which is anything more than +democratic, except as a political catchword. + + + + +_One of the Minor Tragedies_ + +One of the minor tragedies of life (or is it one of the _major_?) is the +way we grow out of things--often against our will, sometimes against our +better judgment. I don't mean only that we grow out of clothes--that, +after all, is nothing very serious, unless you have no younger brother to +whom to hand them on; but we also grow out of desires, out of books, out +of pictures, out of places, friendships, even love itself--oh, yes, most +often out of love itself. You never seem to be able to say to yourself +and the world: "There! this is what I yearn for; this is what I desire; +this is what I adore; this is what I shall never tire of--shall always +appreciate, to which I shall always show my devotion." Or rather, you +_do_ say this in all sincerity _at the moment_. Only the passing of time +shows you that you were wrong. You seem to grow out of everything which +is within your reach, and are only faithful to those things which have +just eluded your grasp. It is human nature, I suppose; but it is a +dreadful bore, all the same! It would seem as if the brain could not +stand the same mental impression for very long; it becomes wearied, +eventually seeking to throw off the impression altogether. They tell us +that everything we do, or hear, or say--every thought, in fact--is +photographed, as it were, on the brain as a definite picture. And if +this be true, the same impression must affect the same part of the +brain--that part of the brain which becomes tired of this same impress, +until it eventually seeks to throw it off as the body throws off disease. +Take a very simple instance--that of a popular song. Experience has +taught you to realise that, although the melody haunts you deliciously at +first, you will eventually grow to hate it, and the tune which once sent +you swaying to its rhythm will at last bore you to the point of +anaesthesia. I often wonder why that is so? The answer must be +physical, since the melody is just the same always--and, if it be really +physical, then that surely is the answer to the weariness which always +comes with repetition of even the greatest blessings of life in both +people as well as things. If only we understood the psychology of +boredom we might attain the eternal delight of never being bored, and +what we loved once we should always love, until the end of our life's +short chapter. And that would simplify problems exceedingly, wouldn't it? + + + + +The "Glorious Dead" + +For a long time past people have been--and, I suppose, for a long time +hence people will be--dusting their imaginations in order to discover the +most fitting tribute their and other people's money can erect to the +memory of the sailors and soldiers who died so that they and their +children might live. And yet it seems to me that in most of these +tributes the wishes of the "Glorious Dead," or what might easily be +regarded as their wishes, have rarely been consulted. The wishes of the +living have prevailed almost every time. Thus the "Glorious Dead" have, +as it were, paid off church debts, erected stained-glass windows in +places of worship which are beautified considerably thereby, paid for +statues of fallen warriors which have been placed in the middle of open +market-places to attract the passing attention of pedestrians and the +very active attention of small birds. A thousand awkward debts have been +wiped out by the money collected for the memory of deeds which for ever +will be glorious, and yet, it seems to me, in most of the cases the +wishes of the wealthy living--and of a very narrow circle of the +living--were at all times the primary, albeit the unconscious, object +which lay behind the tribute. And the worst of it is that so many of +these memorials to "Our Glorious Dead" are as "dead" as the heroes whom +they wish to commemorate. In ten years' time they will, for all +practical purposes be ignored. Maybe some little corner of the world is +more lovely for their being, but the world, the new and better world, for +which the "Glorious Dead" died, is just as barren as ever it was. +Rarely, only rarely, have these memorials been at all worthy of the +memory which they desire to keep alive. And these rare instances have +not been popular among the wealthy and the Churchmen, whose one cry was +that "something must be done"--something beautiful, but useless, for +preference. Mostly, they constitute some wing added to a hospital; +hostels for disabled soldiers; alms-houses, and other purely practical +benefits which afford nothing to gape at and not very much to talk about. +People infinitely prefer some huge ungainly statue or some indifferently +stained glass window, any seven-days' wonder in the way of marble, +granite, or glass. They would like the Cenotaph to fill St. James's +Park, and fondly believe that the "Glorious Dead" would find pride and +pleasure in such a monstrosity. But it seems to me that any memorial to +the dead heroes falls short of its ideal which does not, at the same +time, help the living in some real practical and unsectarian way. Heroes +didn't die so that the parish church should have a new window or the +market place a pump; they died so that the less fortunate of this world +should have a better chance, find a greater health, a greater happiness, +a wider space in the new world which the sacrifice of their fathers, +brothers, and chums helped to found. + + + + +_Always the Personal Note_ + +The longer I live the more clearly I perceive the extreme difficulty +reformers have to interest people in philanthropic schemes which do not +place their religion, their brand of politics, or they themselves in +prominent positions on the propaganda. It seems to be very much the +fashion among those who desire to help others that they do so in the +belief that they will thereby be themselves saved. So few, so very few, +help the less fortunate on their way without cramming their own religion, +or their own politics, or their own munificence down their throats at the +same time. They cannot be kind for the sake of being kind; they cannot +help others up without seeking to brand them at the same time with their +own pet views and beliefs. And then they wonder why the poor will not be +helped; why they are suspicious, or ungrateful, or allow themselves to be +helped only that they may help themselves at the same time--and to +something more than their individual share. Humility and tolerance--and +tolerance is, after all, but one aspect of humility--are the rarest of +all the human virtues. So much philanthropy merely means the giving of a +"bun" on the condition that he who takes the bun will also stop to pray, +to become Conservative, and to give thanks. Good is so often done for +the sake of doing good, not to right a social wrong--which should be the +end of all goodness. Even then, so many people are content to do good +from a distance; or if, perhaps, they do come among the objects of their +unselfishness, they do so with, as it were, the dividing-line well +marked--with them, but not _of them_, and with the air of regarding +themselves as being extremely kind-hearted to be there at all. It is +their "bit"--not to help on the peace, of course, but to help themselves +into Heaven. The poor are but the means to this end. + + + + +_Clergymen_ + +I always feel so sorry for clergymen--the clergymen who are inspired to +their calling, not, of course the "professional" variety who are +clergymen because they preferred the Church to the Stock Exchange. They +carry with them wherever they go the mark of the professional servant of +God, and it creates a prejudice, between them and those who really need +their succour, which is almost unsurmountable. Many clergymen, I know, +adore the trimmings of their profession--the pomps and vestments, the +admiration of spinster ladies, and opportunity to shake the friendly +finger at Mrs. Gubbins and regret that she hasn't been seen in church +lately--this same Mrs. Gubbins who works sixteen hours a day to bring up +a large family in the greatest goodness and comfort her mother's heart +can supply, and, so it seems to me, _lives_ her prayers--which is a far +finer thing than merely uttering them in public and respectability. But +the clergyman whose heart is in his work, who lives for the poor and +needy, and finds no greater joy than in bringing joy into the lives of +others, has to make those he wishes to _forget_ first of all that he is a +clergyman and not merely a man ready, as it were, to barter a bun for an +attendance at church. Until he does this he cannot surmount that +prejudice, that suspicion, and that atmosphere of unnaturalness without +which no lasting comfort and good is ever done. For how can he live +among the poor as one of the poor when at the same time he has to keep in +the "good books" of the wealthy, who pay the pew rents, and the +evil-minded "do-nothings," who are ever ready to declare that he is +demeaning himself and their Church when he breaks down the barrier of +caste and position in his efforts to live and suffer and work as do the +men and women he wishes to make happier and better? He can do it, if he +possesses the right personality, but it is a fight which, for the most +part, seems so hopeless as not to be worth while. You have only to watch +the restrained jollity of his flock the moment a clergyman enters the +room to realise the crust which he will have to break through in order to +bring to light the jewel of human nature which really shines so brightly +in the hearts of the very poor. + + + + +_Their Failure_ + +It is so difficult for men and women, as it were, to really help the +East-end while living in West-end comfort. It is so difficult for +religious people to realise that the finest prayer of all is to "play the +game." But the poor understand the wonder of that prayer full well; it +is, indeed, I rather fancy, the only prayer that they really do +understand, the only one which really and truly touches them and helps +them on their way. And, when I see among the very poor the simply +magnificent human material which is allowed to run to waste, +misunderstood, unheeded, I sometimes feel that the only hope of real +lasting good will be found by those who work _outside_ the Church, not +among those who work within it. For those who have worked within it have +let so many generations of fine youth run to seed, that the time has come +for practical lay-workers to take on the job. The poor need more +practical schemes for their guidance and their good, and fewer +prayer-meetings and sing-songs from the hymnals. For, to my mind, the +very basis of all real religion is a practical basis. It is useless to +live with, as it were, your head in Heaven if you stand knee-deep in +filth. Of what good is your own personal salvation if you have not done +your best to make the world better and happier for others? To worry +about their salvation is less than useless--if that be possible. +Providing they have something to live for, something to make life worth +living, surroundings which bring out all that is best and bravest and +finest in their natures, their heavenly salvation will take care of +itself. The pity is that there is so much magnificent youthful promise +which prejudice and tradition and social wrongs never allow to be +fulfilled. There is only one real religion, and that is the religion of +making life happier and more profitable to others. You may not make them +pray in the process, you may not make them sing hymns--prayers and +hymn-singing are merely beautiful accompaniments--in a practical +uplifting of the human state, the human "soul." "Love"--that is the only +thing which really matters, Love--with Charity, and Self-sacrifice, and +Unselfishness, and Justice--which are, after all, the attributes of this +Love. + + + + +Work in the East-end + +It seems to me that the poor need a friend more urgently than they need a +pastor, or, if they must have a pastor--then the pastor must be +completely disguised as a friend. I always wonder why it is the popular +fallacy that the poor need religion more than the wealthy. My own +experience is that you will find more real Christianity in Shoreditch +than you will ever find in Mayfair--even though the "revealers" of it may +drink and swear and otherwise lead outwardly debased lives. Well, the +surroundings, the "atmosphere" in which they have been forced to live, +encourage them in their blasphemy. I never marvel that they are often +profane; I wonder more greatly that they are not infinitely more so. But +it seems to me that you will "uplift" them far more by pulling down their +filthy habitations than by preaching the "Word of God" at them at every +available opportunity. They are the landlords, the profiteers, the +members of Society who do so little to cleanse and purify the human life +among the tenements, who require the "Word" more urgently than the +enforced dwellers therein. Only the other evening I paid a visit to one +of the general committee of the Oxford and Bermondsey Mission in the +little flat which he occupies at the top of a huge building called +"flats." These flats consist of only two rooms, a bedroom and a kitchen. +There are no "conveniences"--except some of an indescribably filthy +nature which are mutually shared by the inhabitants of several flats, to +their own necessary loss of self-respect and decency. And in these +two-roomed flats families ranging from three to twelve members are forced +to live, and for this benefit they must pay six shillings a week. How +can youth reach its full perfection amid such surroundings--surroundings +which can be multiplied hundreds of times in every part of London and our +big cities? And when I _know_ the magnificent "promise" of which this +same youth is capable--the war showed it in one side of its +greatness--and see the surroundings in which it must grow and expand, +physically as well as spiritually, I marvel at its moral achievements and +I hate the society which permits this splendid human material only by a +stroke of luck ever to have its chance. For what has this youth of the +slums got to live for? He can have no home-life amid the pigsties which +are called his "home", his strength is mostly thrust into blind alley +occupations which he is forced to take, since his education has fitted +him for nothing better, and he must accept them in order to live at all; +and for his recreation, he is given the life of the streets and the +public-house--nothing else. It is only such groups of unselfish men as +are represented by the Oxford and Bermondsey Mission and by the men who +run the London Working Boys' Clubs in the poorest parts of London, +together with those other men and women, clergymen and laymen, who are +struggling to bring a little happiness and light into the lives of the +men and boys of the East-end by providing them with comfort and warmth in +the club houses and with healthy recreation for their hours of freedom, +who are helping to kill Bolshevism at its roots. For it seems to me that +youth is the supreme charge of those who have grown old. The salvation +of the world will come through the young; the glory of the old is that +age and experience have taught them to perceive this fact. Give the +majority of men something noble to live for, and the vast majority will +live up to their "star." + + + + +_Mysticism and the Practical Man_ + +I wish the Mystics and the Practical Men could meet, fraternise, and +still not yearn to murder one another. It would be of immense benefit to +you and me and the rest of us who make up the "hum-drum" world. For the +Practical Man who is not something of a mystic is at best a commonplace +nuisance, and at his worst a clog on the wheels of progress. And the +mystic who is only mystical is even less good to anyone, since his Ideals +and his Theories, and often his personal example, fade away in the smoke +of factory chimneys belching out the sweat of men and women's labour into +the pure air of heaven. No, the Mystic who is to do any good to his +brother men must be at the same time a practical man, just as the +practical man must possess some Big Idea behind his commerce and his +success in order to escape the ignominy of being a mere money-maker, the +inglorious driver of sweated labourers. If only these two could +meet--_and agree_--there might possibly be some hope for the Dawn of that +New World which the War surely came to found and the washy kind of Peace +which followed seems to have thrust back again into darkness. True, +there are some business men who perceive behind their business a goal, an +ideal, in which there is something more than their own personal wealth +and glory, the be-diamonding of a fat wife, and the expensive upbringing +of a spoilt family. They make their wealth, but they seek to make it +justly, to make it cleanly, and, having amassed their fortune, strive to +benefit the lot of those by whose labour they amassed it, and whose +future, and the future of whose children, are at once their charge and +their most profound interest. But these men are so few--they are so few +that almost everybody knows their names. The great masses of practical +business men possess the "soul" of a lump of lead, the ideals of little +money-grubbing attorneys, the "vision" of a chimpanzee in a jungle. They +are "cute," and, for the end towards which they strive, they are clever. +But they are nothing more. And, because of them, there is this "eternal +unrest" for which the ignorant blame "labour" and the still more ignorant +blame "modern education." (Ye gods--what is it?) + + + + +_Abraham Lincoln_ + +Success and fame which are purely personal are always abortive in the +long run. Unless a Big Achievement has some splendid Vision behind it, +it is soon almost as completely forgotten as if it had never been. Or it +may remain in the memory of posterity as a name only, without influencing +that mind in the very slightest degree. A mystic must be a practical man +as well, if his "vision" is not to be lost in the smoke of mere words and +theories; just as a practical man must at the same time be something of a +mystic if his labour is to live and bear fruit a hundredfold. Abraham +Lincoln was a mystic as well as a practical man. That is why the ideal +of statesmanship for which he lived has influenced the world since his +time far more than men equally famous in their day. It was this +"invisible power" behind his ideal which triumphed over all opposition at +last, and which continues to triumph in spite of the pigmy-souled crowd +of party politicians who still wrangle in the political arena. Nothing +lasting is ever accomplished without "vision," and the spiritual, though +long in coming, will yet triumph over ignorance and prejudice and +selfishness, even though it comes through war and the overthrow of +capitalists and autocrats. The life and the ideals of Abraham Lincoln +are yet one more piece of evidence of this. + + + + +_Reconstruction_ + +And just so far as modern Socialism possesses this "mystical power" just +so far will it go--inevitably. But, personally, I always think that +Socialism (so-called) is far too busy attacking the elderly and decaying, +both in men and traditions. It should attack youth; or, rather, it +should fight for youth, and for youth principally and almost alone. You +cannot found the New World in a day, but if the youthful citizen is taken +in hand, educated, inspired, and given all possible advantages both for +intellectual improvement and bodily health, this New World will come +without resistance, inevitably, and of its own accord and free will. To +a certain extent the ideals of the British Empire succeed only for the +socialistic "vision" which inspires it. But the chief fault of this +"vision" is that it is so busy making black men clean and "Christian" +that it has no vigour left to clean up and "Christianise" the dirt and +heathenism at home. It would rather, metaphorically speaking (I had +vowed never to use that expression again in the New Year, but--well, +there it is!), bring the ideals of Western civilisation into the jungles +of Darkest Africa than tackle the problems of the slums of Manchester. +And this, not so much because a "civilised" Darkest Africa will have +money in it, as because in tackling the problem of the slums it will have +to fight drastically the rich and poor heathens at home--with all the +tradition and prejudice, ignorance, and selfishness with which they are +bolstered up and deluded with the cry of "Freedom" and "Liberty," and +that still greater illusion--Legal "Justice." + + + + +_Education_ + +Education of the mind, education of the body--to stop at the very +beginning that tragic waste of human material, both physical, mental, and +spiritual, which forces youth into blind-alley occupations or into +occupations unworthy of physically fit men and women--that is the first +stone in the foundation of the New World--a step far more important than +the confiscation of capital, which seems to be the loudest cry of those +who, in their ignorance, claim to be Socialists. Socialism is +_constructive_ not _destructive_--but the construction must have the +vision of the future always before its eyes, and that future must be +prepared for--drastically, if need be. + + + + +_The Inane and Unimaginative_ + +In every mixed crowd there always seems such a large percentage of the +unimaginative and the inane that I am never surprised that the silliest +superstitions still flourish, "the Thing" is rampant, and that, in +every progress towards real civilisation, the very longest way round is +taken with the very feeblest results. It is not that this percentage +is wicked, nor is it strikingly good, neither is it necessarily +feeble-minded, but it shows itself so entirely unimaginative and inane +that it is no wonder that the charlatan in religion, politics, and +education rampages over the world through a perfect maelstrom of +bouquets. Nothing impersonal ever seems to stir the sluggishness of +their "souls." They feel nothing that does not hit them straight +between the eyes. They never perceive the tragedy behind the smile, +the wrong behind the justice of the law, the piteousness and +helplessness of men and women. The price of currants stirs them to +revolt far more rapidly than that disgrace to civilisation which are +the slums. Air raids were the greatest injustice of the war--air +raids, when they never knew from one moonlight night to another if they +might not join unwillingly the army of the heroic dead in heaven. That +is why so many of them secretly believe that they endured far more at +home than the ordinary common soldier did in the front-line trenches. +They cannot realise _his_ tragedy; they can, however, fully realise +their own. That is why they talk of it with so much greater eloquence; +that is why, when they listen to his recitals of dirt and hunger and +indescribable pain, they do so with a suppressed yawn and a secret +conviction that they have heard quite enough about the war. As for +tragedy--their apotheosis of the tragic is reached in a street accident +at which they can stand gaping, nursing the details for the moment when +they can retail them with gusto at home; but I verily believe that, if +the dying man cut rather a ridiculous figure, _some of them would have +to laugh_. But then, this inane and unimaginative percentage among the +crowd is always ready _to laugh_. Their special genius is that they +will always guffaw in the wrong place. Or, if they do not laugh, they +will let fall some utterly stupid remark--so stupid that one wonders +occasionally if nature by mistake has given them a bird's brain without +giving them at the same time a bird's beautiful plumage. And the worst +of it is one is up against this inane percentage in every walk of +life--this unimaginative army of men and women who can perceive +_nothing_ which does not absolutely concern themselves and their own +soul's comfort. + + + + +Life's Great Adventure + +I hope when I am old that Fate will give me a garden and a view of the +sea. I should hate to decay in a suburban row and be carried away at +the end of all my mostly fruitless longings in a hearse; the seven +minutes' wonder of the small children of the street, who will cry, +"Oo-er" when my coffin is borne out by poor men whose names I can't +ever know! Not that it really matters, I suppose; and yet, we all of +us hope to satisfy our artistic sense, especially when we're helpless +to help ourselves. Yes, I should like to pass the twilight of my life +in a garden from which there would be a view of the sea. A garden is +nearly always beautiful, and the sea always, always promises adventure, +even when we have reached that time of life when to "pass over" is the +only chance of adventure left to us. It seems to beckon us to leave +the monotonous in habits, people and things in general, and seek +renewed youthfulness, the thrill of novelty, the promise of romance +amid lands and people far, far away. And we all of us hope that we may +not die before we have had one _real_ adventure. Adventure, I suppose, +always comes to the really adventurous, but so many people are only +half-adventurous; they have all the yearning and the longing, but +Nature has bereft them of the power to act. So they wait for adventure +to come to them, the while they grow older and staler all the time. +And sometimes it never does come to them; or, perhaps, it only comes to +them too late. There are some, of course, who never feel this wild +longing to escape. They are the human turnips; and, so long as they +have a plot of ground on which to expand and grow, they look for +nothing else other than to be "mashed" from time to time by someone of +the opposite sex. These people are quite content to live and die in a +row, and to have an impressive funeral is to them a sufficient argument +for having lived at all. But their propinquity is one of the reasons +why I should not like to grow old in a crowd. I know there are +turnips--human turnips, I mean--living amid the Alps. But these don't +depress you, for the simple reason that, besides them, you have the +Alps anyway. And the Alps have something of that spirit of eternity +which the sea possesses. + + + + +_Travel_ + +Do you know those men and women who, to paraphrase Omar Khayyám, "come +like treacle and like gall they go"? Well, it seems to me that life is +rather like such as they. You may live for something, you may live for +someone, but some time, sooner or later, you will be thrown back upon +your own garden, the "inner plot" of land which you have cultivated in +your own heart, to find what flowers thereon you may. Live for others, +yes! but don't live entirely for them. No. For if you live altogether +for someone, it stands to reason that they cannot well live for +you--or, if they can, then they don't trouble, since you are such a +certain asset in their lives. So they will begin to live for someone +else. For this living for people is part of the nature of all hearts +which are not the hearts of "turnips." And then, what becomes of you? +No, the wise man and woman keep a little for themselves, and that +"little" is barred to permanent visitors. You may allow certain people +to live therein for a while, but, as you value your own joy and +happiness, your own independence and peace, do not deliver up to them +the key. Keep that for yourself, so that, when the loneliness of life +comes to you, as come it will--that is part of the tragedy of human +life--you may not be utterly desolate, but possess some little ray of +hope and delight and joy to illumine the shadows of loneliness when +they fall across your path. And, for what they are worth to me for +consolation, I thank Heaven now for the long years which I spent +practically alone in the world, so far as congenial companionship went. +Solitude drove me back upon myself, and since all of us must have some +joy, natural or merely manufactured, in order to go on living, it +forced me to cultivate other interests, which, perhaps, had I been +happy, I should have neglected for brighter but more ephemeral joys. +So I am not frightened of my own society, and that, though a rather +dreary achievement, is by no means to be despised. It enables me to +wander about alone and yet be happy; it permits me to travel with no +one but my own company and the chance acquaintances I pick up _en +route_, and yet not be entirely depressed. It helped me to achieve +that philosophy which says: "If I may not have the ideal companion, +then let me walk with no one but myself"--and that is the philosophy of +a man who can never really feel lonely for a long time, even though he +may be quite alone. + + + + +_The Enthralling Out-of-reach_ + +Everybody _knows_ that they could improve human nature. I don't mean, +of course, that they could necessarily improve their own, nor that of +the lady who lives next door, nor that of Mr. Lloyd George, nor of Miss +Marie Lloyd, nor even of Lenin and Trotsky; but human nature as it is +found in all of us and as it prevents heaven on this earth lasting much +longer than five and twenty minutes! I know--or rather I think--that I +could improve it. And I should begin at that unhappy "kink" in all of +us which only realises those blessings which belong to other people, or +those which we ourselves have lost. Nobody really and truly knows what +Youth means until they have reached the age which only asks of men and +women to subside--gracefully, if possible, and silently as an act of +decency. We never love the people who love us, to quite the same +extent anyway, until, either they love us no more, or love somebody +else, or go out and die. We never realise the splendour of splendid +health until the doctor prescribes six months in a nursing home as the +only alternative to demise. We never appreciated butter until +profiteers and the war sent the price up to four-and-sixpence for a +pound. The extra five hundred a year which seems to stand in the way +of our complete happiness--when we receive it, we realise that our +happiness really required a thousand. Fame is a wonderful and +beautiful state, until we become famous and find out how dull it is and +what a real blessing it is to be a person of only the least importance. +Life, I can understand, is never so sweet as it is to those who, as it +were, have just been sentenced to be hanged. Our ideals are always +thrilling until one day we wake up to find them accomplished facts; and +the only real passion of our life is the woman who went off and married +somebody else. I exaggerate, perhaps, but scarcely too much, I +believe. For, as I said before, there is a certain "kink" in human +nature which casts a halo of delight over those things which we have +lost, or, by the biggest stretch of dreaming-fancy can we ever hope to +possess. I suppose it means that we could not possibly live up to the +happiness which we believe would be ours were we to possess the +blessings we yearn for with all our hearts. All the same, I wish that +human nature were as fond of the blessings it throws away unheeded, as +it would be could it only regain possession of them once it fully +realises they are lost. Half our troubles spring from our own +fault--though they were not really our own fault, because we did not +know what we were doing when we did those things which might have saved +us all our tears. That is where the tragedy of it all came in. We +never _realised_ . . . we never _knew_! But Fate pays not the +slightest heed to our ignorance. We just have to live out our mistakes +as best we may. And nobody really pities us; we only pity ourselves. + + + + +_The Things which are not Dreamed of in Our Philosophy_ + +The other day I received a most extraordinary spirit picture +anonymously through the post. I cannot describe this picture--it is +well-nigh indescribable. The effect is wonderful, though the means are +of the simplest. Apparently the artist had upset a bottle of ink over +a large piece of white cardboard, and then, with the aid of a sharp +penknife, cut his way across it in long narrow slashes until the effect +is that of rays of light which, seen from a distance, have the effect +of luminosity in a most extraordinary degree. In the corner there is +the figure of Christ on the Cross, to which this method has given the +most marvellous effect of light and shadow. Indeed, the whole picture +is almost uncanny in its effectiveness and in the simplicity of the +means to this end. You ask me if I believe it to be really and truly a +spirit picture? Well, honestly, I do not know. I realise the beauty +of the picture--everyone must realise this who sees it; but, whether +the artist who designed it and transmitted his idea through a human +hand be a spirit I should not like to declare, for the simple reason +that I understand so little of spiritualism--except that side of +spiritualism which _I do not believe_--that I should be foolish to be +dogmatic when all the time I realise that I am yet in ignorance. But +of the genuineness of the "medium" through whose hand the spirit +picture was transmitted I am certain. He thoroughly believed in the +phenomenon that a spirit from another world was using him to convey +messages to the inhabitants of this. You ask me why I believe in his +conviction--well, my answer would be so mundane that you might perhaps +laugh at my logic. But one at least I can give, and it is this; that, +in my experience of mediums and professional spiritualists, one always, +as it were, hears the rattle of the collection-box behind the +"messages" from another sphere--either that, or the person is so +eccentric that "mediumship" in his case has become merely another form +of mental affliction. Well, the artist who sent me this picture is, +except for this fixed idea that he is a medium between this world and +the next, as normal as you or I, and his belief not only is making him +poorer each day--the "spirit" firmly forbidding him either to sell or +exhibit his pictures--but is gently, yet inevitably, leading him +straight towards the workhouse. + + + + +_Faith_ + +A few days after the receipt of the picture I discovered the artist and +went to "beard him in his den." While I was talking with him, he +declared that he had just received a "message" from this spirit to draw +me a picture which, it was inferred, would convey some "recollection" +to me. Sitting at the other side of an ordinary desk, the artist +picked up one piece of chalk after another, making a series of circular +marks over the paper. This went on for nearly an hour-and-a-half. +Occasionally something like a definite design seemed to come out of all +this chaos in chalk, if I may so express it, only to be rubbed out +again immediately, the circular movements still continuing. Then at +last, a few vigorous strokes, and suddenly a definite picture came out, +a picture which was continued until it was finally complete. This +picture represented a tall arch, through which the artist had painted +the most beautiful effect of evening sky--the evening sky when sunset +is fading into blue-green and the first stars are twinkling. And +around this arch was chalked a kind of heavy festoon of drooping +ostrich feathers. The picture when finished was certainly very +beautiful, and I have it in my possession at the present moment. _But +it conveyed absolutely nothing to me_, and certainly brought back no +recollection to my memory of a previous life whatsoever. But the +"medium" so thoroughly believed in his "power to convey" that I felt +quite unhappy about having to confess my unfamiliarity. In fact, I +left the studio--if studio it could be called--convinced by the beauty +of the pictures, but still unconvinced that they were really pictures +painted by a spirit artist. The only belief I did come away with was +the belief that the "medium" thoroughly believed in himself and the +reality behind his belief. And, in a way, I envied him; yes, I envied +him, even though his faith may prove but illusory after all. For I +have reached the age when I realise that I am not at all sure that men +and women do really want _truth_, and that a faith which gives comfort +and happiness is, for the practical purpose of going through life +happily and dying in hope, a far more comforting philosophy. I, alas! +_cannot believe_ what I am not convinced is a scientifically proved +fact; but I am to be pitied far more than envied for my--temperamental +limitation--shall I call it? The man or woman who possesses a blind +faith in something above and beyond this world is the man and woman to +be envied, even though everybody cannot emulate their implicit trust. + + + + +_Spiritualism_ + +All the same, I do not think I shall ever dare to become a +spiritualist. If you can understand my meaning, so much, so very much +depends upon the truth and veracity of its tenets that I cannot go +blindly forward, as so many people seem to be able to do, because I +realise that disillusion would mean something so terrible that a kind +of instinctive faith in another life, without reason, without +scientific demonstration, seems far safer for the peace of mind. To +believe in spiritualism, and then to be deceived, would be so +unsettling, so devastating to the "soul," that, in my own self-defence, +I prefer to be sceptical unreasonably than to be equally unreasonably +believing. So many people, who have loved and lost, rush towards +spiritualism demanding no real evidence whatsoever, bringing to it a +kind of passionate yearning to find therein some kind of illusion that +their loved ones, who are dead, still live on waiting for reunion in +another world. Such a yearning is very human, very understandable, +very forgivable; but these people are the enemies of true spiritualism +as a new branch of scientific speculation. I would not rob them of the +glamour of their faith, since, as I have just written, I have reached +that time of life when I realise that humanity does not necessarily +want truth for the foundation of its happiness, but a whole-hearted +faith, a belief sufficiently sublime to make the common Everyday +significant in the march forward toward the Great Unknown. But I, +alas! am not one of those who can merely believe because without belief +my heart would be broken and my life would be drearier than the +loneliest autumn twilight. I find a greater comfort in uncertain hope +and a more uncertain faith. If I ever really and truly believed in +spiritualism and then found, as so many people have done, alas! that +the prophet of it was himself a fraud, I should be cut, as it were, +from all my spiritual bearings, to flounder hopeless and broken-hearted +mid the desolate wastes of agnosticism. I cannot give myself unless I +am convinced that the sacrifice is for something which _I must believe_ +in spite of all doubt; not entirely what I _want to believe_ because +belief is full of happiness and comfort. I am of those who demand +"all, or not at all." I cannot go on struggling to find security by +just holding on to one false straw after another. I prefer to hope and +to trust, and, although it is a dreary philosophy, I could not, if I +would, exchange it for something which is false, however wonderful and +beautiful. + + + + +_On Reality in People_ + +My one great grievance against people in the mass is that they are so +very seldom real. I don't mean to say, of course, that you can walk +through them like ghosts, or that, if they "gave you one straight from +the shoulder," you wouldn't get a black eye. But what I mean is, that +they are so very rarely their true selves; they so very rarely say what +they think--or indeed think anything at all! They are so very rarely +content to be merely human beings, and not some kind of walking-waxwork +figure with a gramophone record inside them speaking the opinions which +do not belong to them, but to some mysterious "authority" whom it is +the correct thing to quote. Have you ever watched the eyes of friends +talking together? I don't mean friends who are _real_ friends, friends +with whom every thought is a thought shared--but the kind of familiar +acquaintance who passes for a friend in polite society, and passes out +of one's life as little missed in reality as an arm-chair which has +gone to be repaired. In their eyes there is rarely any "answering +light"--just a cold, glassy kind of surface, which says nothing and is +as unsympathetic and as unfamiliar as a holland blind. You can tell by +their expression that, in spite of all their apparent air of friendly +familiarity, they are merely talking for talking's sake, merely being +friendly for the sake of friendship; that, if they were never to see +each other again, they would do so without one heartbreak. Perhaps I +am unsociable, perhaps I am a bit of a misanthrope; but those kind of +friends, those kind of people, bore me unutterably. I am only really +happy in the society of bosom friends, or in the society of interesting +strangers. The half-and-halves, the people who claim friendship +because circumstances happened to have thrown you together fairly +frequently--and one of us has a beautiful house and the other an +excellent cook--these people press upon my spirit like a +strait-waistcoat. I gabble the conventional small-talk of polite +sociability, and I thank God when they are gone! They are called +"friends," but we have absolutely nothing in common--not even a disease! + +So much polite conversation is merely "polite," and can by no stretch +of imagination be rightly called "conversation." It consists for the +most part in exaggerated complimentary remarks--which, it is hoped, +will please you--or in one person waiting impatiently while the other +person relates all he and his family have been doing until he, in his +turn, can seize a momentary pause for breath to begin the whole recent +history of his own affairs in detail. But neither of them is really at +all interested in the story of the other's doings--you can see that in +their eyes, in the kind of fixed smile of simulated interest with which +they listen, the while they furtively take note of the grey hair you +are trying to hide, the shirt button which will leave its moorings if +something isn't done for it before long, the stain on your waistcoat +denoting egg-for-breakfast and an early hurry--all the things, in fact, +which really interest them to an extent and are far more thrilling +anyway than the things you are telling them in so much thraldom on your +own part and with so much gusto. + +Some people are artificial through and through; it may be said of them +that they are only really real when they are having a tooth pulled. +But the majority of people only hide themselves behind a kind of crust +of artificiality; beneath that crust they were real live men and women. +And the war--thank God! (that is to say, if one ever can thank God for +the war)--cracked that crust until it fell away, and was trampled under +the feet of real men and women living real lives, honestly with +themselves and _vis-à-vis_ the world. That is one of the reasons why +the war has made social life a so much more vital and interesting +state. Of course, there are some people who still strive to revive the +social life of "masks," but they are the people whose crust of +artificiality was only cracked--or rather chipped--by the horror and +reality of war. War never really reached them, except through their +stomachs and their motor cars, or perhaps in the excuse it gave them +for flirting half-heartedly with some really useful human labour. They +never went "over the top" in spirit, and their point of view still +reeks of the point of view of the farthest back of the base. These +people will be more real when they are _dead_ than while they are +alive--if you can understand my meaning? But thank Heaven! their ranks +are thinned. They belong to the "back of beyond," to the "frumps," the +"washouts," and the "back numbers." + + + + +_Life_ + +Life is rather like a rocket; it shoots into the sky, flares, fades, +and falls to the ground in dust so unnoticeable that you can hardly +find its remnants, search how you may. Of course, I know that our +lives don't really shoot upwards towards the stars to illumine the +heavens by their own resplendent beams, but we usually think they're +going to, sometimes we think they do, and then, when our dreams settle +down to reality, we discover that our fate has been scarcely different +from the crowd, and that our life stands out about as unique as one +house is in a row of houses all built on the same pattern. But I +sometimes think that our dreams are our real life, and that what we do +is a matter of indifference to what we think and suffer and feel. Some +days, when you sit in a railway carriage on the underground railways +and gaze at the rows of stodgy, expressionless, flat kind of faces +which the majority of the travellers possess, you say to yourself, +"These people can have had no history; these people cannot have really +lived; they cannot have suffered and struggled and hoped and dreamed +and renounced, renounced so often with the heart frozen beyond tears." +And yet you know they must have done--perhaps they are living a whole +lifetime of mental agony even as you watch them, who can tell?--because +you have been "through the mill" too, you too have walked to Amaous, +sat desolate in the Garden of Gethsemane, seen all your fondest dreams +crucified on the Cross of Reality, and risen again, lonelier, sadder, +wiser maybe, but with a wisdom which is more desolate than the +wilderness. You have been through Hell, and no one has guessed, no one +has seen, no one has ever, ever known. And these people, so stodgy, so +expressionless, so dreary and conventional, must have been through it +too. For it seems to me that we must all go through it some time or +other, and the bigger, the braver your heart the greater the Hell; the +more sensitive, the more susceptible you are to the love which links +one human being with another, the greater your pain, the more desolate +your renunciation. And, as I said before, nobody guesses, nobody +believes, nobody ever, ever knows. + +So very, very few people can see beyond the outward and visible signs +of pain. They see the smile, the fretfulness--and yet they think the +smile means happiness and the fretfulness an ugly, tiresome thing. +They do not perceive that often the smile is as a cry to Heaven, and +that fretfulness is but the sign of a soul breaking itself against the +jagged rocks of hopelessness and doubt. I often listen to the people +speaking of blindness and the blind. They only see that the eyes are +gone, that the glory which is spring is for ever dead; they perceive +the hesitating walk, the outstretched groping hand which, to my mind, +is more pitiful than the story of the Cross, and inwardly they murmur, +"How awful!" and sometimes they turn away. But they have never seen +the real tragedy which lies behind the visible handicap. Only their +imagination is stirred by the outward and visible side of the tragedy; +never--or rather, very rarely--is it haunted by the realisation of the +despair which is struggling to find peace, some solution of the meaning +of it all, struggling to bring back some reasoned hope and gladness, +some tiny ray of light in the mental and physical darkness, without +which we none of us can believe, we none of us can live. Perhaps they +are wise to see so little of the real sorrow which dogs so many lives, +but they, nevertheless, are blind in their turn. They are wise, +because there is a whole wise philosophy of a sort in being deaf to the +song within the song, blind to the tears which no one sees, to the +trembling lip which is the aftermath of--oh, so many smiles. The +philosopher perceives just enough of the heart-beat of the world to +keep the human touch, but not enough to kill the outbursts of +unreasoned joy which make the picture of life so exhilarating and +jolly. And yet . . . and yet . . . oh yes, happiness _does_ lie in +remembering little, perceiving less, and in pinning your love and faith +in God--in human love, in human gratitude, in human unselfishness +scarcely at all. Happiness, I say, lies thus--but alas! not everybody +can or ever will be happy. They feel too greatly--and if in intense +feeling there is divine beauty, there is also incalculable pain. When +the "ingrate" is turned out of Heaven they do not send him to Hell, +they send him to Earth and give him imagination and a heart. + + + + +_Dreams and Reality_ + +So many people imagine that their love is returned, that their +innermost thoughts are appreciated and understood, when lips meet lips +in that kiss which brings oblivion--that kiss which even the lowliest +man and woman receive once in their lives as a benediction from Heaven. +So many people imagine that they have found the Ideal Friend when they +meet someone with an equal admiration for the poems of Robert Browning; +or the Russian Ballet, or one who places the music of Debussy above the +music of Wagner. But, I fear, they are often disappointed. For the +longer I live, the more convinced I become that Love and Friendship are +but "day dreams" of the "soul,"--that all we can ever possess in Life +is the second-best of both. Nobody in Love, or in the first throes of +a new friendship, will believe me, of course. Why should they? There +are moments in both love and friendship when the "dream" does seem to +become a blissful reality. But they pass--they pass . . . leaving us +once more lonely in the wilderness of the Everyday, wondering if, after +all, those splendid moments which are over were ever anything more than +merely the figments of our own imagination and had nothing whatever to +do with the love we believed was ours, the friendship which seemed to +come towards us with open arms--that the Dream and the Hope, and the +fulfilment of both, merely lived and died in our own hearts alone--in +our own hearts and nowhere . . . alas! nowhere else. I often think it +must be so. Our love is always the same; only the loved-one changes. +God alone is a permanent Ideal because He lives within us--we never +meet Him as a separate entity. Thus we can never become disillusioned. + + + + +_Love of God_ + +Yet, it seems to me sometimes that even our ideal of God changes with +the fleeting years. When we were young, and because He was thus +presented to us by our spiritual pastors and masters, we figured Him as +some tragically revengeful elderly gentleman, who appeared to show His +love for us by always being exceedingly vindictive. Then when Fate, as +it were, thrust us from the confines of our homes into the storm of +life alone, we came to think of the God-Ideal in blind anger. We cried +that He was dead, or deaf; that He was not a God of Love at all, but +cruel . . . more cruel than Mankind. Sometimes we denied that He had +ever existed at all; that all the Church told us about Him was so much +"fudge," and that Heaven and Hell, the punishment of Sin, the reward of +Virtue, were all part of the Great Human Hoax by which Man is cheated +and ensnared. "We will be hoaxed no more!" we cried, little realising +that this is invariably the Second Stage along the road by which +thinking men approaches God. + +The Third Stage, when it came, found us older, wiser, far less inclined +to cry "Damn" in the face of the Angels. We began to realise that +through pain we had become purified; through hardship we had become +kind; through suffering, and in the silence of our own thoughts we had +become wise; through our inner-loneliness--that inner-loneliness which +is part of the "cross" which each man carries with him through Life, we +had found the _blind necessity_ of God. + +And in this fashion he returns to us. He is not the same God as of old +(we listen to the pictures of this Old God as He is so often described +from the pulpit, in contemptuous amazement, tinged by disdain), but a +far greater God than He--greater, for the reason that we have become +greater too. We no longer seek to find Him in our hours of +happiness--the only hours when, long ago, we sought to feel His +presence. We _know_ that we shall only find Him in our hours of +loneliness, in our hours of desolation, in our hours of black despair. +Now at last we realise that God is not some Deity apart, but some +spirit within _us_, within every man and woman whose "vision" is turned +towards the stars. He is the "Dream" which is clearer to us than +reality, none the less clear because it is the "Dream" which never in +life comes true. He belongs to us and to the whole world. He is +everywhere, yet nowhere. He is the "soul" in Man, the silent message +in beauty, the miracle in all Nature. He is not a Divinity, living in +some far off bourne we call the sky. He is just that "spirit" in all +men's hearts which is the spirit of their self-sacrifice, of their +charity, of their loving kindness, of their honesty, their uprightness +and their truth. It is the "spirit" which, if men be Immortal, will +surely live on and on for ever. Nothing else is worthy immortality. + + + + +_The Will to Faith_ + +I wish that the great Shakespeare had not written that "immortal" line: + + "_The wish is father to the Thought._" + +It haunts you throughout your life. Like a flaming sign of +interrogation it burns upon the Altar of Faith Unquestioning, before +which, in your perplexity, Fate forces you--at least once in your +life--to bow the head. It makes us wonder if we should believe all the +evidences of Immortality we do--were Immortality really a state of +Punishment and not of Happiness unspeakable. It is so hard, so very +hard, to disentangle our own desires from our own beliefs; so easy to +confuse what we _ought to believe_ with what, beyond all else, _we want +to believe_. It sometimes makes one chary of believing anything--in +questions Human as well as Eternal. The "Personal Bias"--ever in our +heart of hearts can we at all times decide where it ends and +impartiality begins? Even our so-called impartiality is tinged by +it--or what we fondly believe to be our impartial Faith. Doubt strikes +at the root of Justice and of Love--not the doubt that is the +half-brother to Disbelief, but the doubt which wonders always and +always if we believe most easily what we _want to believe_, and if our +firmest conviction against such Belief is not, more than anything else, +yet one more manifestation of what we desire so earnestly _to doubt_. + +Sometimes I am in despair regarding the whole question of my own +individual Faith. + +I am firmly convinced that there _ought to be a God_ and a Life +Hereafter. But my faith in such facts is paralysed by the haunting +doubt that they may both be such stuff as dreams are made of, after all. + +On the whole, I believe the best way is not to think about them at +all--or as little as we may. The one question which really and truly +concerns us--and most certainly only concerns God, if there be a +God--in His relation to ourselves, is _this life_ and what we make of +it for ourselves and for other people. Don't ask yourself always and +for ever _if_ there be a God? _Act as if He existed_! So far as +possible, _play His part on earth_. Then all will surely be well with +your Immortal Soul in the Long Here After! + +And, if the reward of it all--if "reward" is what you seek--be but a +Sleep Eternal, do not weep. If you have done your best, you will have +left the world happier and better, and so more beautiful. To those +around you, to those who walked with you a little way along the Road of +Life, you will have brought Hope where before you came there was only +resignation and despair; you will have brought laughter to eyes long +dimmed by tears; you will have brought Love into lives so lonely and so +desolate until you came. God surely can ask of no man more than this. + +That, at least--is my Faith. That is also my "religion." Theology is +unimportant: FACTS, concerning the reality of God and a Life +Hereafter--matter little or nothing at all. + +What is all-important is that _here on Earth_--in the world of men and +women around us--there are many less happy than we; many infinitely +lonelier, poorer, more desolate and depressed. To these--even the +lowliest among us can give comfort, bring into their darkness some +little ray of "light"--however small. + +Let the "Christian" Churches quarrel as they may. The uproar of their +differences in Faith, each seeking to be justified, is stilled before +the Great Reality of those really and truly in Human NEED. Let us do +all the good we may--nor ask the reason why, nor seek a heavenly +reward. At every step we take along the Road of Life--there is someone +we can help, someone we can succour, someone we can forgive. A truce +to violent controversy around and around the Trivial. True religion is +an _Act_--even more than a Belief, infinitely more than mere articles +of Faith. By the greatness of our sacrifice, by the unselfishness of +our Love; by the way we have tried to live up to "the best" within us; +by our earnest wish at all times, and with all men--to "play the +game"--surely by these things alone shall we be judged? + + + + +FINIS. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Over the Fireside with Silent Friends, by +Richard King + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVER THE FIRESIDE *** + +***** This file should be named 25111-8.txt or 25111-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/1/1/25111/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +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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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/25111-8.zip b/25111-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..338e70a --- /dev/null +++ b/25111-8.zip diff --git a/25111.txt b/25111.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..13cebaa --- /dev/null +++ b/25111.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5940 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Over the Fireside with Silent Friends, by Richard King + +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: Over the Fireside with Silent Friends + +Author: Richard King + +Release Date: April 20, 2008 [EBook #25111] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVER THE FIRESIDE *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +OVER THE FIRESIDE + +WITH SILENT FRIENDS + + +BY RICHARD KING + + + + +WITH A "FOREWORD" BY + +SIR ARTHUR PEARSON, BART., G.B.E. + + + + +_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ + + WITH SILENT FRIENDS + THE SECOND BOOK OF SILENT FRIENDS + PASSION AND POT-POURRI + + + + +LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD + +NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY + +MCMXXI + + + + + _Many of the following Essays + appear by kind permission of + the Editor of "The Tatler."_ + + + _Fifty per cent. of the author's + profit on the sale of this book + will be handed over to the + National Library of the Blind, + Tufton Street, Westminster, S.W._ + + + + + I DEDICATE, + + THIS LITTLE BOOK TO THOSE + V.A.D.'S WHO, THOUGH THE + WAR IS OVER, STILL "CARRY + ON" AND TO THOSE OTHER + MEN AND WOMEN WHO, + LIVING IN FREEDOM, HAVE + NOT FORGOTTEN THE MEN + WHO FOUGHT OR DIED FOR IT + + + + +FOREWORD + +BY SIR ARTHUR PEARSON, BART., G.B.E. + +Those who buy "Over the Fireside" will purchase for themselves the real +joy of mentally absorbing the delightful thoughts which Mr. Richard +King so charmingly clothes in words. And they will purchase, too, a +large share of an even greater pleasure--the pleasure of giving +pleasure to others--for the author tells me that he has arranged to +give half of the profits arising from the sale of this book to the +National Library for the Blind, thus enabling that beneficent +Institution to widen and extend its sphere of usefulness. + +You will never, perhaps, have heard of the National Library for the +Blind, and even if it so happens that you are vaguely aware of its +existence, you will in no true degree realise all that it means to +those who are compelled to lead lives, which however full and +interesting, must inevitably be far more limited in scope than your +own. Let me try to make you understand what reading means to the +intelligent blind man or woman. + +Our lives are necessarily narrow. Blind people, however keen their +understanding, and however clearly and sympathetically those around +them may by description make up for their lack of perception, must, +perforce, lead lives which lack the vivid actuality of the lives of +others. To those of them who have always been blind the world, outside +the reach of their hands, is a mystery which can only be solved by +description. And where shall they turn for more potent description +than to the pages in which those gifted with the mastery of language +have set down their impressions of the world around them? + +And for people whose sight has left them after the world and much that +is in it has become familiar to them, reading must mean more than it +does to any but the most studious of those who can see. Some are so +fortunate as to be able to enlist or command the services of an +intelligent reader, but this is not given to any but a small minority, +and even to these the ability to read at will, without the necessity of +calling in the aid of another, is a matter of real moment, helping as +it does to do away with that feeling of dependence which is the +greatest disadvantage of blindness. + +All this Mr. Richard King knows nearly as well as I do, for he has been +a splendidly helpful friend to the men who were blinded in the War, and +none know better than he how greatly they have gained by learning to +read anew, making the fingers as they travel over the dotted characters +replace the eyes of which they have been despoilt. + +Disaster sometimes leads to good fortune, and the disaster which befell +the blinded soldier has given to the service of the blind world +generally the affection and sympathy which Mr. Richard King so +abundantly possesses. Your reading of this book--and if you have only +borrowed it I hope that these words may induce you to buy a copy--will +help to enable more blind folk to read than would otherwise have been +the case, and thus you will have added to the happiness of the world, +just as the perusal of "Over the Fireside" will have added to your own +happiness. + + + + +BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION + +Draw your chair up nearer to the fireside. + +It is the hour of twilight. Soon, so very soon, another of Life's +little days will have silently crept behind us into the long dim limbo +of half-forgotten years. + +We are alone--you and I. Yet between us--unseen, but very real--are +Memories linking us to one another and to the generation who, like +ourselves, is growing old. How still the world outside seems to have +grown! The shadows are lengthening, minute by minute, and presently, +the garden, so brightly beautiful such a little time ago in all the +colour of its September beauty, will be lost to us in the magic mystery +of Night. Who knows? if in the darkest shadows Angels are not +standing, and God, returning in this twilight hour, will stay with us +until the coming of the Dawn! + +Inside the room the fire burns brightly, for the September evenings are +very chilly. Its dancing flames illumine us as if pixies were shaking +their tiny lanterns in our faces. + +DON'T you love the Twilight Hour, when heart seems to speak to heart, +and Time seems as if it had ceased for a moment to pursue its Deathless +course, lingering in the shadows for a while! + +It is the hour when old friends meet to talk of "cabbages and kings," +and Life and Love and all those unimportant things which happened long +ago in the Dead Yesterdays. Or perhaps, we both sit silent for a +space. We do not speak, yet each seems to divine the other's thought. +That is the wonder of real Friendship, even the silence speaks, telling +to those who understand the thoughts we have never dared to utter. + +So we sit quietly, dreaming over the dying embers. We make no effort, +we do not strive to "entertain." We simply speak of Men and Matters +and how they influenced us and were woven unconsciously into the +pattern of our inner lives. + +So the long hour of twilight passes--passes. . . . . . + +And each hour is no less precious because there will be so many hours +"over the fireside" for both of us, now that we are growing old. + +But we would not become young again, merely to grow old again. + +No! NO! + +Age, after all, has MEMORIES, and each Memory is as a story that is +told. + +Do you know those lovely lines by John Masefield-- + + _"I take the bank and gather to the fire, + Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute + The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire, + Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet. + I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander + Your cornfield, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys + Ever again, nor share the battle yonder + Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies. + Only stay quiet while my mind remembers + The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers."_ + + +And so I hope that a few of the embers in this little book will help to +warm some unknown human heart. + +And that is all I ask! + + + + + CONTENTS + + + Books and the Blind + The Blind Man's Problem + Dreams + How to Help + On Getting Away from Yourself + Travel + Work + Farewells! + The "Butters" + Age that Dyes + Women in Love + Pompous Pride in Literary "Lions" + Seaside Piers + Visitors + The Unimpassioned English + Relations + Polite Conversation + Awful Warnings + It's oh, to be out of England--now that Spring is here + Bad-tempered People + Polite Masks + The Might-have-been + Autumn Sowing + What You Really Reap + Autumn Determination + Two Lives + Backward and Forward + When? + The Futile Thought + The London Season + Christmas + The New Year + February + Tub-thumpers + I Wonder If . . . + Types of Tub-thumpers + If Age only Practised what it Preached! + Beginnings + Unlucky in Little Things + Wallpapers + Our Irritating Habits + Away--Far Away! + "Family Skeletons" + The Dreariness of One Line of Conduct + The Happy Discontent + Book-borrowing Nearly Always Means Book-stealing + Other People's Books + The Road to Calvary + Mountain Paths + The Unholy Fear + The Need to Remember + Humanity + Responsibility + The Government of the Future + The Question + The Two Passions + Our "Secret Escapes" + My Escape and Some Others + Over the Fireside + Faith Reached through Bitterness and Loss + Aristocracy and Democracy + Duty + Sweeping Assertions from Particular Instances + How I came to make "History" + The Glut of the Ornamental + On Going "to the Dogs" + A School for Wives + The Neglected Art of Eating Gracefully + Modern Clothes + A Sense of Universal Pity + The Few + The Great and the Really Great + Love "Mush" + Wives + Children + One of the Minor Tragedies + The "Glorious Dead" + Always the Personal Note + Clergymen + Their Failure + Work In the East-end + Mysticism and the Practical Man + Abraham Lincoln + Reconstruction + Education + The Inane and Unimaginative + Great Adventure + Travel + The Enthralling Out-of-Reach + The Things which are not Dreamed of in Our Philosophy + Faith + Spiritualism + On Reality in People + Life + Dreams and Reality + Love of God + The Will to Faith + + + + +OVER THE FIRESIDE + + +_Books and the Blind_ + +Strange as the confession may appear coming from one who, week in, week +out, writes about books, I am not a great book-lover! I infinitely +prefer to watch and think, think and watch, and listen. All the same, +I would not be without books for anything in this world. They are a +means of getting away, of forgetting, of losing oneself, the past, the +present, and the future, in the story, in the lives, and in the +thoughts of other men and women, in the thrill and excitement of +extraneous people and things. One of the delights of winter--and in +this country winter is of such interminable length and dreariness that +we hug any delight which belongs to it alone as fervently as we hug +love to our bosoms when we have reached the winter of our lives!--is to +snuggle down into a comfy easy-chair before a big fire and, book in +hand, travel hither and thither as the author wills--hate, love, +despair, or mock as the author inveigles or moves us. I don't think +that most of us pay half enough respectful attention to books seeing +how greatly we depend upon them for some of the quietest pleasures of +our lives. But that is the way of human nature, isn't it? We rarely +value anything until we lose it; we sigh most ardently for the thing +which is beyond our reach, we count our happiest days those across the +record of which we now must scrawl, "Too late!" That is why I always +feel so infinitely sorry for the blind. The blind can so rarely get +away from themselves, and, when they do, only with that effort which in +you and me would demand some bigger result than merely to lose +remembrance of our minor worries. When we are in trouble, when we are +in pain, when our heart weeps silently and alone, its sorrow +unsuspected by even our nearest and dearest, we, I say, can ofttimes +deaden the sad ache of the everyday by going out into the world, +seeking change of scene, change of environment, something to divert, +for the nonce, the unhappy tenor of our lives. But the blind, alas! +can do none of these things. Wherever they go, to whatever change of +scene they flee for variety, the same haunting darkness follows them +unendingly. + + + + +_The Blind Man's Problem_ + +It is so difficult for them to get away from themselves, to seek that +change and novelty which, in our hours of dread and suspense, are our +most urgent need. All the time, day in, day out, their perpetual +darkness thrusts them back upon themselves. They cannot get away from +it. Nothing--or perhaps, so very, very few things--can take them out +of themselves, allow them to lose their own unhappiness in living their +lives for something, someone outside themselves. Their own needs, +their own loss, their own loneliness, are perpetually with them. So +their emotions go round and round in a vicious circle, from which there +is no possible escape. Never, never can they _give_. They have so +little to offer but love and gratitude. But, although gratitude is so +beautiful and so rare, it is not an emotion that we yearn to feel +always and always. We want to give, to be thanked ourselves, to cheer, +to succour, to do some little good ourselves while yet we may. There +is a joy in _giving_ generously, just as there is in _receiving_ +generously. Yet, there are many moments in each man's life when no +gift can numb the dull ache of the inevitable, when nothing, except +getting away--somewhere, somehow, and immediately--can stifle the +unspoken pain which comes to all of us and which in not every instance +can we so easily cast off. Some men travel; some men go out into the +world to lose their own trouble in administering to the trouble of +other people; some find forgetfulness in work--hard, strenuous labour; +most of us--especially when our trouble be not overwhelming--find +solace in art, or music, and especially in books. For books take one +suddenly into another world, among other men and women; and sometimes +in the problem of their lives we may find a solution of our own trials, +and be helped, encouraged, restarted on our way by them. I thought of +these things the other day when I was asked to visit the National +Library for the Blind in Tufton Street, Westminster. It is hidden away +in a side street, but the good work it does is spread all over the +world. And, as I wandered round this large building and examined the +thousands of books--classic as well as quite recent works--I thought to +myself, "How the blind must appreciate this blessing!" And from that I +began to realise once more how those who cannot see depend so greatly +on books--that means of "forgetting" which you and I pass by so +casually. For _we_ can seek diversion in a score of ways, but _they_, +the blind, have so few, so very few means of escape. Wherever they go, +they never find a change of scene--merely the sounds alter, that is +all. But in books they can suddenly find a new world--a world which +_they can see_. + + + + +_Dreams_ + +I can remember talking once to a blinded soldier about dreams. I have +often wondered what kind of dreams blind people--those who have been +blind from birth, I mean--dream, what kind of scenes their vision +pictures, how their friends, and those they love, look who people this +world of sleeping fancy. I have never had the courage to ask those +blind people whom I know, but this soldier to whom I talked, told me +that every night when he goes to bed he prays that he may +dream--because in his dreams he is not blind, in his dreams he can see, +and he is once more happy. I could have sobbed aloud when he told me, +but to sob over the inevitable is useless--better make happier the +world which is a fact. But I realised that this dream-sight gave him +inestimable comfort. It gave him something to think about in the +darkness of the day. It was a change from always thinking about the +past--the past when he could laugh and shout, run wild and enjoy +himself as other boys enjoy their lives. And this blinded soldier used +to be reading--always reading. I used to chaff him about it, calling +him a book-worm, urging him to go to theatres, tea-parties, long walks. +He laughed, but shook his head. Then he told me that, although he +never used to care much for reading, books were now one of the comforts +of his life. "When I feel blind," he said--"and we don't always feel +blind, you know, when we are in the right company among people who know +how to treat us as if we were not children, and as if we were not +deaf--I pick up a book, and, if I stick to it and concentrate, I begin +to lose remembrance and to live in the story I am reading and among the +people of the tale. And--_it is more like seeing the world than +anything else I do!_" + + + + +_How to Help_ + +I must confess, his remark gave me an additional respect for those huge +volumes of books written in Braille which he always carried about with +him than I had ever felt before. When you and I are "fed up" with life +and everybody surrounding us--and we all have these moods--we can +escape open grousing by taking a long walk, or by seeing fresh people +and fresh places, watching, thinking, and amusing ourselves in a new +fashion. But the blind have only books--they alone are the only handy +means by which they can get away from the present and lose themselves +amid surroundings new and strange. All the more need, then, for us to +help along the good work done by the National Library for the Blind. +It needs more helpers, and it needs more money. Working with the +absolute minimum of staff and outside expenses, it is achieving the +maximum amount of good. As a library, I have only to tell you that it +contains 6,600 separate works in 56,000 volumes, supplemented by 4,000 +pieces of music in 8,000 volumes--a total of 64,000 items, which number +is being added to every week as books are asked for by the various +blind readers. And in helping this great and good work, I realise now +that, to a certain extent, you are helping blind people _to see_. For +books do take you out of yourself, don't they? They do help you to +lose cognizance of your present surroundings, even if you be surrounded +perpetually by darkness, they do transplant you for a while into +another world--a world which you can _see_, and among men and women +whom, should the author be great enough, you seem to know as well. +Books are a blessing to all of us--but they are something more than a +blessing to the blind, they are a deliverance from their darkness. And +we can all give them this blessing, if we will--thank Heaven, and the +women who give their lives to the work of the National Library for the +Blind!--this blessing, which is not often heard of, is a work which +will grow so soon as it is known, a work the greatness and goodness of +which are worthy of all help. + + + + +_On Getting Away from Yourself_ + +I always feel so sorry for the blind, because it seems to me they can +never get away from themselves by wandering in pastures new. It is +trite to say that the glory of the golden sunsets, the glory of the +mountains and the valleys, the coming of spring, the radiance of +summer--all these things are denied them. They are. But their great +deprivation is that none of these things can help them to get away from +themselves, from the torments of their own souls, the haunting +dreadfulness of their own secret worries. We, the more fortunate, not +only can fill our souls with beauty by the contemplation of beautiful +things, but, when the tale of our inner-life possesses the torments of +Hell, we can turn to them in our despair because we know that their +glory will ease our pain, will help us to forget awhile, will give us +renewed courage to go on fighting until the end. But where all is +blackness, those inner-torments must assume gigantic proportions. +Nothing can take them away--except time and the weariness of a soul too +utterly weary to care any longer. But time works so slowly, and the +utter weariness of the soul is often so prolonged before, as it were, +the spirit snaps and the blessed numbness of indifference settles down +upon our hearts. People who can see have the whole of the wonder of +Nature working for them in their woe. It is hard to feel utterly +crushed and broken before a wide expanse of mountain, moorland, or sea. +Something in their strength and vastness seems to bring renewed vigour +to our heart and soul. It is as if God spoke words of encouragement to +you through the wonder which is His world. But blind--one can have +none of these consolations. All is darkness--darkness which seems to +thrust you back once more towards the terror of your own heart-break. +Sometimes I wonder that the blind do not go mad. To them there is only +music and love to bring renewed courage to a heart weary of its own +conflict. To get away from yourself--and not to be able to do it--oh, +that must be Hell indeed! Verily sometimes the human need of pity is +positively terrifying. + + + + +_Travel_ + +We know what it would be were we never for a single instant able to get +away from the too-familiar scenes and people who, unconsciously, +because of their very familiarity, drive us back upon ourselves. In +each life there are a series of soul crises, when the spirit has to +battle against some great pain, some great trouble, some overwhelming +disillusion--to win, or be for ever beaten. But few, very few souls +are strong enough to win that battle unaided. A friend may do +it--though friends to whom you would tell the secret sorrows of your +life are rare! But a complete change of scene and environment works +wonders. Nature, travel, work--all these things can help you in your +struggle towards indifference and the superficially normal. But where +Nature and travel are useless, and work--well, work has to be something +all-absorbing to help us in our conflict--is the only thing left, I +wonder how men and women survive, unless, with sightlessness, some +greater strength is added to the soul, some greater numbness to the +imagination and the heart. But this I so greatly doubt. Truthfully, +as I said before, the need for pity seems sometimes overwhelming, +surpassing all imagining. I am sure that I myself would assuredly have +gone mad had I not been able to lose myself a little in travel and +change of scene. When the heart is tormented by some great pain, the +spirit seems too utterly spiritless to do anything but despair. But +life teaches us, among other things, some of the panaceas of pain. It +teaches us that the mind finds it difficult to realise two great +emotions at once, and that, where an emotion helps to take us out of +ourselves, by exactly the strength of that emotion, as it were, is the +other one robbed of its bitterness and its pain. Some people seek this +soul-ease one way and some people by other means, but seek it we all +must one day or another, and it seems to me that one of the wonders of +the natural world, the sunlight and the stars, is that they are always +there, magnificent and waiting, for the weary and the sorrowing to find +some small solace in their woe. + + + + +_Work_ + +Work and Travel, Travel and Work--and by Work I mean some labour so +absorbing as to drug all thought; and by Travel I mean Nature, and +books, and art, and music, since these are, after all, but +dream-voyages in other men's minds--they alone are for me the panacea +of pain. Not the cackle of the human tongue--that for ever leaves me +cold; not the sympathy which talks and reproves, or turns on the tap of +help and courage by the usual trite source--that never helps me to +forget. But Work, and Travel, and (for me) Loneliness--these are the +three things by which I flee from haunting terrors towards numbness and +indifference. Each one, of course, has his own weapons--these are +mine. Years ago, when I was young and timid, I dreaded to leave the +little rut down which I wandered. Now experience has given me the +knowledge that Life is very little after all, and that it is for the +most part worthless where there is no happiness, no forgetfulness of +pain, no inner peace. The opinion of other people, beyond the few who +love me, leaves me cold. The praise or approbation of the world--what +is it worth at best, while it is boring nearly always? Each year as it +passes seems to me, not so much a mere passing of time and distance, +but a further peak attained towards some world, some inner vision, +which I but half comprehend. Each peak is lonelier, but, as I reach it +and prepare to ascend the next, there comes into my soul a wider vision +of what life, and love, and renunciation really mean, until at last I +seem to _see_--what? I cannot really say, but I see, as it were, the +early radiance of some Great Dawn where everything will be made clear +and, at last and at length, the soul will find comfort, and happiness, +and peace. And the things which drag you away from this +inner-vision--they are the things which hurt, which age you before your +time, which rob you of joy and contentment. As a syren they seem to +beckon you into the valleys where all is sunshine and liveliness, and +if you go . . . if you go, alas! it is not long before once more you +must set your face, a lonelier and a sadder man, towards the mountain +peaks. That seems to me to be the story of--oh, so many lives! That +seems to me to be the one big theme in a tale which superficially is +all jollity and laughter. + + + + +_Farewells!_ + +When Youth bids "Good-bye" to anything, it is usually to some very +_tremendous thing_--or at least, it seems to be tremendous in the eyes +of Youth. But Age--although few people ever suspect--is always saying +Farewell, not to some tremendous thing, because Age knows alas! that +very few things are tremendous, but to little everyday pleasures which +Youth, in the full pride of its few years, smiles at complaisantly, or +ignores--for will they not repeat themselves again and again, tomorrow +perhaps, certainly next year? But the "I Will" of Youth has become the +"I may" of Old Age. That is why Old Age is continually saying +"Farewell" secretly in its heart. Nobody hears it bid "Adieu" to the +things which pass; it says "Addio" under its breath so quietly that no +one ever knows: and Old Age is very, very proud. And Youth, seeing the +smile by which Old Age so often hides its tears, imagines that Age can +have no sadness beyond the fact of growing old. Youth is so strong, so +free, so contemptuous of all restraint, so secretly uncomprehending +face to face with the tears which are hastily wiped away. "For, what +has Age to weep over?" it cries. "After all, it has lived its life; it +has had its due share of existence. How stupid--to quarrel with the +shadows when they fall!" But Old Age hearing that cry, says nothing. +Youth would not understand it were it to speak a modicum of its +thoughts. Besides, Old Age is fearful of ridicule; and Youth so often +mistakes that fear for envy--whereas, Old Age envies Youth so little, +so very, very little! Would Old Age be young again? Yes, yes, a +thousand times _Yes_! But would Age be young again merely _to grow old +again_? No! A hundred thousand times No! Old Age is too difficult a +lesson to learn ever to repeat the process. Resignation is such a +hard-won victory that there remains no strength of will, no desire to +fight the battle all over again. And resignation _is_ a victory--a +victory which nothing on earth can rob us. And because it is a +victory, and because the winning of it cost us so many unseen tears, so +many pangs, so much unsuspected courage, it is for Age one of the most +precious memories of its inner-life. No; Age envies Youth for its +innocence, its vigour and its strength; for its well-nigh unshakable +belief in itself, in the reality of happiness and of love: but Age +envies it so little--the mere fact of being young. It knows what lies +ahead of Youth, and, in that knowledge, there can be no room for envy. +The Dawn has its beauty; so too has the Twilight. And night comes at +length to wrap in darkness and in mystery the brightest day. + + + + +_The "Butters"_ + +Of all the human species--preserve, oh! preserve me from the monstrous +family of the Goats. I don't mean the people who go off mountain +climbing, nor those old gentlemen who allow the hair round their lower +jaw to grow so long that it resembles a dirty halo which has somehow +slipped down over their noses; nor do I mean the sheepish individuals, +nor those whom, in our more vulgar moments, we crossly designate as +"Goats." No; the people I really mean are the people who can never +utter a favourable opinion without butting a "but" into the middle of +it; people who, as it were, give you a bunch of flowers with one hand +and throw a bucket of cabbage-water over you with the other. People, +in fact, who talk like this: "Yes, she's a very nice woman, _but_ what +a pity she's so fat!" or, "Yes, she's pretty, _but_, of course, she's +not so young as she was!" Nothing is ever perfect in the minds of +these people, nor any person either. For one nice thing they have to +say concerning men, women, and affairs, they have a hundred nasty +things to utter. They are never completely satisfied by anything nor +anybody, and they cannot bear that the world should remain in ignorance +of the causes of their dissatisfaction. + +It isn't that they know there is often a fly in the amber so much as +that they perceive the fly too clearly, and that amber, even at its +best, always looks to them like a piece of toffee after all. How +anybody ever manages to live with these kind of people perpetually +about the house I do not know. And the worst of it is there seems no +cure for the "Goats," and, unlike real Goats, nothing will ever drive +them into the wilderness for ever. Even if you do occasionally drive +them forth, they will return to you anon to inform you that the +wilderness, to which you have never been, is a hundred times nicer than +the cultivated garden which it is your fate to inhabit. The most +beautiful places on this earth are, according to them, just those +places which you have never visited, nor is there any likelihood of you +ever being fortunate enough to do so. If you tell them that the most +lovely spot you have ever seen is Beaulieu in May, when the visitors +have gone, they will immediately tell you that it isn't half so lovely +as Timbuctoo--even when the visitors are there. Should you talk to +them of charming people, they will describe to you the people they +know, people whom you really would fall violently in love with--only +there is no chance of you ever meeting them, because they have just +gone to Jamaica. They "butt" their "but" into all your little +pleasures, and even when you really are enjoying yourself, and the +"but" would have to be a bomb to upset your equanimity, they will throw +cold water upon your ardour by gently hinting that you had better enjoy +yourself while you can, because you won't be young much longer. Ough! +Even when one is dead, I suppose, these "Goats" will stand round you +and say: "It's very sad . . . _But_ we all have to die some time." +And if they do, I hope I shall come back suddenly to life to butt in +with my own "but" . . . "_But_ I hope I shan't meet YOU in Heaven." + +But I suppose these "butters" enjoy themselves, even though other +people don't enjoy them. They love to take you by the hand, as it +were, and lead you from the sunshine into the shady side of every +garden. Not their delight is it to work the limelight. Rather they +prefer to cast a shadow--when they can't turn out the lights +altogether. And, strangely enough, these people are the very people +whose life is passed in the pleasantest places. It may be that, +metaphorically speaking, they have been so long used to the Powers of +existence that they delight in treasuring the weeds. Well, I, for one, +wish that they could live among these weeds for just so long a time as +to become quite sick of them--when, doubtless, they would return to us +only too anxious to see nothing but the simple flowers, and each simple +flower an exquisite joy in itself--although it fades! + + + + +_Age that Dyes_ + +So many women seem to imagine that when they dip their heads in henna +twenty years suddenly slips from off them into the mess. As a matter +of fact, they invariably pick up an additional ten years with the dye +every time. After all, the hair, even at its dullest and greyest, +shows fewer of the painful signs of Anno Domini than almost any part of +the body. The eyes and the hands, and, above all, the mind--these tell +the tale of the passing years far more vividly for those who pause to +read. But then, so very many women make the mistake of imagining that +if their hair is fully-coloured and their skin fairly smooth the world +will be deceived into taking them for twenty-nine. As a matter of +fact, the world is far too lynx-eyed ever to be taken in by any such +apparent camouflage. On the contrary, it adds yet another ten years to +the real age, and classes the dyed one among the "poor old things" for +evermore. No, the truth of the matter is that, to keep and preserve +the illusion of youthfulness long after youth has slipped away into the +dead years behind us, is a far more difficult and complicated matter +than merely painting the face, turning brown hair red, and being +divorced. Perhaps one of the most rejuvenating effects is to show the +world, while trying to believe it yourself, that you don't honestly +really care tuppence about growing old. To show that you do care, and +care horribly, is to look every second of your proper age, with the +additional effect of a dreary antiquity into the bargain. It isn't +sufficient to be strictly economical with your smiles for fear lest +deep lines should appear on your face (deep lines will come in spite of +your imitation of a mask), or to dye your hair a kind of lifeless +golden, or to draw your waist in, dress as youthfully as your own +daughter, and generally try to skip about as giddily as your own +grandchildren. No, if you want to seem youthful--and where is the +woman who doesn't?--you must _think_ youthfully all the time. This +doesn't mean that you must _act_ youthfully as well. Oh, dear me, no! +Old mutton skipping about like a super-animated young lamb--that, +indeed, gives an impression of old age which approaches to the +antiquity of a curio. No, you must keep your intelligence alert, your +sympathies awake; you must never rust or get into a "rut"; above all, +you must keep in touch with the _aims_ of youth, without necessarily +merely imitating its _antics_--then a woman will always possess that +interest and that charm which never stales, and which will carry her +through the years with the same triumph as her youth once did, or her +beauty--if she ever possessed any. And if _she_ must use the +artificial deceptions of chemists, which deceive nobody, let her do it +so artfully that, metaphorically speaking, she preserves the lovely +mellow atmosphere of an "old picture," not the blatant colouring of a +lodging-house daub. + +But, of course, one of the hardest problems of a woman's life is to +realise just when she must acknowlege that her youthful prime is past. +Some women never seem able to solve it. They either hang on to the +burlesque semblance of twenty-five, or else go all to pieces, and take +unto themselves "views" as violent as they are sour. When they cannot +command the uncritical admiration of the gaping crowd, they descend +from their thrones to shy brickbats at everyone who doesn't look at +them twice. A wise woman realises that although at forty she cannot be +the centre of attraction for her youthfulness alone, she can yet +command a circle of true friends, which, though smaller in number, is +more deeply devoted in intention. But she will never be able to keep +even these unless her sympathies are wide, her heart full of +understanding, unless she keeps herself mentally alert and her sense of +humour perpetually bright. Should she do so, hers will be the triumph +of real charm; and, providing that she grows older not only gracefully +but also cheerfully, not by plastering herself over with chemical +imitations of her own daughter's youth, but by shading becomingly, as +it were, the inevitable ravages of time, which nothing on earth will +ever hide; by dressing not more than five years younger than she really +is--then her attractiveness will continue until she is an old, old +woman. And I would back her in the race for real devotion against all +the flappers who ever flapped their crepe de chine wings to dazzle the +eyes of that cheapest of feminine prey--the elderly married man. + + + + +_Women in Love_ + +Have you noticed how a woman displays much more "sang froid" in love +than a man? Her heart may be aflame, but there always seems to be a +tiny lump of ice which keeps her head cool. Only when a woman is not +quite sure of her captor does she begin to lose her feminine +"un-dismay." So long as she is being chased she can always remain calm +and collected, perhaps because she knows that, however hot her lover +may be in pursuit, the race began by giving her a long start, and, +being well ahead, she can listen in camouflaged amusement to the man's +protestations of her "divinity" as he "galollups" madly after her. +When you come across lovers in that state of oblivion to staring +eyes--as you do come across them so often during these beautiful warm +evenings--it is always the man who looks supremely sheepish; the woman +doesn't "turn a hair." She simply stares at the intruder as if she +wanted him to see for himself how very attractive she is. The man, on +the other hand, never meets the stranger's eyes. His expression +invariably shows that he is wishing for the earth to open--which, in +parenthesis, it never does when you most want it to. But the girl is +quite unembarrassed. Even when it is she who is making love, a staring +and smiling crowd will not force her to desist. She just goes on +stroking her lover's face and kissing him. But the man looks a perfect +fool, and, I am sure, feels it. It seems indeed, as if he would cry to +the onlookers, "Don't blame me. It's human nature. I shall get over +it quite soon!" But the girl seems to say: "By all means--watch us! +This, for me, is 'Der Tag'!" No, you can't disconcert a woman in +love--it makes her quite vain-glorious. + +I wonder why love always seems such a splendid "joke" to those who are +out of it, when it was a paralysing reality while they were in it. And +yet, as one looks back upon one's love affairs one invariably refers to +the incident as the time when "I made a fool of myself." And yet love +is no laughing matter. Considering that ninety-nine per cent. of our +novels and plays are about nothing else; considering that our songs and +our poetry, and the scandal we like to hear, all centre around this one +theme, we really ought to take it more seriously. But if we see two +lovers making love to each other we laugh outright. It is very +strange! I suppose it is that everybody else's love affairs are +ridiculous; only our own possess the splendour of a Greek tragedy. +Perhaps we share with Nature her sense of humour, which makes love one +of the biggest practical jokes in life. So we jeer at love in order to +hide our own "soreness," just as we laugh at the man who sits down +suddenly in Piccadilly because his foot stepped on a banana skin--we +laugh at him because it wasn't we who sat down. Altogether love is a +conundrum, and we laugh at the answer Fate gives us because we dare not +show the world we want to cry. Laughter is the one armour which only +the gods can pierce. Lovers never laugh--at least, they never laugh at +love--that is why we can turn them into such glorious figures of fun. + +But I always wonder why a woman of a "thousand loves" assumes a kind of +"halo," when a man of equal passion only gets called a "libertine," if +not worse things. I suppose we think it must have been so clever of +her. We speak of her as _inspiring_ love, though a man who inspires +the same wholesale affection isn't considered nice for young women to +know. It is, apparently because we realise that a woman very rarely +loses her head in love. She may have had a thousand lovers, but only +made herself look a "silly idiot" over one. But a man looks a "silly +idiot" every time. We know he must have uttered the usual eternal +protestations on each occasion. But a woman only has to _listen_, and +can always hear "the tale" without losing her dignity. She merely +begins to talk when a man comes "down to earth." While his "soul" had +soared verbally she enjoyed him as she enjoys a "ballad concert," those +love songs which say so much and mean so very little. + + + + +_Pompous Pride in Literary "Lions"_ + +I always think that the author who places his own photograph as an +illustrated frontispiece to his own book must be either an exceedingly +brave man or an exceedingly misguided one. At any rate, he runs a +terrible risk, amounting almost to certain calamity, in regard to his +literary admirers. I have never yet known an author--and this applies +to authoresses as well--whose face, if you liked his work, was not an +acute disappointment the moment you clapped eyes upon it. For example, +I am a devoted admirer of "Amiel's Journal", but it is years since I +have torn Amiel's photograph from the covers of his book. I could not +bear to think that such lovely, such poetical thoughts, should issue +from a man who, in his portrait, anyway, looks like nothing so much as +a melancholy Methodist minister, the most cheerful characteristic of +whom is "Bright's disease." + +In the days of my extreme youth I admired a well-known authoress--_in +public_, be it understood, as is the way of youth. The world was given +to understand that in her seductive heroines she really drew her own +portrait. This same world lived long in blissful ignorance that what +was stated to be a fact was only the very small portion of a +half-truth. For years this famous lady _refused_ to have her photo +published. She even went so far as to tell the world so in every +"interview" which journalists obtained from her--either regarding her +views on "How best to obtain an extra sugar-allowance in war-time," or +concerning "Queen Mary's noble example to English women to wear always +the same-sort-of-looking hat." This extreme modesty piqued the +curiosity of her ten million readers enormously. The ten million, of +which I was a member, imagined that she must be too beautiful and too +elegant to possess brains, unless she were a positive miracle. We +pictured her as tall and graceful, with a lovely willowy figure and an +expression all sad tenderness when it wasn't all sweet smiles. + +Then one fatal day the famous authoress decided--too late, I'm afraid, +by more than twenty years--to show her face to the ten million +worshippers who demanded so greatly to see it. The irrevocable step +being taken, disillusion jumped to our eyes, as the French say, and +nearly blinded us. Instead of the goddess we had anticipated, all we +saw was, gazing at us out of the pages of an illustrated newspaper, an +over-plump, middle-aged "party" with no figure and a fuzzy fringe, who +stood smiling in an open French window, and herself completely filling +it! The shock to our worship was so intense that it made most of us +think several times before spending 7_s_. on her new love story, were +it ever so romantic. And so that was the net result of _that_! + +Wiser far is the other well-known authoress, who apparently had her +last photograph taken somewhere back in the early nineties, and still +sends it forth to the press as her "latest portrait study," which, +perhaps, if she be as wise as she is witty, it will for ever be. + +No, I think that authors who insist upon their own photographs +appearing in their own books are either very foolish or puffed out with +pompous pride. Nobody really wants to look at them a second time; or, +even if they do, nine times out of ten those who stay to look remain to +wish they hadn't. I have never yet known an author's face which +compared in charm and interest with the books he writes. Taking +literature as a professional example, it cannot truthfully be said that +beauty often follows brains. In the case of authors, as in so many +other cases, to leave everything to the imagination is by far the +better policy in the long run. But there is this consolation, +anyway--we are what we are, after all, and our faces are very often +libels on our "souls." + +Granting this, the theory of the resurrection of the body always leaves +me inordinately cold. As far as I, myself, am concerned, the worms can +have my body--and welcome. May I prove extremely indigestible, that's +all! Preferably, I want to "cease upon the midnight without pain," in +the middle of a dynamite explosion. I want, as it were, to return to +the dust from which I came in one big bang! And if I must have a +Christian burial, then I hope that all of me which remains for my more +or less sorrowing relatives to bury, decently and in order, will, at +most, be one--old boot! Of course, if I do die in the middle of an +explosion, I grant that, if the resurrection of the body really be a +fact, then I shall find it extremely tiresome to hunt everywhere for my +spare parts. It will be such a colossal bore having to worry all the +other people, also busy collecting themselves, who went up with me in +the "bang," by keeping on demanding of them the information, "Excuse +me, but have you by any chance seen anything of a big-toe nail knocking +about?" I always feel so sorry for those Egyptian princesses whose +teeth and hair, whose jewels and old bones, proved such an irresistible +attraction to the New Zealand and Australian soldiers when they were in +camp near Cairo, that they stole out at night to rob their tombs, and +sent the plunder thus obtained "way back home to the old shack" as +souvenirs of the Great War. It will be so perfectly aggravating for +these royal ladies to resurrect in a tomb which, in parenthesis, they +had purposely constructed to last them until the Day of Judgment--to +resurrect therein, only to discover that some of their necessary parts +are either in Auckland, or in Sydney, or in Melbourne, or, perhaps, in +all three cities. It will be but poor consolation to learn that the +rest of them may, perhaps, be discovered among the sands of the +desert--that is to say, if they scratch about long enough looking for +them. Personally, if I get the chance, I shall immediately go about +purloining other people's physical perfections, so that, when at last I +am ready for the next move onward, I shall consist of one part Hercules +and three-parts Owen Nares! I shall indeed look lovely, shan't I? In +the meanwhile, I realise that, physically speaking, I am far better +imagined than understood. Not that I am very much worse than the +average? on the other hand, I am certainly not much better--so who +would be the happier for gazing at my photograph? No, indeed, it +cannot be for their beauty that authors insert their own +photographs--sometimes, even, on the outside covers of their own books! +For what beauty they do possess has usually been lost somewhere on the +original negative. If they still yearn to let themselves be _seen_, as +well as _read_, I would suggest that the frontispiece be the one page +in the book to be uncut, so that their readers, should they wish to +peep at the author's physiognomy for curiosity's sake, may--if that +curiosity prove its own punishment--leave those first pages uncut until +the book falls to pieces on the bookshelf. For myself, I hate to read +some beautifully written thought, only to have the author's distinctly +unbeautiful face always protruding between me and my delight--like some +utterance of the commonplace in the middle of a discussion on "souls." + +I suppose it is that authors--like everybody else--cannot understand +that how they look to themselves and to those who love them, and so are +used to them, they will not necessarily look to other people, who +merely want to gaze upon their photograph because they cannot look upon +their waxwork. We all get so used to our own blemishes by seeing them +every morning when we brush our hair that we have long since ceased to +regard them seriously. But ten to one a stranger will notice nothing +else. That is always the way of a stranger's regard. But, after all, +to fail to impress someone who knows you and loves you is nothing at +all; to fail, however, to impress someone who yearns to become +acquainted with you, is very often to lose a possible friend. Better a +thousand times that an adoring reader should keep yearning to know what +her favourite author looks like than, having at last satisfied her +curiosity, she should exclaim disappointedly, "_Gosh! To think that he +could look like that!!_" + +If an author feels that indeed he must show the world what he looks +like, let him issue to the public merely a "vague impression" of +himself--a Cubist one for preference. A Cubist portrait can look like +anything . . . but to look like anything is infinitely preferable to +looking like _nothing on this earth_, isn't it? + + + + +_Seaside Piers_ + +The only real excitement I can ever perceive about a Seaside Pier is +when the sea washes half of it away. To me, Seaside Piers are the most +deadly things. You pay tuppence to go on them, and you generally stay +on them until you can stay no longer because--well, because you _have_ +paid tuppence. Having walked along the dreary length of the tail-end +which joins the shore, there seems really nothing to do at the end of +your journey except to spit over the side. Of course, there are always +those derelict kind of amusements such as putting a penny in a slot and +being sprayed with some vile scent; or putting a ha'penny in another +slot and seeing a lead ball being shot into any hole except the one in +which, had it disappeared therein, you would have got your money back. +For the rest, I am sure that half the people remain on them for the +simple reason that tuppence is tuppence in these days or any other +days. Of course, there is generally a band which plays twice, +sometimes three times, a day; but it is not a band which ever does much +more than blast its way through a selection from "Carmen," or a +fantasia on "Faust." Of course, if you like crowds--well, a pier is +for you another name for Paradise. Nobody uses the tail-part except to +walk to the end, or _from_ it, on the side which is protected from the +wind. But the end of a pier--where it swells and the band plays--is a +kind of receptacle which receives the human debouch. There you have +the spectacle of what human beings would look like if they were put +into a bowl, like goldfish, and had nothing to do but swim round and +round. + +I suppose there _is_ an amusement in such a picture--because, look at +the women who come there every morning and bring their knitting! And +the "flappers" and the "knuts"--they seem never to tire of seeing each +other pass and re-pass for a solid hour on end! Why do they go there? +It cannot be to see clothes, because the most you see, as a rule, is a +white skirt and blouse and a brown neck all peeling with the heat! +They must go there, then, because to go on the pier is all part and +parcel of the seaside habit--and an English seaside, anyway, is one big +bunch of habits, from the three-mile promenade of unsympathetic +asphalt, with its backing of houses in the Graeco-Surbiton style, to +the railway station at the back of the town, where antiquated "flies" +won't take anybody anywhere under half-a-crown. It belongs, I suppose, +to that strain of fidelity which runs through the British "soul"--a +fidelity which finds expression in facing death sooner than forego +roast beef on Sunday, and will applaud an old operatic favourite until +her front teeth drop out. It is all very laudable, but it has its +"trying" side. One becomes rather tired of the average seaside resort, +which is built and designed rather as if the "authorities" believed +that God made Blackpool on the Seventh Day, and it was their religious +duty to erect replicas of His handiwork up and down the coast. And +under this delusion piers, I suppose, were born. + +Well, certainly they are convenient to throw yourself off the end of +them. Happily--or unhappily, whichever way you look at it--the town +council never seem to know quite what to do with them. Beside the +penny fair and the brass band, they only seem to be the haven of rest +for fifth-rate theatrical touring companies, who manage to pay for +their summer outing in the theatre erected at the end. Otherwise their +importance consists chiefly in being a convenient place for the +"flapper" to "meet mother," and to carry on a violent flirtation, +without the slightest danger, with any Gay Lothario in lavender socks +who kind o' tickles them with his eyes and makes them giggle. But for +myself, who have no mamma to meet, nor any desire to flop about with +"flappers," piers are deadly things. Their great excitement is when +the sea washes half of them away at a moment when, apparently, five +thousand people living in boarding-houses had only just vacated them. +And sometimes even that miraculous escape seems a pity! What do you +think? + + + + +_Visitors_ + +I always think that visitors are charming "interruptions." They are +delightful when they arrive; they are equally delightful--perhaps more +so--when they go. Only on the third day of their visit are they +tiresome, and their qualities distinctly below the par we expected. +Almost anybody can put up with almost anybody for three days. There is +the delight of showing him over the house, bringing out all our +treasures and listening the while our visitor shows us his envy (or his +hypocrisy) by his compliments; there is the pleasure of taking him +round the garden and pointing out our own pet plants and bulbs. Even +the servants can keep smiling through three days of extra work. But +the second night begins to see us becoming exhausted. We have said +everything we wanted to say. We have taken him up to the attic and to +the farthest ends of the pig sty, we have laid down the law concerning +our own pet enthusiasms and tolerated him while he told us about his +own. But a sense of boredom begins to creep into our hearts at the end +of the second evening, which, if there were not the pleasure of bidding +him "Good-bye" on the morrow to keep our spirits up, would end in +exasperation to be fought down and a yawn to be suppressed. The man +who invented "long visits" ought to be made to spend them for the rest +of his life as a punishment. There is only one thing longer--though it +sounds rather like a paradox to say so--and that is a "long day." To +"spend a long day" with anyone sees both you and your hostess "sold up" +long before the evening. Happily, that infliction is a country form of +entertainment, and is reserved principally for relations and family +friends who might otherwise expect us to ask them for a month. + +You see, most of us are creatures possessing habits as well as a liver. +Visitors are a fearful strain on both--after forty-eight hours. The +strain of appearing at our most hospitable and best--from the breakfast +egg in the morning to the "nightcap" at night--is one which only those +who are given a bed-sitting-room and a door with a key in it can come +through triumphantly. Visitors usually have nothing to do, while we +have our own work--and the two can rarely mate for long. Of course, +there are visitors who seem born with a gift for visiting; they give us +of their brightest and best for forty-eight hours and have "letters to +write" up in their bedroom during most of the subsequent days of their +sojourn. Also there are hostesses who seem born with the "smile of +cordiality" fixed on to their mouths. They also give of their best and +brightest for forty-eight hours and then, metaphorically, give their +guests a latch-key and a time-table of meals, and wash their hands of +them until they meet again on the door-step of "farewell." But the +majority of visitors seem incapable of leading their own lives in any +house except their own. They follow you about and wait for you at odd +corners, until you are either driven to committing murder or going out +to the post-office to send a telegram to yourself killing off a great +aunt and giving an early date for her funeral. Also there are some +hostesses who cannot let their guests alone; who must always be asking +them "What are they going to do to-day," or telling them not to forget +that Lady Sploshykins is coming to tea especially to meet them! +Frantic for our entertainment, they invite all the dull people of the +neighbourhood to meals, and drag us along with them to the dull +people's houses on the exchange visit. They are always terrified that +we are "feeling it dull," whereas the dulness really comes of our not +being allowed to stupefy in peace. + +"Never outstay your welcome" is one of the social adages I would +impress upon all young people; and "Be extremely modest concerning the +length to which that welcome would be likely to extend" is an addenda +to it. Failing any other calculation, forty-eight hours of being a +"fixture" and twelve hours of packing up are generally the safe limit. +Following that advice, you will generally enjoy the dullest visit and +will want to come again; following that advice, also, your hostess will +enjoy seeing you and hope you will. Not to follow it is to risk losing +a friend. Everybody hates the visitor who comes whenever he is asked +and stays far too long when he arrives. + + + + +_The Unimpassioned English_ + +I have just been to see the latest musical comedy. Of course, I feel +in love with the heroine. Could I help myself? Even women have fallen +in love with her--so what chance has a mere male, and one at the +dangerous age at that? But what struck me almost as much as the +youthful charm and cleverness of the new American "star" and the +invigoratingly "catchy" music, was the way in which _all the young men +on the stage put both their hands into their trouser pockets the moment +they put on evening clothes_! They didn't do it in their glad day-rags +. . . or, at least, only one hand at a time, anyway. But immediately +they appeared _en grande tenue_, both their hands disappeared as if by +magic! _C'etait bien drole, j'vous assure!_ Perhaps . . . who knows? +. . . they were but counting their "moneys." . . . For the chorus +ladies are certainly rather attractive, and even a svelte figure _has +been known_ to hold a big dinner! But the fact still remains . . . if +one night some wicked dresser takes it into his evil head to stitch up +their trouser pockets, every one of the young men will have to come on +and do physical "jerks," or go outside and cut his own arms off! + +But then, most Englishmen seem at a loss to know what to do with their +limbs when they are not using them for anything very special at the +moment. Have you ever sat and watched the "niggly" things which +people--especially Englishmen--do with their hands when they don't know +what to do with them otherwise? It is very instructive, I assure you. +I suppose our language does not lend itself to anything except being +spoken out of our mouths. Unlike Frenchmen, we have not learnt to talk +also with our hands. We consider it "bad form" . . . _like scratching +in public where you itch_! Well, perhaps our decision in this respect +has added to the general fun of existence. In life's everyday, one +doesn't notice these things, maybe. One has become so habituated to +"Father" drumming "Colonel Bogey" on the chair-arm; or "Little Willee" +playing "shakes" with two ha'pennies and a pen-knife--that one has +ceased to pay any attention to these minor irritations. And, when we +are among strangers, we are so busy watching that people don't put +_their_ hands into _our_ pockets, that we generally put our own hands +into them for safety. . . . Which, perhaps, accounts for the +Englishman's habit . . . who knows? + +But on the stage, this custom is an almost mesmeric one to watch. We +certainly do see other people at a disadvantage when they are strutting +the Boards of Illusion . . . men especially. But to a foreigner, who +is not used to seeing a man's hands disappear the moment he is asked to +stand up, the sight must come with something of a shock. For my own +part, I think his amazement is justified. Surely God gave a man two +hands for other needs than to pick things up with or hide them? + +Personally, I always think that it is a thousand pities that men are +not expected to knit. They grew up to be idle in the drawing-room, I +suppose, in times when every other woman was a "Sister Susie." But the +"Sister Susie" species is nowadays almost extinct. It requires a +German offensive to drive the modern woman towards her darning needles. + +In a recent literary competition in EVE, the subject was "Bores, and +how to make the best of them." Well, personally, I could suffer +them--if not more gladly, at least with a greater resignation--if I +were allowed to recite, "Two plain; one purl" so long as their +infliction lasted. As it is, I am left with nothing else to do except +furtively to watch the clock, and secretly to ring up "OO Heaven" to +send down a bombing party to deliver me. + +Men of the Latin races are far more wise in this respect. If you tied +the hands of a Frenchman, or an Italian, or even a Spaniard, up behind +his back, the odds are he would be struck dumb! But we Englishmen--we +only seem able to become eloquent when, as it were, we have voluntarily +placed our own hands into the handcuffs of our own trouser pockets. +Even Englishwomen are singularly un-self-revealing with anything except +their tongues. You have only to watch an Englishwoman singing to +realise how extremely limited are her powers of expression. She places +both hands over her heart to represent "Love," and opens them wide to +illustrate every other emotion. + +And this self-restriction--especially when you can't hear what she is +singing about, which is not seldom--leads more quickly to the wrinkles +of perplexity than even does the problem of how to circumvent the +culinary soarings of Mrs. Beaton, and yet obtain the same results . . . +with eggs at the price they are! If some producing genius had not +conceived the idea of ending off nearly every musical-comedy song with +a dance, and yet another genius of equally enviable parts had not +created the beauty chorus, I don't know how many a prima donna of the +lighter stage would ever be able to get through her own numbers. For, +to dance at the end of her little ditty, and to have the chorus girls +relieve her of further action at the end of the first verse, brings as +great a relief to her as well as to the audience, as do his trouser +pockets to the young man who makes-believe to love her for ever and for +ever . . . and then some, on the stage. + +And, because we have taken the well-dressed "poker" as our ideal of +masculine "good form" in society, English men and women always seem to +exude an atmosphere of "slouching" indifference to everything except +their God--and football. It has such a very chilling effect upon +exuberant foreigners when they run up against it. Emotionally, I am +sure we are as developed as any other nation . . . look at our poetry, +for example! But we have so long denied the right to express it, that +we have forgotten how it should be done. + +"_I shall love you on and on . . . throughout life; after death; until +the end of eternity . . . !_" declares the impassioned Englishman, the +while he carelessly shakes the dead-end off his cigarette on to +somebody else's carpet. + +"_And for you, Egbert, the world will be only too well lost. I will +willingly die with you . . . at any time most convenient to yourself,_" +answers his equally-impassioned mistress, gently replacing an errant +kiss-curl behind her left ear. + +Well, I suppose it does take another Englishman to realise that these +two are preparing for a _crime passionel_. But a simple foreigner, +more used to the violence of the "movies" in everyday life than we are, +might be excused if he merely believed them to be protesting a +preference for prawns in aspic over prawns without. + +Not, however, that it really matters . . . so long as the lovers, like +Maisie, "get right there" at the finish. For, after all, does not +passion mostly end in the same kind of old "tripe" . . . either here in +England or . . . well, let us say . . . the tropics? + + + + +_Relations_ + +Our Relations are a race apart. They are not often our friends; rarer +still are they our enemies. They are just "relations"--men and women +who treat our endeavours towards righteousness with all the outspoken +hostility of those who dislike us, whom yet we do not want to quarrel +with because then there may be nobody left except the village doctor to +bury us. + +Relations always seem to know us too little, and too well. The good in +us is continually warped by the bad in us--which, in parenthesis, is +the only one of our secrets relatives ever seem able to keep. To tell +the world of our faults would be like throwing mud at the family tree. +Moreover, relations always seem born with long memories. There is no +one in this world who remembers quite so far back, nor quite so +vividly, as a mother-in-law. And one's relations-in-law are but one's +own relations in a concentrated and more virulent form. And yet +everybody is somebody's relation. You consider that remark trite, +perhaps? Well, "trite" it undoubtedly is, and yet it is extremely +difficult to realise. The middle-aged woman whom you find so charming, +so sympathetic, so very "understanding," may send her nephews and +nieces fleeing in all directions the moment she appears among them. +The man you look upon as being an insufferable bore may still be Miss +Somebody-or-other's best beloved Uncle John. It is so hard to explain. +It is almost as hard to explain as the charm of the man your closest +woman-friend marries. What she can see in him you cannot for the life +of you perceive, while he, on his part, secretly wonders why the woman +he loves ever sought friendship with such a pompous, dull ass as you +are. Love is blind, so they say. Well, so is friendship--so are +relations--blind to everything except your faults. + +Another odd thing about relations is that only very rarely can you ever +make friends with them. At best, your intimacy amounts to nothing more +than a truce. You are extremely lucky if it isn't open warfare. They +know at once too little about you and too much. They never by any +chance acknowledge that you have changed, that you are a better man +than once you were. What you have once been, in their opinion, you +will always be--so help-them-heaven-to-hide-the-wine-cellar-key! You +may change your friends as you "grow out" of them, or they "grow out" +of you; but your relations are for ever immutable. The friends of your +youth you have sometimes nothing in common with later on, except +"memories"; and except for these "memories" there is little or no tie +between you. But the "memories" of friends centre around pleasant +things, whereas the "memories" of relations seem to specialise at all +times in the disagreeable. Moreover, relations will never acknowledge +that you have ever really _grown up_. This is one of their most +tiresome characteristics. To them you will always be the little boy +who forgot to write profusive thanks for the half-a-crown they gave you +when you first went to school. You can always tell the man or woman +who live among their relatives. They possess no individuality, no +"vision"; they are narrow, self-centred, pompous, clannish--with that +clannishness which means only complete self-satisfaction with the clan. +They take their mental and moral "cue" from the oldest generation among +them. The younger members are, metaphorically speaking, patted on the +head and told to believe in grandpapa as they believe in God. + +No, the great benefit of having relations is to come back to them. To +visit them is like stirring up once more the memories of your lost +youth, which time and distance have rendered faint. And to return once +more to one's youth is good for every man. It makes him realise +himself, and the "thread" which has been running through his life +linking all the incidents together. And, as I said before, relations +are agreeable adjuncts at your own funeral, since you may always depend +upon them saying nice things about you when it's too late for you to +hear them. Friends will never do that. They don't need to. They +carry your epitaph with them written on their own hearts. The "nice" +things have been said--they have been said to YOU. + + + + +_Polite Conversation_ + +A man may live to be a hundred; he may have learnt to speak twelve +different languages--all badly; he may know, in fact, everything a man +ought to know, and have done everything a man ought to have done; but +one thing he probably won't have learnt--or, if he has done so, then he +ought to be counted among the Twelve Apostles and other "wonders"--and +that is the fact that, what interests him enormously to talk about +won't necessarily be anything but a bore for other people to listen to. +Most people talk a great deal and tell you absolutely nothing you want +particularly to know. The man or woman who can talk _impersonally_ is +as rare as a psychic phenomenon when you want to see it but won't _pay +for_ a manifestation! Most people can talk of nothing but themselves +because nothing else really interests them. I don't mean to say that +they boast, but, what they talk about is purely their own personal +affair--ranging from golf to grandchildren. That is what makes dogs +the most sympathetic listeners in the world. Could they speak, I fear +me they would only tell us about their puppies, or of their new bone, +or of the rat they worried to death the last time they scampered +through the wood. Cats are far more egotistical, and consequently far +more human. They can't talk, it is true; neither can they listen. By +their manner we know exactly what interests them at the moment, and if +they appear to sympathise with us, it is only because what we want at +the moment fits in admirably with their own desires. And so many +people are just like cats in this. They invite us to their houses, +presumably because they desire our company, but, in reality, in order +that they may relate to us at length the incidents, big or small, which +have marked the calendar of their recent very everyday existence. + +But we, on our side, are not without our means of revenge. We invite +them back again, under protestations of friendship, and, when we have +got them, and, as it were, chained them down with the fetters of +politeness, we relate to them in our turn everything which has happened +to us and ours. We never ask ourselves if our children, or our cook, +or our new hat, or our next summer holiday can interest anybody outside +the radius of their influence. We demand another human being to smile +when we smile, show anger when we show anger, echo our own admiration +for our new hat, and generally retrace with us our life in retrospect +and journey with us into the problematical future. For, as I said +before, the wisdom which realises that the incidents of our own life +need not--very probably do not, although they may be too polite to show +it--interest other people, is the rarest wisdom of all. Most people +will never, never learn it. And the more people love their own +affairs, the more they seek the world for listeners whom, as it were, +they may devour. They usually have hundreds of intimates, and boast at +Christmas of having sent off a thousand cards! As a matter of fact, +they very probably have not one real friend. But that does not trouble +them. They don't require friendship. They only need, as it were, a +perpetual pair of ears into which to pour the trivialities of their +daily life. Personally, I get so tired of listening to stories of +children I have never seen; golfing "yarns" which I have heard before; +servants--all as bad as each other; Lloyd George; new clothes; +ailments; what Aunt Emily intends to do with last year's frock, and of +little Flora's cough. I wish it were the fashion for people to ask +their friends to _do_ something, instead of securing their society, +with nothing to do with it when they've got it, except to offer hours +for conversation with literally nothing to say on either side. I +should like to read a book in company, it is nice to work in company; a +visit to a theatre with a congenial companion is delightful--and this, +of course, applies to concerts, lectures, picture galleries, even +shopping. But the usual form of friendly entertainment is a deadly +thing. Only a cook, who at the same time is an artist, can make them +possible. For you can endure hours of little other than the personal +note in conversation with the compensation of a culinary _chef' +d'oeuvre_ in front of you. That is why you so often hear of a +"perfectly charming woman with a simply wonderful cook." It's the +cook, I fancy, who is the real charmer. + + + + +_Awful Warnings_ + +Old Age is bad enough, but a dyspeptic Old Age--that surely is fate +hitting us below the belt! For with advancing years the love of +adventure leaves us; the "Love of a Lifetime" becomes to us of more +real consequence than our pet armchair--but the _love of a good +dinner_, that, at least, can make the everyday of an octogenarian well +worth living. Young people little realise the awful prophecy implied +in that irritating remark--"Don't gobble!" There is another one, +almost equally irritating to youth--"Go and change your socks!" But, +if the truth must be told, you regret the "No" you said to Edwin when +he asked you to "fly with him"; the louis you failed to place _en +plein_ on thirty-six, which you _felt_ was coming up, infinitely less +than that you still persisted to "gobble" when you were warned not to, +and you failed to change your socks while there was yet time. Now it +is too late, alas! How true it is, the saying--"If Youth knew how, and +Age only could." The trouble is that, when elderly people would warn +youth, they rarely ever give concrete examples. They always imply some +_moral_ loss which will happen to young people if they do not follow +their elders' advice. But youth would be far more impressed if age +drew a vivid picture of their own physical and digestive decrepitude. +But, of course, age won't do that. Why should it? No one likes to +think that their "every movement tells a story." + +Personally, I can foresee a new profession open to those elderly people +who are the victims of their own early indiscretions. Why should they +not tour the country as a collection of _awful warnings_! Fancy the +joy there would be in the hearts of all those who, as it were, stand +bawling at the cross-roads that the "narrow path" is the broader one in +the long run, if they woke up and saw on the hoardings some such +announcement as this:-- + + Coming! Coming!! Coming!!! + + FOR ONE WEEK ONLY! + + The Awful End of the Man who + Gobbled his Food! + + Mary of the Hooked Figure; or, the Girl who Wouldn't + Change her Wet Socks! + + A Picture of Living Vermin; or, the Man who + Never Washed! + + The End of the Girl who Would Take the + Wrong Turning! + + Parents, Free. Children, One Penny. Schools and + Large Parties by Arrangement. + + +It would ease the burden of parenthood enormously. It might even "Save +the Children." Maybe they would thank their mother from the bottom of +their hearts because she took them to see these living examples of +youthful folly instead of lugging them to a dull lecture on hygiene. +For half the silly things we do, we do because we don't realise the +consequences. The man who _knows everything_ would gladly give up all +his knowledge if he could turn back the hands of the clock, and, +instead of studying the origin of Arabic, learn to recognise a pair of +damp sheets when he got in between them; while a Woman of a Thousand +Love Affairs would forego the memory of nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine of +these if she could return to the early days and drink a glass of hot +water between every meal! For, as I said before, Love leaves us and +enthusiasms die; but Old Age which can sit down to a good dinner and +thoroughly enjoy it without having to have a medical bulletin stuck up +outside its bedroom door for days afterwards, is an Old Age which no +one can call really unhappy. To eat is, at last, about the only joy +which is left to us. The "romantic" will shudder at my philosophy, I +know; but the "romantic" have generally such a lot to live for beside +their meals. Old Age hasn't. That is why elderly people who can begin +to look forward to their dinner--say at five o'clock in the +afternoon--can be said to have reached the "ripe old age" of the +Scriptures. If they _can't_?--well, over-ripe to _rottenness_ is the +only description. + + + + +_It's oh, to be out of England--now that spring is here!_ + +I don't know if you, fair reader, find that in the spring your fancy +turns to thoughts of love--I know mine doesn't! On the contrary, it +turns to thoughts of sulphur tablets and camomile tea and other sickly +or disagreeable circumventions of the "creakiness" of the human body. +For among the things I could teach Nature is that, when she made man, +she did not permit him to "flower" in the spring and start each year +with something at least resembling his pristine vigour--if he ever had +any. But, whereas the spring gives a new glory to birds, and trees, +and plants, she only gives to us--built in the image of God--spots, a +disordered liver, and a muddy complexion. It seems a piece of gross +mismanagement, doesn't it? It would be so delightful if, once a year, +we were filled with extra energy; if our hair sprouted once more in the +colour with which we were born; if the old skin shed itself and a new +one came on so beautiful as to ruin the business of all the "Mrs. +Pomeroys" of this world. But Nature seems, once having made us, to +leave us severely alone; to let us wither on our stalks, as it were, +until we drop off them and are swept away into the dustbin of the worms +and weeds. The mind is a far kinder ally. Oh, no; say what you will +in the praise of spring, to all those who, as it were, have commenced +the "bulge" of anno domini, it is a very trying season. Besides--here +in England anyway--it is as uncertain as a flirt. Sometimes it +suddenly comes upon us in the early days of March or lets mid-winter +pay us a visit in the lengthening days of May. One never quite knows +what spring is going to do. One never knows what kind of clothes to +wear to please it. So often one sallies forth arrayed in winter +underwear, because the morning awoke so coldly, only to spend the rest +of the day eating ices to keep the body calm and cool. Or, again, the +spring morning greets us with the warmth of an August day; we jump up +gaily, deck ourselves out in muslin, sally forth, take a sudden +"chill," and spend the rest of the week in bed! + +One is always either too hot or too cold. It is the season of the +unaccountable draught. True, it often turns the fancy towards sweet +thoughts of love--but the fancy usually ends with an influenza cold +through indulging in sentimental dalliance upon the grass. On the +whole, I always think that spring in England is nicer to sing about +than experience. It is delightful as a season of "promise"--but, like +humanity, it often treats its promises like pie-crusts. Still, it _is_ +spring, and--although the body rarely recognises the fact except to +ruin by biliousness the romance which is surging in its heart--summer +is, as it were, knocking at the door. And from June to mid-July--that +surely is the glory of the year! After July, summer becomes a little +dusty at the hem. Still, dusty, or even dirty, it makes life worth +living. Nevertheless, I only wish that it were greedier and stole +three months away from winter. For winter is too long, and spring is +too uncertain, and autumn too full of "Farewell." + +But summer never palls. And we have five summers to make up for, +haven't we? For no one could really enjoy anything during the war +except the war news--when it was favourable. But now we can--well, if +not enjoy ourselves, at least lie back, just whispering to ourselves +that, when the sun shines the world is a lovely place, and, so far as +England is concerned, there is at any rate a kind of camouflaged peace. +And so we have to be very very old if we cannot feel in our hearts a +breath of youth and spring. After all, when the sun shines, we are, or +feel we are, of any age--or of no age whatever. And if we cannot burst +into flower like the roses, we can at least enjoy the beauty of the +rose when it blooms--which other roses cannot do. Thus, with a few +small mercies, life is very good when the sun shines, isn't it? + + + + +_Bad-tempered People_ + +I would sooner live with an immoral man or woman than a bad-tempered +one. An immoral person can often be a very charming companion, quite +easy to live with--if you take the various excuses for sudden absences +at their face value, and don't probe too deeply into the business; in +fact, if you are not in love with the absentee. A bad-tempered person +in the house may have the morality of the angels--but life with him is +a daily "hell," like always living with strangers, or a mad dog, or in +a room full of those ornaments which belong, almost exclusively, to +lodging-houses everywhere. Briefly, he is always _there_--ready to +burst into flames at any moment, ready to misunderstand everything +anybody does or says, a perpetual bugbear; and not even the emotional +repentances, which are often the only partially saving grace of +bad-tempered people, can atone for the atmosphere of disturbance which +they always inflict. And the man or woman who loses his temper +whenever anything goes in the slightest bit wrong--well, from them may +the Lord deliver me for ever, Amen! They carry their ill-nature about +with them all day and under all circumstances. Sometimes they seem to +imagine that their spirit of disagreeableness is a sign of the +super-man, or of that dominating personality of which Caesar and +Napoleon are historical examples. They frequent restaurants and harry +the already over-harried waiters. It is such a very easy victory--the +victory over a paid servant. But the conquerors stamp themselves for +ever and for ever among Nature's "cads" nevertheless. Anybody who is +rude enough can give a quelling performance of "God Almighty" before +menials. Some people delight to do so, apparently. They possess +everything except an instinctive respect for a man and woman, however +lowly, who are earning their own living. And the lack of it places +them among the inglorious army of the "bounders" for all time. When +there is no "inferior" upon whom to vent the outbursts of their own +supreme egoism, they find their wives extremely useful. In the days +when the divorce laws are "sensible," freedom will be granted for +perpetual bad temper sooner than for occasional unfaithfulness. + +Of course, we all have our days when we are like nothing so much as +gunpowder looking for a match. We can't be perfect and serene all the +time. And if ever, as I have just hinted, we do wake up in the morning +feeling as if we could get up and quarrel with a bee because it buzzes, +a Beecham pill will probably soon put us in a regular "click" of a +humour. ("Mr. Carter" never offered me anything; nor did Sir Thomas +Beecham. But being fond of grand opera, I mention the pills "worth a +guinea a box" for preference. Besides, they tell us a "Beecham at +night makes you sing with delight!" So there!) That is one of the +reasons why I always advocate a "silence room" in every household which +otherwise is large enough to put the biggest room aside to play +billiards in. I would have it quite small, and decorated in restful, +neutral tints, with the finest view from the window thereof that the +house could supply. I would also have a little window cut out of the +door, through which food could be pushed in to the sufferer without him +having to tell the domestic that it is a fine day and that he hopes her +bunion's better. This little room would be devoted to those inmates of +the house who got up on the wrong side of the bed because both sides +were "wrong sides" that morning. There he, or she, would stay until +the world seemed to be bright again. And they would come forth in +their new and serener state of mind, blessing the idea with all their +hearts. For if, as they have to do now, they had come downstairs in +the mood in which they woke up, the whole house would have known of it +to curse it, and most of its members would not be on polite speaking +terms for days afterwards. Of course, the idea could be recommended +also for those people whose temper is always in a state of uproar. The +only difficulty, however, would be, then--they might live in the +silence room all their lives and die there--beloved, because _unseen_. +But that is the only thing to do with an habitually disagreeable +person--_lock him up_, and, if you be wise, _take away the key of the +dungeon with you_! + + + + +_Polite Masks_ + +You never really know anybody--until you have either lived with them, +travelled with them, or drunk a glass of port with them quietly over +the fireside. In almost every other instance, what you become +acquainted with is one of a variety of _masks_! And everyone has a +fine assortment of these, haven't they? For the most part you don them +unconsciously--or rather, you have got so used to assuming them +suddenly that you have lost all consciousness of effort. But they are +_masks_, nevertheless--and a mask always hides the truth, doesn't it? +Not that I am one of those, however, who dislike camouflage because it +_is_ camouflage. In fact, most of the time I thank Heaven for it--my +own and other people's! The "assumed" is so often so much more +agreeable than the natural, and nine times out of ten all you require +of men and women is that they should at least _look_ pleasant. You've +got to get through this life day after day somehow, and time passes +ever so much quicker for everyone if the hypocrite be a smiling +hypocrite at all times. At every moment of the everyday--preserve me +from the _sour_-visaged saint. + +After all, only love and friendship and the law demand the truth and +nothing but the truth. Among acquaintances, among all the many +thousands you meet through life only to discuss the weather and your +own influenza symptoms--all you ask of them is that they should bring +out their smiling mask as readily as you struggle to assume your own. +Only, as I said before, in love and friendship and the courts of law is +the mask an insult, a tragic disillusion and a sham. In every other +circumstance it is usually a blessing. Without it society, as a social +entertainment, would become impossible. For society is but a +collection of men and women wearing masks, each one vying with the +others to make his mask the most attractive, and, at the same time, the +most concealing. But the worst of wearing masks is, that we become +tired at last of holding them in front of our features. This makes the +entertainment of watching the truth peering through the camouflage one +of the most amusing among the many unpremeditated amusements of the +social world. After all, as I said before, so long as your lover and +your friend, and the witnesses you have subpoenaed on behalf of your +own case, show you _truth_--all you ask of the others is the most +agreeable mask they can put on for the occasion. But even lovers and +friends may deceive you, while some witnesses' idea of the truth in the +law courts hasn't that semblance of reality possessed by the Medium's +description of life in the world beyond. That is what makes matrimony +often such a gamble with loaded dice, and holidays so often more +tedious than work. To be in the company of one's lover for one +ecstatic hour tells one nothing of what he will be when, day after day, +one has to live with him in deadly intimacy until death doth part us +both. + +Neither do you really know how much, or how little, your friend means +to you, until you have been with her on a cold railway station for +hours, when fate has done its best to make you both lose your tempers +and your luggage. Only a very _real_ love can survive smiling through +that period when, from almost maudlin appreciation, a husband gradually +sinks into the commonplace mood of taking his soul's mate "for +granted." Only _real_ friendship can live through the disillusionment +of irritable temper, lack of imagination, and boredom so often revealed +while travelling in the company of friends. More than half the mutual +life of lovers and friends is spent behind masks--for masks are +sometimes necessary to keep love and friendship great and true. But +one must, nevertheless, know _something_ of the real man and woman +_behind the mask_--even though that which lies behind it may prove +disappointing--before you can prove that your love is _real_ love, that +your friendship is _real_ friendship, that you love your lover or your +friend, not only for what they are, but also in spite of what they are +_not_. + + + + +_The Might-Have-Been_ + +It is rare to come across anybody with very definite ideas; it is rarer +still to meet a man and woman brave enough to put their ideas into +practice. The hardest battle in life--and one of the longest--is the +battle to live your own life. No one realises what fighting really +means until they stand in battle-array face to face with relations. +But most of us have to fight this battle sooner or later, and if we +fight and yet make a "hash" of the victory we gain, is it not better +so? Relations always think they know what is best for you. Well, +perhaps they do, if the "best" be a circumspect kind of goodness. But +they rarely know what you _want_, and, until you have got what you +really want, even though you find it is "Dead Sea fruit" after all, the +thought always haunts the disappointed Present by visions of the +glorious Might-Have-Been. + +Relatives always seem to imagine that, when you say you want to lead +your own life, it is always a "bad" life you want to lead. They seem +to think that a girl leading her own life is a girl entertaining men +friends, until goodness knows what hour of the night, alone in her +bachelor flat, they picture a man leading his own life as a man whose +memoirs would send shudders down a really nice woman's spine. They +never realise that there is happiness in personal freedom and +liberty--happiness which is happy merely in the independent feeling of +self-respect which this freedom and liberty gives. They would like +boys and girls to continue to maturity the same life which they led +when they were children, subject to the same restrictions, bowing to +the same parental point of view. No one knows of what he is capable +until he has begun the battle of life in the world of men, independent +and on his own. Better make a "hash" of everything; better suffer and +endure and grow old in disappointment, than live in a gilded cage with +clipped wings, while kind-hearted people feed you to repletion through +the bars. + +A girl or boy, who has no occupation, other than the occupation of mere +amusement, who has no Ideal; who has no interest other than the +interest of passing the time, is not only useless, but detestable as a +member of human society, while his old age is of unhappiness the most +unhappy. For what is Old Age worth if it has no "memories"; and what +are "memories" worth if they are not memories of having lived one's +life to the full? To me, to live one's own life is to live--or, +perhaps I ought to say, to strive to live--all those ideals which +Reflection has shown you to be good, and Nature has given you the power +to accomplish. That to me is the fight to live your own life--the +fight to realise yourself, to live the "best" that is in you. For a +man and woman must be able to hold up their heads high, not only face +to face with the world, but face to face with their own selves, before +they can say that Life is happy, that Life has been worth while. The +tragic cases are those who cannot live their own lives because the +lives of other people demanded their sacrifice, a sacrifice which +cannot be withheld without loss of self-respect, of that good +fellowship with your own "soul" which some people call Conscience. + +This sacrifice is generally a woman's sacrifice. You may see the +victims of it in any church, in any town, at almost any hour of the +day. They are grey-haired, and sad, and grim, and they hold the more +tenaciously to the promise of happiness in After Life because they have +sacrificed, or permitted to pass by, the happiness of this. To a great +extent it is a "Victorian" sacrifice. They are victims of that passing +Belief which was convinced that a girl of gentle birth ought to +administer to her parents, pay calls, uphold the Church, and do a +little needlework all her life, unless some man came along to marry her +and give her emancipation. The happiness which goes with a career, +even if that career fails, is saving daughters from this parentally +imposed "atrophy." They are learning that to live one's own life is +not necessarily to live a "bad" life, but a "fuller" life. Thus the +young are teaching the Old People wisdom--the knowledge that youth has +its Declaration of Rights no less than Middle Age. + + + + +_Autumn Sowing_ + +I sometimes think the man who first said that "the road to hell is paved +with good intentions" must have said it in November. The autumn is full +of good intentions--just as spring is full of holiday and hope, and +summer of heat and _dolce far niente_. But, just as the first warm day +in June fills you with a physical vitality which you feel convinced that +you must live for ever, so autumn makes you realise that life is fleeting +and the mind has not yet reached its full development, nor intellectual +ambition its complete fruition. Perhaps it is the touch of winter in the +air which braces your mind and soul and gives you the impression that, +given the long autumn evenings over the fire undisturbed, your brain will +soon be capable of tackling the removal of mountains. If you are +unutterably silly (as so many of us are--alas! for the world's sanity; +but thank heaven for the world's humour!) you will plan a whole +curriculum of intellectual labour for the quiet evenings over the +fireside. Oh, the books--good books, I mean--you will read! Oh, the +subjects you will study! Perhaps you will learn Russian, or maybe +something strange and out-of-the-ordinary, like Arabic! You dream of the +moment when, speaking quite casually, you will inform your friends that +you are reading the whole of the novels of Balzac; that you are studying +for the law and hope to pass your "Final" "just for the fun of the +thing"; that you are learning Persian, and intend to retranslate the +Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam and discover other Eastern philosophers. In +fact, there is no end to the things you intend to do in the autumn +evenings over the fireside when your labours of the day are over. +Briefly, you are going to "cultivate your mind"; and when people talk +about "cultivating their minds," they usually regard the mind as a kind +of intellectual allotment which anyone can till--given determination, an +easy-chair near a big fire, and the long, long autumn evenings. + + + + +_What You Really Reap_ + +But alas! all you do . . . all you _really_ do, is . . . Well, as I said +before, the man who first said that "the way to hell is paved with good +intentions," must have said it in the autumn, or perhaps, in the spring, +when he realised how few of the good intentions he had lived up to. +Well, maybe the most enjoyable part of going to hell is paving the way +with, as it were, your back turned to your eventual goal. And sometimes +I rather fancy, in spite of all the moralist may say, the paving-stones +of good intent that you have laid on your way to perdition will be +counted in your favour, and the Recording Angel will place them to your +credit--which she can't do if, metaphorically speaking, you have not +paved a way anywhere, but just been content to live snugly on the little +plot upon which Fate planted you at the beginning, and you were too dully +inert either to cultivate hot-house orchids thereon or even let it become +overgrown with wild oats and roses. And I think sometimes that on good +intentions we eventually mount to heaven. I certainly know that the good +intentions of the early autumn make me very nearly forgive the cycle of +the seasons which robs me of summer and its joys. And after all, there +is always this to be said for a good intention, nobody knows, yourself +least of all, if you may not one day fulfil it. That is what makes +dreaming so exciting. In your dreams you _have_ learnt Russian; you +_have_ read all the novels of Balzac; you _will_ be able to understand +Sir Oliver Lodge when he leaves the realms of spiritualism and talks +about the stars. And maybe--who knows?--by the time that your dreams +have materialised into reality and spring has just arrived, you _will_ be +able to tell Lenin, if you happen to meet him, that you have "seen the +daughters of the lawyer and lost the pen of your aunt"; and you _will_ +have read the books of Paul de Kock because you couldn't struggle through +Balzac; and you _will_ know the composition of the moon and the +impossibility of there being a man in it--which, after all, is a far +greater achievement than having played countless games of bridge, learnt +sixty-two steps of the tango, evolved a racing system, and arrived at +loving the Germans, isn't it? + + + + +_Autumn Determination_ + +But unless your determination be something Napoleonic, you won't have +achieved very much more than this. It has all been so invigorating and +delightful to contemplate; and the way of your decline has been so cosy +and so comfortable, and it has so often ended in a glass of hot "toddy" +and so to bed. You had stage-managed your self-education so beautifully. +You had brought the most comfortable easy-chair right up to the fire; you +had put on your "smoking"--not that garment almost as uncomfortable as +evening-dress, but that coat which is made of velvet, or flannel, softly +lined with silk and deliciously padded: you had brought out all your +books--the "First Steps to Russian," "How to appreciate Balzac," +"Introduction to Astronomy"--put your feet on the fender, cut the end of +your best cigar. Everything simply invited peace and comfort and an +intellectual feast. Then, just _one more_ glimpse at the evening +paper--and you would begin . . . oh yes! you _would begin_! And so you +read about the threatened strike; the murder in East Ham; the leading +article, the marriage of Lady Fitzclarence-Forsooth to--well, whoever she +married, the funny remark the drunken woman made to the judge when he +fined her two-and-six for kissing a policeman; Mr. Justice Darling's +latest _mot_; the racing, the forthcoming fashions; the advertisement of +Back-Ache Pills; Mr. C. B. Cochran's praise of his own productions, Mr. +Selfridge's praise of his own shop; the "Wants," the "Situations Vacant," +the . . . Then somebody woke you up to ask if you were asleep . . . +which, of course, you _weren't_ . . . Well . . . well . . . It is past +midnight! So what can one do now? What _can_ one do? Why, go to bed, +of course. Another autumn evening is over. But then, there are plenty +more . . . oh, plenty more. "Good-night." + + + + +_Two Lives_ + +I often wish that we could all of us lead two lives. I don't mean I wish +that we could live twice as long--though, in reality, it would come to +the same thing. But I would like to live the two lives which I want to +lead, and only do lead in a sort of patchwork-quilt kind of way. I would +like to live a life in which I could wander gipsy-like over the face of +the globe--seeing everything, doing everything, meeting everybody. I +should also like to live a purely vegetable existence in some remote +country village--sleeping away my life in happy domesticity, away from +the crowd, free from care, tranquil, and at peace. I suppose that, even +as dreams, they are only too futile--but they are very pleasant dreams +nevertheless. I know that they _are_ dreams--since I am quite sure that +the reality would be far less satisfactory than it seems in anticipation. +There is "always a fly in the amber" as the saying goes, and my +experience is, that the truth more nearly resembles a great big fly with +a tiny speck of amber sticking somewhere to its back. For in our dream +voyages we overlook the fleas, the mosquitoes, the hunt for lodgings, the +struggle with languages, the hundred-and-one disturbances of the spirit +which are inseparable from real voyages of any kind and bombard our inner +tranquillity at every turn. In the same way, when we gaze at the +peaceful landscape of some hidden-away English countryside, we yearn to +live among such peacefulness, forgetting that, though life in the country +may _look_ peaceful to the stranger's eye, experience teaches us that +gossip and scandal and the continual agitation round and round the +trivial--an agitation so great that the trivial becomes colossal--at last +rob life of anything resembling _dolce far niente_ mid country lanes and +in the shadow of some country church. In fact, it seems to me that the +emotion which we seek--the emotion of strange wonderplaces, the emotion +of utter restfulness which falls upon the soul like a benediction--do +come to us from time to time, but at the most unexpected moments and in +the most unlikely places. They come--and we hug them in our memory like +precious thoughts. And sometimes we try to reproduce them artificially, +only to discover that "never anything twice" is one of the lessons of +life--and quite the last one we ever learn, even if we ever do learn +it--which is doubtful. + + + + +_Backward and Forward_ + +Thus for the most part, things look most beautiful when we anticipate +them, or as we look back upon them in memory over the fireside. For +distance lends enchantment, not only to most views, but also to memories +and love. As, metaphorically, we stand on the Mount of Olives gazing +down at the city of Jerusalem, thinking of all that tiny corner of the +earth has meant to men and women, we forget--as we look back--the beastly +little mosquito which bit us on the nose, the interruption or our +companion who wondered what the stones might tell us if they could only +speak. So (also metaphorically), as we set our faces towards the Holy +City, filled with the anticipation of those sublime thoughts and emotions +which would surge through our souls when we eventually arrived there, we +were happy in our ignorance of the fact that, when we did arrive, we felt +unutterably dirty and our head ached, and the corn on our little toe felt +more like a cancer than a corn! Meanwhile, the emotion of the soul, +which we expected to find upon the Mount of Olives, has sometimes come to +us quite unexpectedly while standing in the middle of Clapham Common in +the moonlight; and that glorious spirit of adventure, which to us means +"travel," we have felt riding on a motor-bike through the New Forest at +nightfall when the forest seemed full of pixies and the fading sunset was +red and grey and golden like the transformation scene of a pantomime. +But alas! the next day we found the forest unromantic, and Clapham Common +looked indescribably common in the morning sunlight. Our mood had +vanished, and although we tried to reproduce the same uplifting emotion +the following evening, we couldn't--we had a headache and the gnats were +about. So, although I often yearn to live _two_ lives--one full of +travel and adventure, and the other peacefully over the fireside mid the +peace and beauty of the country--I am quite sure that, were my wish +granted, I should find both lives just the same mixture of unexpected +happiness and unanticipated disappointment which I find this one to be, +yet still go smiling on. Very rarely the Time and the Place and the +Mood. But when they do happen to come together--well, life is so +wonderful and so beautiful that to throw in the "Loved one" too would +seem like gilding the rose--a heaven worth sacrificing every stolen +happiness in life for. + + + + +_When?_ + +One of the greatest--perhaps _the_ greatest--problems which parents have +to face is--when to tell their children the truth about sexual life; how +to tell it; how little to tell--how much. And most parents, alas! are +content to drift--to trust to luck! They themselves have got through +fairly well; the probabilities are, then, that their children will get +through fairly well too. So they, metaphorically speaking, fold their +hands and listen, and, when any part of the truth breaks through the +reticence of intimate conversation, they shake their heads solemnly, +strive to look shocked--and often are; or else they make a joke of +it--believing that their children regard the question in the same +reasonable light as they do themselves. But ignorance is never +reasonable, and half ignorance is even more excited. There is a +"mystery" somewhere, and ignorant youth is hot after its solution. And +the "mystery" is solved for them in a dozen ways--all more or less dirty +and untrue. Better far be too frank, so long as your frankness isn't the +frankness of coarse levity, than not to be frank enough. The reticence +of parents towards their children in this matter has turned many a young +life of brilliant promise into a life-long hell. We don't _see_ this +hell for the most part, and, because we don't see it, we fondly believe +that it does not exist--or, if it does exist, that it exists so rarely as +scarcely to demand more than a passing condemnation and a sigh. We hear +a great deal about the Hidden Plague. We hear of the 80,000 cases of +syphilis which are registered every year in the United Kingdom. But we +don't know any individual sufferer--or we _think_ we don't; and so, +although we take the figure as an acknowledged fact, we nevertheless +don't realise it--and in any case, it isn't a nice subject of debate, +and, should the word be even mentioned in the presence of our dear, dear +children, we would ask the speaker to leave the house immediately and +never again return! I, too, was one of these poor fools--although I have +no children to suffer from my foolishness. I knew it was a fact, but +like others I didn't realise that fact--like we didn't realise the horror +and filth and tragedy of war, we who never were "out there"; we who never +"went over the top." But lately I have had to visit a friend in one of +the largest lock hospitals in London. And one day I was obliged to walk +through the waiting-room where the men are forced to sit until they are +summoned to see the doctor. And truly I was appalled! There were +_hundreds of them_ of all ages--from 16 to 60. They were not the serious +cases, of course, and we should pass them in the street without realising +that they were any but physically sound men, often of a very splendid +type. But each one represented a blighted life--a future robbed of +splendid promise, a present of misery and unhappiness stalking through +the world like shame beneath a happy mask. I tell you, it brought the +truth home to me in a way mere figures and statistics could never do. As +I said before, I was appalled: I was also very angry. For I knew that +ignorance was at the bottom of many of these sad tragedies--the criminal +reticence of the people _who know_, too mock-modest to discuss openly a +fact of life which, beyond all other facts of life, should be spoken of +bluntly, honestly, therefore decently and cleanly. + + + + +_The Futile Thought_ + +Too many fond parents like to imagine that their children know nothing at +all of sexual matters--that they are clean and innocent and ignorant, and +that, as long as they can be kept so, they will not run into danger and +disgrace. But no parent really knows how much or how little their +children know of this matter. Children have ears and imagination, and +once they know anything at all--which is at any time from eight years of +age, sometimes, alas! earlier--they should be told everything, not in a +nasty, furtive fashion, glossing over the ugly part and elevating the +decent side until it is out of all proportion to the truth, but quietly, +with dignity, laying stress on the fact that sexual morality is not a +thing of religion and of God, but of self-respect, of care for the coming +generation, and, especially, of that great love which one day will come +into their lives. It should not be called a "sin"; at the same time it +should not be laughed at and made the subject of a whispered jest. +Sexual laxity should be treated in the same way as dishonesty and +untruthfulness--a sin against oneself, against the beauty of one's own +soul, and against those who believe in us and love us and are our world. +Children should be taught to respect the dignity of their own bodies, of +their own minds and soul; not by leaving them in half-ignorance, but by +telling them everything, and telling them it in the right way--which is +the clean and truthful way. + + + + +_The London Season_ + +If only the people who repeat the words of wisdom uttered by philosophers +lived as if they believed them, how much happier the world would be! It +is, however, so much easier to give, or to repeat, advice, than to follow +it, isn't it? Conventionality is far stronger than common sense, and a +fixed habit more powerful than a revolution. Besides, most people +realise that to give advice is a much more impressive ceremony than +merely to receive it. And I think that the majority of people would far +sooner look _impressive_ than be _wise_. The _appearance_ of a thing +sometimes pleases them far more than the thing itself. Besides, to give +advice is a rather pleasant proceeding, and those who habitually indulge +in it seem incapable of discouragement. They will inform the "rolling +stone" that if he continues his unresisting methods he will gather no +moss, but the rolling stone usually continues to roll merrily onward. +They will protest to the ignorant that "to be good is to be happy," but +very few of them will go out of their way to do good, if, by being "bad," +they can snatch a personal advantage without anybody being any the wiser. +"Life would be endurable if it were not for its pleasures," they declare +in the face of a pile of social invitations. Yet they still endure that +treadmill of entertainments which makes up a London season, only showing +their real feelings by moaning to themselves in the process. They freely +acknowledge that very few of these entertainments really entertain, but +to miss being seen at them would be to risk a disaster which they would +not dare to take. So they go wearily smiling to amusements which don't +amuse, to dances which are too crowded to dance at, to dinner parties at +which they pay in boredom for the food they eat; to "at homes" which are +the most "homeless" things imaginable--travelling here and there, from +one entertainment to another which proves as unutterably dull as the +first one. Not content with these things, they must perforce be seen at +the Opera--although they _hate_ music; visit all the exhibitions of +art--when Maude Goodeman is their favourite painter; talk cleverly of +books which they would never read did not people talk about them, and +generally follow for three long months a time-table of "enjoyment" which +very few of them really enjoy. In the meanwhile, the only affairs which +give them pleasure are the little impromptu ones arranged on the spur of +the moment between friends. + +Of course I am not speaking of the debutante. She, "sweet young thing," +always enjoys any entertainment at which there are plenty of young men +and ices. Nor, judging from observation, do I include among those who +willingly go through the three months' hard labour of a London season +those henna haired ladies--thickening from anno domini--who seem +perfectly happy in the delusion that their juvenile antics are still +deliciously girlish, and whose decollete dresses would seem to declare to +the world that, though their faces may begin to show the wear and tear of +life, their plump backs don't look a day over twenty-five. The one is so +young that she will enjoy anything which requires the endurance of youth. +The other is of that age which is happy hugging to its bosom the adage +that a woman can't possibly look a day older than champagne makes her +feel. + +No, the person whose life of amusement I pity is the person who accepts +invitations because she daren't refuse them. If the world doesn't see +her in all places where she _should be_ seen, the world always presumes +her to be dead--and people would rather die in reality than live to be +forgotten. But what a price they have to pay to keep their memories +green. + +No, as I said before, the only entertainments which people really enjoy +are those at which they can be perfectly natural--natural, because they +are perfectly happy. Rarely are they fixed affairs, advertised weeks +beforehand. Mostly are they unpremeditated---delightful little impromptu +amusements made up of people who really desire to meet each other. Large +entertainments are almost invariably dull. Upon them hangs the heavy +atmosphere or a hostess "paying off old debts in _one_." The only really +amusing part of them is to watch the amazement on the faces of one half +of the guests that the other half is there at all! That is invariably +funny. In the big affairs the chef and the champagne are the real hosts +of the evening. If England went "dry," I think the London season would +join the dodo--people couldn't possibly endure it on ginger "pop" and +cider. But champagne and a good chef could, I believe, make even a +Church Congress seem jolly. They only bring an illusion of +happiness--but what's the odds? A London season is but an illusion of +joy after all. + + + + +_Christmas_ + +Christmas comes but once a year--and the cynic cries, "Thank God!" And +so, perhaps, do the very lonely. But then Christmas is not a festival +for either the cynic or the desolate. The cynic is as welcome at the +annual feast of turkey and plum pudding as Mr. "Pussyfoot" would be at a +"beano"; while the lonely--well, one likes to imagine that there are no +lonely ones at Christmas-time; or, if there are--that somebody has asked +them out, or they have toothache and so wouldn't appreciate even the +society of jolly seraphims. Christmas, except to the young, is +essentially a festival of "let's pretend"--let's pretend that we love +everybody, that everybody loves us, that Aunt Maria isn't a prosy old +bore, that Uncle John isn't a profiteer; that everybody has his or her +good points and that all their bad ones are not sticking out, as they +usually appear to us to be, as painfully apparent as those on the back of +a porcupine should you happen to sit down upon one in a bathing costume! +And it is quite wonderful how this spirit of good will towards all men +can be self-distilled, as it were! You try to feel it, and, strangely +enough, you do feel it--at least, up to tea time. The public exhibition +of ecstacy you give at receiving a present you don't want seems to come +to you quite easily and naturally on Christmas morning. Even Aunt Maria +can pretend enthusiasm quite convincingly at the gimcrack you have given +her which her artistic soul loathes, the while she furtively examines its +base to discover if peradventure you have forgotten to erase the price. +You yourself declare, while regarding the sixpenny pen-wiper, that it is +not the gift so much as the _thought_ which pleases you, and you can +declare this lie to the satisfaction, not only of yourself, but, more +difficult by far, to the satisfaction of the wealthy donor who gave it to +you because she couldn't think what to give you--and because, as she +piously declares, "Thank God, you have everything you want!" Yes, +indeed, there is something about Yuletide which makes all men benign, and +the joyful hypocrisy of Christmas Eve sounds quite the genuine emotion +when uttered on Christmas Day. I am bound, however, to confess that the +"good will" becomes a trifle strident towards nightfall. Many things +conduce to this. The children are suffering from overfeeding; Mother is +sick of Aunt Maria, her husband's sister; and Father is more than fed up +with the pomposity of Uncle John. There is a general and half-uttered +yearning among everybody to go upstairs and lie down. The jollifications +of the coming evening, when the grown-ups come into their own and the +children are being sick upstairs, presume the necessity for such a +retirement--a kind of regeneration of that charitable energy required for +the festival "jump off." After which the digestive organs begin to +realise what sweated labour means, and Father makes a speech about his +pleasure at seeing so many members of the family present, and Mother +weeps silently for some trouble which always revives over Christmas +dinner and nobody has yet been able to sympathise with, because nobody +has yet known what it is. And, because Christmas night would otherwise +prove somewhat trying even to a family determined to be loving or to die +in the attempt, somebody or other has invented champagne. It is quite +wonderful how the dullest people seem to take unto themselves wings after +the third bottle of Veuve Clicquot has been opened. + +So Christmas Day is thus brought to a triumphant conclusion of good will. +And the next morning, of course, is Boxing Day--a most appropriately +named event. Even if fighting isn't strictly legal, backbiting +unfortunately is. Still, the wise relation seeks the frequent seclusion +of his own bedroom during that mostly inglorious day of Christmas +aftermath. You see, there is no knowing what sparks may fly when the +digestions of a devoted family have gone on strike! + +Only the children seem to be able to raise the jolly ashes of their dead +selves, phoenix-like from the carcase of the devoured turkey (whose bones +in the morning light of Boxing Day resemble somewhat the Cloth Hall at +Ypres by the end of the war). Even they (bless 'em!) seem able to +recover from the fact that the lovely toys which Uncle John gave them lie +broken at their feet because Uncle John would insist upon playing with +them all by himself. Children can always become philosophers in half a +day. It is their special genius. + +Only grown up people have forgotten how to forget. And Christmas, +although the most lovable of all the festivals of the year, is also the +saddest--and the most lonely, alas! There are so many "gaps"--so many +empty places in the heart which the passing of the years will never, +never be able to fill. That is why Mother weeps--it is her privilege. +And, truth to tell, so many people would like to weep too, only they dare +not--they dare not. So they throw themselves into the feverish jollity +which Christmas seems to demand for the sake of the children, and for the +sake of the young people who, because they were so young, will never +realise the aftermath of loneliness which to-day elder people know _meant +war_! So they say to themselves, "Let us eat and drink and appear merry +because to-morrow . . . to-morrow--who knows?--peradventure we may all +meet again!" Thus the true spirit of Christmas is always as a +benediction. + + + + +_The New Year_ + +There is something "tonic" about the New Year which there isn't about +Christmas, and Birthdays certainly do not possess. After thirty, you +wake up on Christmas morning, look back into the Long Ago, and sigh; +after forty, you wake up on the morning of your birthday, look forward, +and ofttimes despair. But New Year's Day has "buck" in it, and, when +you wake up, you lay down the immediate future with those Good +Intentions which somebody or other once declared paved the way to Hell, +but are nevertheless a most invigorating exercise. Christmas, besides, +has been seized upon by tradesmen and others in whose debt you happen +to be to remind you of the fact. I suppose they hope that the Good +Will of the Season will make you think kindly of their account--which, +in parenthesis, perhaps it might, did not that same Good Will run you +into debt in other directions. As for Birthdays--well, the person who +remembers Birthdays is the person at whose head I should like to hurl +the biggest and heaviest paving-stone with which, as I lie in bed on +New Year's morning, I lay out my way to Hell. No, as I said before, +Christmas Days and Birthdays are failures so far as festivity goes. +The former brings along with it bills and accounts rendered, and you +are fed with rood which immediately overwhelms any feeling of +kindliness you may happen to have in your heart, while the latter is +like a settlement day with Time, and Time certainly lets you have +nothing off your account. But New Year's Day, except in Scotland, +where, I believe, you are expected to go out and get drunk--always an +easy obligation!--brings with it nothing but another year, and +possesses all the "tonic" quality of novelty, besides the promise of a +much happier and luckier one than the Old Year which has just been +scratched off the calendar. It is like an annual Beginning Again, and +beginning again much better. Besides, New Year's Day seems to be an +anniversary which belongs to you alone, as it were. On Christmas Day +you are expected to do things for other people, and you do (usually +just the things they don't want); while on Birthdays people do things +for you (and you wish to Heaven they'd neglect their duty). But New +Year's Day doesn't belong to anybody but yourself, and you prospect the +future with no reference to anybody whomsoever, and, better still, with +no one likely to refer to you. Oh, the New Leaves you are going to +turn! The blots you are going to erase! The copy-books you are going +to keep spotless! The Big Things you are going to do with what remains +of your life, and the big way you are going to do them! Besides, say +what you will, there comes to you on New Year's Day the very first +breath of Spring. The Old Year is dead, and you kick its corpse down +the limbo of the Past and Done-with the while you plan out the New. +So, looking forward in anticipation, you feel "bucked." You aren't +expected to show "good will to all men" after a previous night's +debauch on turkey, plum-pudding, and sweet champagne. Nobody comes +down to breakfast on New Year's morning and weeps because "Dear Uncle +John" was alive (and an unsociable old bore) "this time last year." +Nobody adds to the day's joy by wondering if they will be "alive next +New Year's Day," nor become quite "huffy" if you cheerfully remark that +they very probably _will_. It doesn't invite the melancholy to become +reminiscent, nor the prophet to assume the mantle of Solomon Eagle. +New Year's Day belongs to nobody but yourself, and what you are going +to make of the 365 days which follow it. You regard the date as a kind +of spiritual Spring Cleaning, and to good housewives there is all the +vigorous promise of a Big Achievement even in buying a pot of paint and +shaking out a duster. And, though Fate usually helps to enliven +Christmas-time by arranging a big railway accident or burning a London +store down, and the newspapers, in search of something to frighten us +now that the war is over, by referring to Germany's "hidden army" and +an unprecedentedly colossal strike in the New Year, the human spirit +soars above these things on the First of January, and Hope, +figuratively speaking, buys a "buzzer" and makes high holiday. Who +knows if the New Year may not be your year, your _lucky_ year? And in +this feeling you jump out of bed, clothe yourself in your "Gladdest +Rags," collect your "Goodest" intentions, and sally forth. Nobody +wishes you anything, it's true, but you wish yourself the moon, and in +wishing for it you somehow feel that the New Year will give it to you. + + + + +_February_ + +February is the month when, cold-red are the noses--and so (oh help!) +are the "toes-es." No one ever sings about February: scarcely anyone +speaks about It. It is indeed unspeakable. Its only benefit is that, +once every four years, it keeps people younger a day longer. If you're +thirty-nine, you're thirty-nine for an extra twenty-four hours, and at +that period of life you're glad of any small mercy. It is the month +when the new-rich depart to sun themselves in their new-found sun, and +the new-poor, and others who are quite used to poverty, swear at them +in secret. Oh, yes, indeed! If the Clerk of the Weather has a left +ear it must surely at this moment be as 'ot as 'ell! Nobody likes +February--it is the step-child of the months. + +One simply lives through it as one lives through a necessary duty. +It's a month--and that's all. Thank Heaven! somebody once made it the +shortest! By the end of January most people have had more than enough +of the English Winter even if the English Winter thinks we can ever +have enough of it, and comes back saying "Hello!" to us right into +Summer, and starts ringing us up, as it were, to tell us it's coming +back again as early as October. Just as if we didn't know--just as if +we ever wanted to know! The English Summer is far more modest. +Usually it's gone before we have, so to speak, washed our hands, tidied +our hair, and dressed ourselves up to meet it. But Winter in England +not only comes before it is wanted, but outstays its welcome by weeks. +And of all the months it brings with it, February, though the shortest, +seems to linger longest. March may be colder, but the first day of +Spring is marked on its calendar; and we wait for it like we wait for a +lover--a lover in whose embrace we may not yet be, but who is, as it +were, downstairs washing his hands, he has arrived, he is here--and so +we can endure the suspense of waiting for him with a grin. April may +fill the dykes fuller than February, whose skies are supposed to weep +all day long, but generally only succeed in dribbling, but April +belongs to Spring--even though our face and hands and feet are still in +Mid-Winter. + +February always reminds me of the suburbs--appalling but you've got to +go through them to get to London. Were I a rich man, I would follow +Spring round the World. In that way I should be able to smile through +life like those people who, in snapshots from the Riviera, seem +composed principally of wide grins and thin legs, and whose joie de +vivre is usually published in English illustrated journals in seasons +when the English weather makes you feel that Life is just a Big Damn in +a mackintosh. To follow Spring round the world would be like following +a mistress whose charms never palled, whose welcome was never too warm +to be sultry, whose friendship was never too cold to freeze further +promise of intimacy. What a delightful chase! and what a +sweet-tempered man I should be! For, say what you will, the weather +has a lot to do with that spotless robe of white which is supposed to +envelop saints. If you can't be pure and good and generous and +altogether delightful in the Spring, you might as well write yourself +off for evermore among the ignoble army of the eternally disgruntled. +And if you _can_ be all these things in weather that is typically +English and typically February, then a hat would surely hide your halo. + +And this is about all the good that February does, so far as I can see. +True, once in four years it also allows old maids to propose. But the +three years when they had to wait to be asked have usually taken all +their courage out of them. Besides, the married people and others who +are otherwise hooked and secure have turned even that benefit into a +joke--and no woman likes to place all her heart-yearnings at the mercy +of a laugh. So that, what Leap-Year once allowed, people have turned +into a jeer. But then, that is all part and parcel of February. +Somebody once tried their best to make it as attractive as possible, +even if it could only be so once every four years. But everybody else +has since done their best to rob it of its one little bit of anaemic +joy. Perhaps we ought not to blame them! Nobody ought to be blamed in +February. It is a month which brings out the very worst in everybody. + + + + +_Tub-thumpers_ + +I often wonder what born tub-thumpers are like in their own homes. +Perhaps they are as meek and mild as watered buttermilk. Thinking it +over, I think they must be. No self-respecting woman could be +tub-thumped at daily without eyeing furtively the nearest meat-carver. +For the genius of a tub-thumper is that he is usually born deaf. I +don't mean to say that he cannot hear, but he only hears what is +convenient for his own arguments to hear, and the more an explanation +is convincing the more he tries to shout it down, deafening himself as +well as the poor fool who is struggling to make his meaning clear. +Each one of us, I suppose, has to "let off steam" some time somewhere, +and round about the Marble Arch, where fiery orators "let themselves +go," must be the safety-valve of many an obscure home. Occasionally I +go there--just to listen to men and women giving an example of that +proverb about "a little knowledge being a dangerous thing." Moreover, +there is a certain psychological interest in this rowdy corner of a +peaceful park. It is typical of England, for one thing. I don't mean +to say that tub-thumping is typical of England, but England is +certainly the harbour of refuge of the crank. You can see there the +crankiest of cranks being as cranky as they know how to be; and you can +see also the utterly good-humoured indifference with which the crowds +who listen to them regard their crankiness--which also has its meaning. +The other evening a middle aged woman of untidy locks was crying that +England alone was responsible for the war. Another--in this instance a +young man--was deploring the recent blockade of Germany, viewing at the +same time in quite a tender light the Zeppelin raids on towns and +villages and the bombardment of undefended ports. In any other +country, I think, these people would have been lynched. But D.O.R.A., +as a strenuous female, is now as dead as 1914 fashions, and the people +who heard these friends or Germany crying out their friendliness +listened to them in laughing tolerance, which must have annoyed the +speakers considerably, seeing that laughter renders unconvincing the +very fiercest argument. But they laughed, and, passing on their way, +heard God being described as an "old scoundrel," and this seemed to +amuse them even more. + + + + +_I Wonder If . . ._ + +But I sometimes wonder if this indifference towards the facts which are +"big" to so many people and ought, perhaps, to be "big" to everybody, be +a sign of national weakness or of national strength. Personally, I +longed, metaphorically speaking, to tear that female limb from limb and +send that young man to a village under bombardment, there to make him +stay a week in the very hottest portion of Hell's Corner. But had I done +so, I realised that I should not have accomplished the very slightest +good. The moment that you take a crank seriously, from that very moment +he imagines that his "crankiness" is divinely inspired. Far better laugh +at him and let him alone. Laughter is the one unanswerable +contradiction, and ridicule is a far more deadly thing to fight against +than fury, no matter if fury wields a hatchet. Perhaps this utter +indifference to the firebrand is our national strength--even though it +comes from a too-sluggish imagination, a too great imperviousness to new +dangers. English people possess too great a sense of humour ever to +become Bolshevik. They may not be witty and vivacious and effervescingly +bright, but they possess an innate sense of the ridiculous which is their +national safeguard against any very bloody form of revolution. So we +suffer infuriated cranks--if not gladly, at least, in the same manner as +we suffer baboons in the Zoo--interesting, and even amusing in their +proper place, but to be shot at sight should they venture to play the +"baboon" amid those hideous red-brick villas which have been termed an +Englishman's castle and his home. After all, every new system has its +ridiculous side, and strangely enough, it is this ridiculous side which +is most apparent at the outset. Only after you have delved below the +"comic froth" do you begin to realise that there is a very vital truth +hidden beneath. Well, a sense of humour blows away that froth in time, +and then--as for example after the Suffragette antics--the real argument +behind the capers and the words becomes known. Thus in England all +revolutions are gradual, and in their very slowness lies their +incalculable strength of purpose. + + + + +_Types of Tub-thumpers_ + +But the various types of cranks always provide a psychological interest +to the student of intellectual freakishness. There are the "cranks" you +laugh at; others who make you wish to murder them outright. Then there +are a few pathetic cases--elderly men, who bring their own little wooden +box as well as the vast majority of their own audience, including a wife, +a sister, and a convert in spectacles--men who, in a mild tone of voice, +earnestly strive to paint as a real story the fable of Jonah and the +Whale to a few casual passers-by--those same passers-by who, because +there is no real "fun" to be got out of such lecturers, pass by with such +unsympathetic rapidity. Yet I always love to listen to these speakers. +They are such an illustration of "a voice crying in the wilderness," and +they are so dead-in earnest, and they mean so well--two direct +invitations, as it were, to the world's ridicule. You can't help +admiring them, although mingled with your admiration there is a strong +streak of pity. The simplicity of their faith is colossal. They believe +_everything_. They believe in the miraculous conversion of drunkards in +a single night through one verse of the Gospel; they believe that we +shall all rise again and sing on and on eternally; they believe that all +men and women are born to evil, and they would feel positively indignant +were not the whitest soul among us really steeped in double-dyed sin. +And how they believe in God!--Oh, yes, how they do believe in God! I +cannot say whether they bring God into their daily lives, but they +certainly drag Him to the Marble Arch. And all the while a very sedate, +middle-aged woman and a grim bespectacled maiden of forty-five try their +utmost--or seem so to do--to look as if they had led lives of the most +scarlet sinfulness until they had heard their elderly friend preach The +Word. Nothing ever disturbs these meetings. They just go on to their +appointed close, when the "stand" is promptly taken by someone who +believes in nothing at all, God least of all, and will tell you the +reasons of his disbelief for hours and hours, and still leave you +unconvinced. + + + + +_If Age only Practised what it Preached!_ + +The Boy Scouts have, I believe, a moral injunction to do at least one +good action every day. Older people applaud that injunction wildly. It +is so admirable--_for Boy Scouts_. They consider it to be so admirable, +indeed, that they declare it should form part of the moral curriculum of +every young boy and girl. In fact, they declare it to be applicable to +everyone--everyone except themselves. Personally, I think it would be +even more admirable when followed by grown-up people. But most grown-up +people seem to consider that they have done their one world-beneficial +action when they get out of bed in the morning. The rest of the day they +will be unselfish--if it suits their purpose. If only grown-up people +practised what they preached to children we should have the millennium +next Monday. If the world is still "wicked," it isn't because there are +not enough moral precepts being flung about all over it. The trouble is +that the people to whom they most apply pass them on. They consider they +don't apply to them at all. + +If only children could chastise their parents for telling lies, and being +greedy and selfish, and doing the hundred and one things which they ought +not to have done, ninety-nine per cent. of the mothers and fathers, +spiritual pastors and masters, and "all those who are set in authority +over them"--would not be able to sit down without an "Oo-er!" for weeks. +Happily children are born actors, and can simulate an air of belief, even +in the face of their elders' most bare-faced inconsistency. But--if you +can cast back your memory into long ago--you will remember that one of +the most "shattering" moments or your youth was the time when it first +burst upon your inner vision that all men, and especially grown-up men, +are liars. Certainly, if we really do come "trailing clouds of glory," +the clouds soon evaporate and we lose the glory, not through listening to +what men tell us, but in watching what men _do_. + +Selfishness is surely of the deadly sins the most deadly. Yet +selfishness is what elder people tell youth to avoid most carefully. If +everyone only lived up to half the moral "fineness" which they find so +admirable in the tenets of the Boy Scouts, the world would be worth +living in to-morrow. Think of the hundreds of millions of unselfish acts +which would then take place every day! In a short time there would +surely be hardly any more good to do! As it is, a few kind-hearted, +generous, sympathetic people are kept so busy trying to leaven the +selfishness, the hardness, the all-uncharitableness of those who are out +to live entirely for themselves, that, poor things, they are usually worn +to a shadow long before their time! + +The virtues are very badly distributed. Some people have so many, and in +such "chunks," and others possess so few and even seem determined to get +rid of those they have as soon as they can. If only youth had a sense or +humour it would surely die from laughing. But it hasn't. It has only +faith. Besides, as I said before, it is a born actor--and in face of the +big stick it is far safer to pretend faith than show ridicule. If we can +have children in the next world--and I have just received a communication +from an ardent spiritualist informing me that an earthly wife can become +a mother through keeping in touch with her dead husband--I think that, +metaphorically speaking, the paternal cane will be "sloshed" both ways. +That is to say, Little Johnny, who has been laid across mother's knee and +beaten by her with a slipper for stealing jam, will, in his turn, strike +mother across the knuckles with a ruler when she, too, is caught +"pinching" half-a-crown out of father's trouser pocket. If heaven be +nothing else, it will surely be a place of justice. The trouble with +this old earth is that justice is only meted out by those who have not +yet been found out. In heaven I hope that people who preach will be +punished if they do not put their preaching into practice. It will, I +fear, empty any number of pulpits--alike in the churches, the public +parks, and the home. + +But heaven will be none the worse for a little silence. As it is, we +earth-wallahs hear such a lot of high-falutin and observe so much low +cunning that no wonder youth, as it grows more "knowing," becomes more +cynical. It is only when a young man has arrived at years of discretion +that he realises that the most discreet thing to do is to be indiscreet +while holding a moral mask up. When he realises this, he will find it +more politic to keep one eye closed. Brotherly love has to be blind in +one eye. Justice finds it safer to be blind in both. And the fool is he +who keeps both eyes open, yet sees nothing. And so most grown-up people +are fools! That is why they stick together in war-time and always +_quarrel_ at a Peace Conference. + + + + +_Beginnings_ + +Beginnings are always difficult--when they are not merely dull. People +worth knowing are always hard to get to know. On the other hand, people +with whom you become friendly at once usually end by boring you unto +death by the end of the first fortnight. People whom it is easy to get +to know, as a rule know so many people that to be counted among their +acquaintances is like belonging to a friendly host, each one of whom +ought to wear around his neck a regimental number to differentiate him +from his neighbour. But the friend who is born a friend--and some people +are born friends, just as other people are born married--dislikes to be +one of a herd. Friendship, like love, is among autocrats, the most +autocratic. There is no such thing as communism among the passions. +But, as I said before, the people worth getting to know are so difficult +to get to know. One has to hack away, as it were, and keep on hacking +away, until one breaks through the crusts of reserve and prejudice and +shyness which always surround the "soul" of pure gold--or, in fact, the +"soul" of any type or quality. But "to hack" is a very dull occupation: +that is why I say all beginnings are difficult when they are not merely +drab. I always secretly envy the people who let themselves be known +quite easily, although I realise that, when you get to know them, there +is usually very little worth knowing. But there are so many lonely men +and women wandering through this sad old world of ours who are lonely, +not because there is not plenty of sympathy and understanding ready, as +it were, to be tapped by the rod of friendship and love, but because they +are too shy to make friends, too reserved to show the genius of +friendship which burns within them. So they go through the world with +open arms which merely clasp thin air. They are too difficult to get to +know, and they do not possess the key which unlocks the secret of +dignified "self-revelation." Between them and the world there is thrust +a mask of reserve and shyness--a mask the expression of which they +positively hate, but are unable to tear it down from their faces. Thus +they live lonely in a world of other lonely souls; no one can help them, +and they are too timid of rebuff to help themselves. + +But Friendship cannot be cultivated and tended by a third party--that is +an axiom. It either springs to life inevitably or, metaphorically +speaking, it doesn't turn a hair. The well-meaning person who introduces +one friend to another with the supreme assurance that they will both get +on splendidly together, usually begins by making two people enemies. The +friends of friends are very rarely friends with one another. And +jealousy is not entirely the cause of this immediate estrangement. One +friend appeals to one side of your nature and another friend appeals to a +different side, but very, very rarely do you find two people who make the +same appeal--since Heaven only knows how great is the physical attraction +in Friendship as well as in Love! On the whole, then, the wise man and +woman keep their friends apart. And this for the very good reason, that, +either the two friends will become friends with each other, leaving you +out of their soul-communion altogether, or else they will wonder in a +loud voice what on earth you can find in your other friend to make him +seem so attractive to you! In any case, a tiny thread or malignity is +woven into that fabric of an inner life in which there should be nothing +whatever malign. + +Friendship resembles Love in the fact that there are usually three +stages. The first stage seems thrilling--but how thankful you are, when +you look back upon it, that it is over! The second stage is full of +disappointment--how different the friendship realised is from the +friendship anticipated! The third stage is philosophical, peaceful, and +so happy!--since the worst is known and the best is known, but how +immeasurably the best outweighs the worst! and how deliciously restful it +is to realise that you, too, are loved, as it were, in spite of yourself +and for those qualities in you which are the _real_ you, although you +need must hide them under so much dross. Thus you both find happiness +and peace. And surely friendship--true friendship--is the happiest and +most peaceful state in life? It is the happiest and most peaceful part +of Love: it is the one thing which, if you really find it, makes the +Everyday of life seem worth the while; seem worth the laughter and the +tears, the failures and the victories, the dull beginnings, and the even +more tedious beginnings-over-again, which are, alas! inevitable, except +in the Human Turnip, who, in parenthesis, is too pompously inert ever to +make a start. + +A very well-known actress once confessed to me that, no matter how warm +had been her welcome, she invariably felt a feeling of hostility between +the audience and herself when she first walked on the stage. But I +rather think that everyone, except the Human Turnip, who feels nothing +except thirst and hunger and cold, has that feeling at the beginning. No +matter if your advent has been heralded by a fanfare of trumpets, you +invariably feel within yourself that your _debut_ has been accompanied by +the unuttered exclamation: "Oh, my dear! Is that all?" It wears off in +time, of course; but it only bears out my theory that beginnings are +always difficult--when they are not merely dull. I can quite imagine +that the first day in Heaven will be extremely uncomfortable. I know +there is no day so long as the first day of a holiday--or any day which +seems so short as the last one. For one thing, at the beginning of +anything you are never your true, natural self. The "pose," which you +carry about with you amid strange surroundings, hangs like a pall upon +your spirits, to bore you as much as it bores those on whom you wish to +make the most endearing impression. Later on, it wears off--and what you +are--_you are_! and for what you are--you are either disliked intensely +or adored. But you are never completely happy until you are completely +natural, and you are never natural at the beginning. That is why you +should forgive beginnings, as you, yourself, hope to be forgiven when +you, yourself, begin. + + + + +_Unlucky in Little Things_ + +They say it is better to be born lucky than beautiful. Which contains, +by the way, only small consolation for those of us who have been born +both lucky and ugly. For, after all, to have been born beautiful is a +nice "chunk" of good luck to build upon, and anyway, if you are a woman, +constitutes a fine capital for the increase of future business. But to +have been born lucky is much more exciting than to have been born +beautiful; moreover the capital reserve does not diminish with time. All +the same, I don't want to write about either lucky people or beautiful +ones. There are already too many people writing about them as it is. I +want to write about the _unlucky_ ones--because I consider myself one of +them. I do so in the hope that my tears will find their tears, and, it +we must drown, metaphorically speaking, it is a crumb of comfort to drown +in company. + +Most unlucky people when they speak about their ill-luck always refer to +such incidents as when they backed the Derby "favourite" and it fell down +within a yard of the winning post. True, that is ill-luck amounting +almost to tragedy. But there is another kind of unlucky person--and +about him I can write from experience, because it is my special brand of +misfortune. He is the unlucky person who is unlucky in _little things_. +After all, not many of us back horses, and presently fewer of us than +ever will be able to do more in the gambling line than play +Beg-o'-my-Neighbour with somebody's old aunt for a thr'penny-bit stake. +Let me give a few instances of this ill-luck, in the hope that my plaint +will strike a responsive chord in the hearts of those who read this page. + +(_a_) If I am sitting on the top of a 'bus and a fat man gets on that +'bus, that fat man will sit down beside me as sure as houses! (_b_) If I +am sitting in a railway carriage hugging to my heart the hope that I may +have the compartment to myself throughout the long non-stop run, for a +surety, at the very last moment, the Woman-with-the-squalling-brat will +rush on the platform and head straight for me! Or, I have only to see +the Remarkably Plain Person hesitating between two tables in a restaurant +to know that she will invariably choose _mine_! (_c_) If there is a bad +oyster--_I get it_! If a wasp flies into the garden seeking repose--I +always look to it like a Chesterfield couch! If one day I have not +shaved--my latest "pash" _is sure to call_! Should I invest my +hard-earned savings in Government Stock it is a sign for an immediate +spread of Bolshevism, and consequent depreciation in all Government +securities. If one day I plan to make a voyage to Cythere--I will surely +catch a cold in my head the night before and, instead of quoting +Swinburne, shall only sneeze and say, "Dearest, I do hope I didn't splash +you!" I fully expect to wake up and find myself rich and famous--the day +I "wake up" to find myself _dead_! And of course, like everybody with a +grievance, I could go on talking about it for ever. Still, I have given +a sufficient number of instances of my ill-luck for ninety per cent. of +people to respond in sympathy. The "big things" so seldom happen that +one can live quite comfortably without them. + +But the "Little Things" are like the poor--they are always with us; or +like relations--perpetually on the doorstep on washing day. Perhaps one +ought to live as if one were not aware of them. To have your eyes fixed +steadfastly on some "star" makes you oblivious, as it were, to the +creepy-crawly things which are creepy-crawling up your leg. The +unfortunate thing, however, is, that there seem so few stars on which to +fix your gaze. If you are born beautiful, or born lucky--you have no use +for "stars." To a certain extent you are a "star" in yourself. But for +_nous autres_ there only remains the exasperation of Little Things which +perpetually "go wrong." The only hope, then, for us is to cultivate that +state of despair which can view a whole accumulation of minor disasters +with indifference. When you are indifferent to "luck" it is quite +astonishing what good fortune comes your way. Luck is rather like a +woman--it is, as it were, only utterly abject before a "shrugged +shoulder." + + + + +_Wallpapers_ + +Life is full of minor mysteries--conundrums of the everyday which usually +centre round the problem: "Why on earth people do certain things and what +on earth makes them do them?" And one of these mysteries is that of +their choice in wallpapers. Of course some wallpapers are so pretty that +it is not at all difficult to realise why people chose them. On the +other hand, some are so extraordinarily hideous that one would really +like to see, for curiosity's sake, the artist who designed them and the +purchaser whose artistic needs they satisfied. Those bunches of +impossible flowers linked together by ribbons, the whole painted in +horrible combinations of colour--how we all know them, and how we marvel +at their creation! One imagines the mental difficulty of the purchaser +as to which among the many designs most appealed to her artistic "eye." +Then one pictures how her choice wavered among several. One figures to +oneself how she sat in consultation with that friend whom most people +take with them when they go out to choose wallpapers, asking her opinion +concerning the design which showed nightmare birds swarming about among +terrible trees, and the one which illustrated brown roses with blue buds +growing in regulated bunches on trellis-work of a most bilious green. +One can almost hear the arguments for and against, and at last, the +definite conclusion that the one with the brown roses and blue buds was +the more uncommon--therefore the better of the two. And one day fate +leads your steps towards the bedroom wherein that wallpaper hangs. As +you throw yourself into the one easy chair you take out your cigarette +case to enjoy that "just one more" which is the more enjoyable because it +symbolises that feeling of being "enfin seul" which always follows +conversations with landladies or several hours making yourselves +agreeable to hostesses. + +Then you see it! + +At first you are amusedly contemptuous. "How perfectly hideous," you say +to yourself. And then, in your idleness of mind, your eye follows the +roses and ribbons in horrible contortions from the skirting board to the +ceiling. Realising what you are doing, and knowing that in that +direction madness lies, you immediately turn your gaze towards the +window. You imagine that you have gained the day. But, alas! _you are +wrong_! Comes a moment in the early morning when you wake up two hours +before you wanted to, with nothing else to do except to lie awake +thinking. And all the while the brown roses with their blue buds have +unconsciously stretched their tendrils to seize your wandering regard. +Before you realise what they are doing, your eyes are riveted on that +horrible bunch half-way up the wall which being cut in half by the sudden +termination of the width of one paper roll, does not exactly fit the +corresponding half of the other. How it suddenly begins to irritate +you--this break in the symmetry of the design! You force your eyes from +contemplating its offence, only to discover that the bunches of roses +which are exposed between the sides of the picture representing "The +Soul's Awakening" and the illuminated text painted by your hostess when +she was young, make _an exact square_. Above the pictures you perceive +that these same bunches form a "diamond," resting on one of its right +angles! That there are only five of these terrible bunches between the +side of "The Soul's Awakening" and the corner of the wall, and _six_ +between that of "Trust in the Lord" and the door. And all the time you +are becoming more and more irritable. You cannot close your eyes because +you know that when you open them again the same illustrations from Euclid +will await you. The only thing that comforts you is the determination to +write immediately to your Member of Parliament insisting that he drafts a +Bill creating a censor of wallpapers, with dire penalties for any +"circumventors" of the law. That at least would put every seaside +landlady in prison. + + + + +_Our Irritating Habits_ + +Far more than the Big Things are the Teeny Weeny Little Ones which more +quickly divide lovers. A woman may conveniently overlook the fact that +her husband poisoned his first wife in order to marry her, when she +cannot ignore the perpetual example which he gives her of the truth that +Satan finds some evil still for idle hands to do--by always picking his +teeth. All of us possess some little irritating personal habit, which +makes for us more enemies than those faults for which, on our knees, we +beg forgiveness of Heaven. A woman can drink in the poetry of her +lover's passionate eloquence for ever and ever, amen. But if, in the +middle of the night, she wakes up to find her eloquent lover letting +forth the most stentorian snores she, metaphorically, immediately sits up +in bed and begins seriously _to wonder_. And the moment love begins to +ask itself questions, it is, as it were, turning over the leaves of the +time-table to discover the next boat for the Antipodes. As I said +before, more homes are broken up, not by the flying fire-irons, but by +the irritating little personal idiosyncrasies which men and women exhibit +when they are, so they declare, "quite natural and at their ease." Only +a mother's love can survive the accompaniment of suction noises with +soup. Vice always makes the innocent suffer, but suffering is often +bearable, and sometimes it ennobles us; but chewing raw tobacco--even +perpetually chewing chewing gum--is unbearable, and has a most ignoble +effect on the temper, especially the temper of life's Monday mornings. + +Even for our virtues do we sometimes run the risk of being murdered by +those who, because they think they know us best, consequently admire us +least. Virtue which is waved overhead like a banner is always a +perpetual challenge, and the moment we seem to issue a challenge--even +though we merely challenge the surrounding ether--someone in the concrete +bends down somewhere to pick up a brickbat and, gazing at us, mutters, +"How far? Oh Lord, how far?" Even the expressions of love, in the wrong +place, have been known to hear hatred as their echo. I once knew a man +who left his wife because she could never speak to him without calling +him "darling." She had so absorbed Barrie's theory that the bravest man +is but a "child," that "home" for her husband became a kind of glorified +nursery. At last his spirit became bilious with the cloying sweetness of +it all. The climax came one evening when, after accidentally treading on +her best corn and begging her pardon, she got up, put her loving arms +around his neck and, kissing him, whispered, "_Granted_, darling, +_granted_ before you did it!" Soon after that he left her for a woman +who, herself, trod on every corn he possessed, and had not the least +inclination to say she was sorry. Of course, he lived to regret his +first wife. Most men do. + +"Tact," I suppose, is at the bottom of all the difficulty--tact not only +to know instinctively what to do and when to do it, but when to realise +that a wife is still an "audience" and when to realise that, so far as +being completely natural in her company is concerned, she has absolutely +ceased to exist. But, alas! no one has the heart to teach us this +necessary lesson in "tact." We can tell a man of his sin when we dare +not tell him it were the better plan to go right away by himself when he +wishes to take his false teeth out. A wife will promote an angry scene +with her husband over the "other woman"--of whom she is not in the least +bit jealous--when she will never dream of telling him that he doesn't +sufficiently wash--which was the real cause of their early estrangement. +Everybody knows his own vices, whereas most people are blissfully +ignorant of their own irritating idiosyncrasies. I would far sooner be +told of my nasty habits than of my own special brand of original sin. +Sin has to be in very disgusting form to evoke lasting dislike, whereas a +"nasty habit" breeds DISGUST, which is a far more terrible emotion than +hatred. + + + + +_Away--Far Away!_ + +"The bird was there, and rose and fell as formerly, pouring out his +melody; but it was not the same. Something was missing from those last +sweet languishing notes. Perhaps in the interval there had been some +disturbing accident in his little wild life, though I could hardly +believe it since his mate was still sitting about thirty yards from the +tree on the five little mottled eggs in her nest. Or perhaps his +midsummer's music had reached its highest point and was now in its +declension. And perhaps the fault was in me. The virtue that draws and +holds us does not hold us always nor very long; it departs from all +things, and we wonder why. The loss is in ourselves, although we do not +know it. Nature, the chosen mistress of our heart, does not change +towards us, yet she is now, even to-day-- + + Less full of purple colour and hid spice, + +and smiles and sparkles in vain to allure us, and when she touches us +with her warm caressing touch, there is, compared with yesterday, only a +faint response." I cull this paragraph from Mr. W. H. Hudson's +enchanting book, "Birds in Town and Village," because, or so it seems to +me, it expresses in beautiful language a fact which has puzzled me all +through my life, making me fear to dare in many things, lest the +enthusiasm I then felt were not repeated when the time for action +arrived. We are all more or less creatures of mood, some more than +others, and I, alas! among the moodiest majority. All through the long, +dark, chilly, miserable winter I live in town, longing sadly, though +rapturously, for the summer to come again, and with its advent my own +migration into rural solitudes, far away from the crowd, surrounded by +Nature and lost in her embrace. Yet the end of each summer finds me with +my pilgrimage not yet undertaken. Something has held me back--a +friendship, business, links which were only imaginary fetters, a host of +trivial unimportances masquerading in my mood of the moment as serious +affairs. So the summer has come and gone, and only for an all-too-brief +period have I "got away." Nor have I particularly enjoyed my respite +from the roar of omnibuses, the tramp, tramp, tramp of the crowded +pavements. Somehow or other the war has robbed me of my love of solitude +Somehow or other the peace and beauty and solitude of Nature still "hurt" +me, as they used to hurt me during the years of the great world tragedy +when, across the meadows brilliant with buttercups and daisies, there +used to come the booming of the guns not so very far away "out there." +So, in order to force my mood, and perhaps deaden remembrance of its +pain, I have taken along with me some human companion, only once more to +realise that, when with Nature, each of us should be alone. One yearns +to watch and listen, listen and watch, to lie outstretched on the +hill-side, gazing lazily, yet with mind alert, at every moving thing +which happens to catch one's eye. You can rarely do this in company. So +very, very few people can simply exist silently without sooner or later +breaking into speech or falling fast asleep. Alone with Nature books are +the only possible company--books and one's own unspoken thoughts. + + + + +"_Family Skeletons_" + +The worst of keeping a "Family Skeleton" shut up in a cupboard is that +the horrid thing _will insist_ on rattling its old bones at the most +inopportune moments--just, for example, when you are entertaining to tea +the nearest local thing you've got to God--whether she be an "Honourable" +(in her own right, mark you!) or merely the vicar's wife! Whatever +family skeletons do or do not possess, they most assuredly lack _tact_. +They are worse than relations for giving your "show away" at the wrong +moment. If relations do nothing else, they at any rate sit tightly +together around family skeletons, if only to hide them from full view by +the crowd. But, of course, the crowd always sees them. The crowd always +sees _everything_ you don't want it to see, and is quite blind to the +triumphal banners you are waving at it out of your top-room window. +Sometimes I think that the better plan in regard to family skeletons is +to expose them to public view without any dissembling whatsoever, crying +to the world at large, and to the "woman who lives opposite" in +particular, "There! that's _our_ family disgrace! Everybody's got one. +What's _yours_?" I believe that this method would shut most people up +quite satisfactorily. People only try to learn what they believe you do +not want them to know. If you push the truth before them, they turn away +their heads. To pretend is usually useless. Not very many of us get +through life without experiencing a desire to hide something which +everybody has already seen. Wiser far be honest, even if it costs you a +disagreeable quarter of an hour. Better one disagreeable quarter of an +hour than months and years sitting on a bombshell which any passer-by can +explode. Honesty is always one of the very few invulnerable things. No +pin-pricks can pierce it--and pin-pricks are usually the bane of life. +It's like laughter, in that nobody has yet been found to parry its blows +successfully. Shame is a sure sign of possible defeat--and the world +always ranges itself every time on the side of the probable victor. If +you once show people that you _can't_ be hurt in the way they are trying +to hurt you, they soon leave off trying, and begin to think of your +Christian virtues in general and their own more numerous ones in +particular. It's only when your courage is sheer camouflage that the +world tries to penetrate the disguise. Not until a woman dips her hair +in henna and, metaphorically speaking, cries, "See how young I look now!" +that other women begin to remark, "You know, dear, she is _not so +youthful as she was_!" It's only when the rumour goes round that a man +has had a financial misfortune that everybody to whom he owes anything +fling in their bills. And thus it is with family skeletons. If, as it +were, you ask them to live with you downstairs, everybody ignores them +and finds them "frightfully dull." But the moment you relegate them into +the topmost attic--lo and behold, every single one of your acquaintances +expresses a desire to rush upstairs, ostensibly to look at the view. + +Everybody has something which they do not want to expose--like dirty +linen. But everybody's linen gets dirty--that is always something to +remember. There are some poor old fools, however, who really do seem to +imagine that they and theirs are alone immaculate. How they manage to do +so I can never for the life of me imagine. They must be very stupid. +But stupid people are a very great factor in life's everyday, and we must +always try to do something with them, like the left-over remnants of +Sunday's dinner. And, unless we do something with them, they--like +Sunday's dinner--meet our gaze every time we go into the kitchen. At +last we hate the sight of them. But, just as the remnants clinging to an +old mutton-bone lose their terror when Monday arrives without the +butcher, so these interfering old fools sometimes fade away into harmless +acquaintances when you show them that you and your family skeleton are +part and parcel of the same thing, and if they wish to know the one +they'll have to accept the other. In any case, it's usually useless to +try and pretend that Uncle George died of heart failure when he really +died of drink, or that the young girl whom Aunt Maria "adopted" was a +waif-and-stray, when everybody knows she is her own daughter; or that +your first wife isn't still alive--probably kicking--or that your only +child suddenly went to Australia because he was seized by the +wander-lust, when everybody knows he had to go there or go to prison. +You may, of course, pretend these things, and if you don't mind the +perpetual worry of always pretending, well and good. But if you imagine +for one instant that your pretending deceives the gallery, you'll be +extremely silly. Why, every time they speak of you behind your back +they'll preface their remarks with information of this kind: "Yes, +yes . . . a _charming_ family. What a thousand pities it is that they +all _drink_!" + +But the "skeletons" of our own character--_they_ are the ones which no +cupboard can hold, nor any key lock in. Some time, sooner or later, out +they will come to do a jazz in front of the whole world. The life we +lead in the secret chambers of our own hearts we shall one day enact on +the house-roof. Strive as we may to conform to the conventional ideal of +public opinion, we cannot conform _all_ the time, and our lapses are our +undoing--or maybe, our happy emancipation, who knows? We cannot hide the +pettiness of our nature, even though we profess the broadest principles. +Only one thing can save the ungenerous spirit, and that is to be up +against life single-handed and alone. To know suffering, spiritual as +well as physical; to know poverty, to know loneliness, sometimes to know +disgrace, broadens the heart and mind more than years spent in the study +of Greek philosophy. Life is the only real education, and the philosophy +which we evolve through living the only philosophy of any real importance +in the evolution of "souls." + + + + +_The Dreariness of One Line of Conduct_ + +We have lots of ways of expressing that a man is in a "rut" without ever +giving the real reason of our adverse criticisms. An author who has +"written himself out," an artist whose pictures we can recognise without +ever looking at the catalogue, the "conventional," the "dull," the lovers +who have fallen out of love--these are all so many victims of the "rut" +in life. It is not their fault either. "Ruts" seem so safe, so +delightful--_at the beginning_. We rush into them as we would rush into +Heaven--and Heaven surely will be a terrible "rut" unless people have +described it wrongly! But, although "ruts" may often mean a comfortable +existence, they are the end of all progress. We dig ourselves in, and +make for ourselves a dug-out. But people in dug-outs are only _safe_; +they've got to come out of them some time and go "over the top" if they +want to win a war. Unfortunately, in everyday life, the people who +deliberately leave their dug-outs generally get fired at, not only by +their enemies but also by their friends. But they have to risk that. So +few people can realise the terrible effect which "staleness" has upon +certain minds. Staleness is the breeding ground for all sorts of social +diseases which most people attribute to quite other causes. There is a +staleness in work as well as in amusement, in love as well as in hate. +Variety is the only real happiness--variety, and a longing for the +improbable. What we have we never appreciate after we have had it for +any length of time. Doctors will tell you that an illness every nine +years is a great benefit to a man. It makes him appreciate his health +when it returns to him; it gives his body that complete rest which it can +only obtain, as a rule, during a long convalescence, while "spiritually" +it brings him face to face with death--which is quite the finest thing +for clearing away the cobwebs which are so apt to smother the joy and +beauty of life. In the same way a complete change in the mode of living +keeps a man's sympathies alive, his mental outlook clear, his enthusiasms +bright; it gives him understanding, and a keener appreciation of the +essentials which go to make up the real secret of happiness, the real joy +of living. The people we call "narrow" are always the people whose life +is deliberately passed in a "rut." They may have health, and wealth, and +nearly all those other things which go to make a truce in this battle we +call Life, but because they have been used to all these blessings so +long, they have ceased to regard them. And a man who is not keenly alive +to his own blessings is a man who is neither happy nor of much good to +the world in which he lives. You have to be able to appreciate your own +good fortune in order to realise the tragedy of the less fortunate. + + + + +_The Happy Discontent_ + +What is the happiest time of a man's life? Not the attainment of his +ambitions, but when the attainment is _just in sight_. Every man and +woman must have something to live for, otherwise they become discontented +or dull. People wonder at the present unrest among the working classes. +But to me this unrest is inevitable to the conditions in which they live. +They have no ideal to light up their drudgery with glory. They cannot +express themselves in the dull labour which is their daily task. They +just have to go on and on doing the same monotonous jobs, not in order to +enjoy life, but just in order to live at all. Their "rut" is well-nigh +unendurable. Of what good, for example, is education, an appreciation of +art and beauty, any of those things, in fact, which are the only things +which make life splendid and worth living, if all one is asked to do, day +in, day out, is to clean some lift in the morning and pull it up and down +all the rest of the day! To me the wonder of the working classes is, not +that they are restless, but that they are not all _mad_! Were they doing +their tasks for themselves, I can imagine even the dullest work might +become interesting, because it would lead, if well done, to development +and self-expression. But to do these mechanical labours solely and +entirely for other people, and to know that you must keep on doing them +or starve, well, it seems to me a man needs for his own sanity everything +_outside_ his work to make life worth living. The man who is working for +himself, no matter how dreary his occupation may be, is rarely restless. +He has ambition; there is competition to keep his enthusiasms alive, he +feels that, however lowly his labour may be, it belongs to him, and its +success is his success, too. But can anyone imagine what a life must be, +we will say, cleaning other people's windows for a wage which just +enables him to live? I can imagine it, and, in putting myself in that +position, I cast envious eyes on the freedom of tramps! It seems to me +that, until the world wakes up to the necessity of enabling work-people +to fill their leisure hours with those amusements and pleasures, of the +intellect as well as of the body, which are the reward of wealth, there +will always be a growing spirit or revolution in the world. I could +endure almost any drudgery for eight hours provided during the rest of +the day I could enjoy those things for which my spirit craved. But to do +that same drudgery, day in, day out, with nothing but a Mean Street to +come home to, nothing but a "pub" to give me social joy, while people who +appear to live entirely for enjoying themselves bespatter me with mud +from their magnificent motor-cars as they drive past me with, +metaphorically speaking, their noses in the air, I think I, too, should +turn Bolshevik, not because I would approve of Bolshevism, or even +understand what it meant, but because it would seem to give me something +to live for. Except for the appalling suffering, the death, the disease, +the sad "Good-byes" of those who loved one another, I am beginning to +realise that the world was a finer place in war time. It mingled the +classes as they have never been mingled before, for the untold benefit of +every class, it brought out that spirit of kindness and self-sacrifice +which was the most really Christian thing that the world has seen on such +a large scale since the beginning of Christianity; it seemed to give a +meaning to life, and to make even the meanest drudgery done for the Great +Cause a drudgery which lost all its soul-numbing attributes--that +horrible sense of the drudgery of drudgery which is sometimes more +terrible to contemplate than death. Religion ought to give to life some, +if not all this noble meaning. But, alas! it doesn't. I sometimes think +that only those who are persecuted for their beliefs know what real +religion is. The Established Church doesn't, anyway. The world of +workers is _demanding_ a faith, but the Church only gives it admonition, +or a charming address by a bishop on the absolute necessity of going to +church. The clergy never seem to ask themselves what the people are +going to receive in the way of rendering their daily toil more worth +while when they do go to church. But the people have answered it with +tragic definiteness. They _stay away_! Or perhaps they go to see a +football match. Well, who shall blame them, after the kind of work which +they have been forced to do during the week? I always think that if only +the Church followed the crowd, instead of, metaphorically speaking, +banging the big drum outside their churches and begging them to come +inside, they would "get hold" of their flock far more effectively. After +all, why should religion be so divorced from the joy of life? Death is +important, but life is far more so. If the clergy entered into the _real +life_ of the people they would benefit themselves through a greater +understanding, and the people would benefit by this living example of +Christianity in their midst. But so many of the clergy seem to forget +the fact that the leisured classes possess, by their wealth alone, the +opportunity to create their own happiness. The poor have not this +advantage. Their work is, for the most part, deadening. The +surroundings in which they live offer them so little joy. They have only +the amusements which they can snatch from their hours of freedom to make +life worth living at all. And these amusements are the all-important +things, it seems to me. If you can enter into the hours of happiness of +men and women, they will be willing to follow you along those pathways +which lead to a greater appreciation of the Christ ideal. I always think +that if the Church devoted itself to the happiness of its "flock" it +would do far more real good than merely devoting itself to their +reformation. Reformation can only come when a certain amount or inner +happiness has been attained. + + + + +_Book-borrowing Nearly Always Means Book-stealing_ + +Whenever I lend a book--and, in parenthesis, I never lend a book of which +I am particularly fond--I always say "good-bye" to it under my breath. I +have found that, whereas the majority of people are perfectly honest when +dealing with thousands, their sense of uprightness suddenly leaves them +when it is only a question of a thr'penny-bit. As for books and +umbrellas, people seem to possess literally no conscience in regard to +them. Umbrellas you _may_, perhaps, get back--if you were born under the +"lucky star" with a "golden spoon" in your mouth, and had an octogenarian +millionaire, with no children, standing--or peradventure _propped up_--as +god-parent at your christening. Few people have qualms about asking for +the return of an umbrella, whereas a book always gets either +"Not-quite-finished-been-so-busy" for an answer, or else the borrower has +been so entranced by it that he has "taken the liberty" to lend it to a +friend because he knew you wouldn't _mind_! (Of course you don't--you +only feel like murder!) Nor do you really mind, providing that you are +indifferent as to the ultimate fate of the volume. If you are not +indifferent . . . well, you won't have lent it, that's all; it will +recline on the bookshelf of the literary "safe"--which is in your own +bedroom, because your own bedroom is the only place where a book ever is +really safe. (Have you noticed how reluctant people always are to ask +for the loan of a book which lies beside your bed? It is as if this +traditional lodgment of the family Bible restrained them. Usually they +never even examine bedside books. They are always so embarrassed when +they happen to pick up a volume of the type of "Holy Thoughts for Every +Day of the Year." They never know what to say to that!) But a book which +lies about downstairs is the legitimate prey of every book "pincher" who +strays across your threshold. Moreover, no one has yet invented a decent +excuse for refusing to lend a book. I wish they had; I would use it +until it was threadbare. You can't very well say what you really think, +since no one likes to be refused the loan of anything because the owner +feels convinced that he will never get it back. So, unless you have a +particular gift for the Lie-Immediate, which embraces either the +assertion that the book in question does not belong to you or else that +you have promised it to somebody else, you meekly utter the prayer that +you will be delighted if the borrower thereof will only be kind enough to +let you have it back soon, which, all the time, you know he won't, and he +knows he won't, and you know that he knows he won't, and he knows that +you know that he won't--all of which passes through your respective minds +as he pockets the book, and you in your heart of hearts bid it a fond +farewell! + + + + +_Other People's Books_ + +I have come to the conclusion that the only books which people are really +fond of are those which rightly belong to other people. To them they are +always faithful. They are faithful to them not _in spite of themselves_, +which is the way with those "classics" which everybody is supposed to +have read while they were young, and which most people only know by name, +because they belong to that dim and distant future in which are included +all those things which can be done when they are old--they are faithful +to them for the reason that nobody wants to borrow them; they belong to +the literature which people seek in _free_ libraries, if they seek it at +all. The books they really adore are those which somebody else has +purchased. Nor are they ever old books. On the contrary, they are "the +very latest." You see it gives a room a certain _cachet_ if it includes +the very recent literary "sensation," the "novel of the season," which +everybody is reading because everybody is talking about it. So they +stick to the books which you yourself have purchased, under the fond +delusion that what you buy is necessarily yours to do what you like with. +Alas! you have forgotten the borrowing fiend. The borrowing fiend is out +for borrowed glory--and few things on earth will ever stop the progress +of those who are out for self-glorification. True, I once knew a +book-lover who was not afraid of telling the would-be borrower that he +_never lent books_. Needless to say, he had very few literary friends. +But his bookshelves were filled with almost everything worth reading that +had been published. + + + + +_The Road to Calvary_ + +She was sitting half dreaming, half listening to the old preacher, when +suddenly one sentence in a sermon, otherwise prosy and conventional, +arrested her attention. For the moment she could not remember it, and +then it came to her. "All roads lead to Calvary." Perhaps he was +going to be worth listening to at last. "To all of us sooner or +later," he was saying, "comes the choosing of the ways: either the road +leading to success, the gratification of desires, the honour and +approval of our fellow men--or the path to Calvary." And yet it seems +to me that the utterance is only a half-truth after all. It is the +half-truth which clergymen like to utter. They always picture worldly +success as happiness, the gratification of desires happiness also, but +gained at the price of one's own "soul." But there they are wrong. It +seems to me that all roads do lead to Calvary--yes, even the road of +the worldly success, the limelit path of gratification. Whichever path +you take, it leads to Calvary--though there is the Calvary which, as it +were, has peace behind its pain, and the Calvary which has merely +loneliness and regret. But life, it seems to me, leads to Calvary +whichever way you follow--the best one can do is merely to bring a +little ray of happiness, ease a little the pain, share the sorrow and +the solitude of those who walk with us along the rough-hewn pathway. +If you live only for yourself you are lonely; if you live only for +others you are also left lonely at last. For it seems to me that the +"soul" of every man and woman is a lonely "soul," no matter if their +life be one long round of pleasure-seeking and success, or merely +renunciation. Only occasionally, very, very occasionally--maybe only +once in a lifetime!--do we ever really feel that our own "soul" and the +"soul" of another has met for an all-too-brief moment, shared for a +flash its "secret," mutually sympathised and understood. For the +rest--well, we live for the most part holding out, as it were, shadowy +arms towards shadows which only _seem_ to be substance. The road to +Calvary is a lonely road, and each man and woman is forced to follow +it. There remains then only God--God who knows us for what we are; +God--and the faith that in a life beyond we shall by our loved ones be +also recognised and known. For the rest, we but look at each other +yearningly through iron bars--and from a long, long distance. The +least lonely road which leads to Calvary is the road which leads to +God; the least lonely pilgrims are those who walk with Him. But not +everybody can believe in God, no matter how they yearn. They seek +"soul" realisation in success, in self-gratification, in the applause +and passion of the crowd. The "religious" men condemn and despise +them. But they are wrong. They are more to be pitied. For they do +not find consolation in the things by which they have sought to drug +the loneliness of their inner life. Their Calvary is often the most +terrible of all. So it seems to me that Calvary is at the end of +whichever road we take. We are wise when we realise that it is in our +own power to make that road brighter and happier for others, and that +there are always halts of interest and delight, entertainment and joy, +dotted along it for ourselves as well--if we look for them. But we do +not escape Calvary even though we struggle for success, gratify our own +desires, seek the honour and approval of our fellow-men. It is just +the Road of Life, and, provided that we harm no other man in so doing, +let us realise ourselves in worldly ambition and in love and in +enjoyment as often as we may. That is my philosophy, but it is no less +lonely in reality than other people's. Old age is each man's Calvary. + + + + +_Mountain Paths_ + +And the worst of that road to Calvary which we all of us must follow, +whether it be a long or short way, is that it is always, as it were, a +lonely journey into the Unknown. It is a mystery--a terrific +mystery--and sometimes it frightens us so terribly that men and women +have been known to kill themselves rather than take it. But there is +always this to be said of sorrow--like happiness, it looms so very much +larger when seen from a long way off. As we approach it it becomes +smaller. When we reach it, sometimes it does not seem so very terrible +after all; either it is small or else Nature or God gives to all of us +some added courage which helps us to bear even the greatest affliction. +For several years past I have been intimately associated with a tragedy +which most people regard as well-nigh unsurmountable even by the +bravest heart. I have thought so myself--and there are moments when I +think so still, in spite of my long familiarity with it, and the +miracles of bravery I have seen displayed in hearts so young and so +tender that one would have thought they must of necessity fall helpless +beneath the burden laid upon them by Fate. I speak, of course, of the +Blinded Soldier--than whom no better example of courage on the road to +Calvary could possibly be given. Personally, I feel that I would +sooner be dead than blind; but I realise now that I only feel this way +because I still, thank Heaven, have remarkably good sight. Were I to +lose my eyes, I hope--perhaps I _know_--that I should still strive to +fight cheerfully onward. And this, not because I am naturally brave--I +am not--but because I have lived long enough to see that when, +metaphorically speaking, the axe falls, some added strength is given to +the spirit which, granted bodily health, can fight and go on fighting +an apparently overwhelming foe. This is one of the most wonderful +miracles of Human Life, and I have myself seen so many instances of it +that I know it to be no mere fiction of an optimistic desire, but an +acknowledged fact. And this miracle applies to nations as well as to +individuals. In Maurice Maeterlinck's new volume of essays there is +one on "The Power of the Dead." "Our memories are to-day," he writes, +"peopled by a multitude of heroes struck down in the flower of their +youth and very different from the pale and languid cohort of the past, +composed almost wholly of the sick and the old, who had already ceased +to exist before leaving the earth. We must tell ourselves that now, in +every one of our homes, both in our cities and in the country-side, +both in the palace and in the meanest hovel, there lives and reigns a +dead young man in the glory of his strength. He fills the poorest, +darkest dwelling with a splendour of which it had never ventured to +dream. His constant presence, imperious and inevitable, diffuses and +maintains a religion and ideas which it had never known before, hallows +everything around it, makes the eyes look higher, prevents the spirit +from descending, purifies the air that is breathed and the speech that +is held and the thoughts that are mustered there, and, little by +little, ennobles and uplifts the whole people on a scale of unexampled +vastness." Surely, in beautiful words such as these, Maeterlinck but +echoes the consolation of many a very lonely heart since the tragedy of +August, 1914. Without "my boy"--many a desolate heart imagined that it +could never face the road of Calvary which is life now that he is gone. +And yet, when the blow came, something they thought would have vanished +for ever still remained with them. They could not tell if it were a +"presence," felt but unseen, but this they _knew_--though they could +not argue their convictions--that everything which made life happy, +which lent it meaning, was not lost, had not faded away before the +life-long loneliness which faced them; it still lived on--lived on as +an Inspiration and as a Hope that one day the road to Calvary would +come to an end, that they would reach their journey's end--and find +their loved one _waiting_. + + + + +_The Unholy Fear_ + +She didn't object to the celebrations for the anniversary of the +signing of Armistice--in fact, she quite enjoyed them--but she did +object to the few minutes' silent remembrance of the Glorious Dead. It +depressed her. She brought out the old "tag" so beloved of people who +dread sadness, even reverential sadness, that "the world is full enough +of sorrow without adding to it unnecessarily!" Not much sorrow had +come her way, except the sorrow of not always getting her own way; and +the anniversary of the Armistice meant for her the Victory Ball at the +Albert Hall, a new dress of silver and paste diamonds, a fat supper, +and that jolly feeling of believing that a real "beano" is justified +because, after all, _we_ won the war, didn't we? Therefore, she +disliked this bringing back to the world of the tragic fact--the fact +of what war really means beyond the patriotic talk of politicians, the +Victory celebrations, the rush to pick up the threads which had to be +dropped in 1914, and the excitement of getting, or missing, or +declining the O.B.E. The war is over, she keeps saying to herself, +thus inferring to everybody that they ought to forget all about it now. +So she ignores the maimed and the wrecked, the war poor, the sailors +and the soldiers, war books, war songs, all reference to the war, in +fact, and most especially the dead. "Why should we be depressed?" she +keeps crying, "the world is sad enough. . . ." Well, you know the old +"tag" of those who are not so much frightened of sorrow as frightened +by the fact that they can neither sympathise with it nor understand it. +She is an exceptional case, you declare. But alas! she isn't. There +are thousands of men and women who, behind a plea of war-weariness, +really mean a desire to forget all those memories, all those +obligations, all that work and faith in a New and Better World which +alone make justified--this war, or any other war. She has not +forgotten, so much as never realised what men suffered and endured in +order that she, and all the rest of her "clan" who remained at home, +might live on and rebuild the happiness and fortunes of their lives. +So she dislikes to be reminded of her obligations to the Present and +the Future; she dislikes to remember in reverence and sorrow the men +and boys who, without this war, would now be continuing happily, safe +and sound, the even tenor of their lives. "The world is sad enough," +she again reiterates, and . . . oh, well, just BOSH! + + + + +_The Need to Remember_ + +For myself, I consider that it would do the world good if it had one +whole _day_ of silent remembrance each year. And if it be +depressing--well, that will be all to the good. The world will come to +no harm if it be depressed once a year--depressed for such a noble +cause. After all, we give up one day per year to the solemn +remembrance of the One who died for us--it would not, therefore, do +anything but good if we were to give up one day a year to the memory of +those millions who died for us no less. Sunday, too, is kept as a +quiet day, in order that the world may be encouraged to contemplate +those ideals for which it has erected churches in which it bows the +knee. Well, one whole day in the year given up to the memory of those +who died that the civilised world might live--who also died for an +ideal--will help us to remember that they died at all. Without some +such enforced remembrance, the world will, alas! only too quickly +forget. And in forgetting _how_ they died, will also forget _what they +died for_. Some people--the vast majority perhaps--will never remember +unless remembrance is forced upon them. And if the world ever forgets +the Glorious Dead, and the "heritage" which these Glorious Dead left to +those who still live on--well, don't talk to me of Christianity and +civilisation and the clap-trap of those high ideals which everyone +prates of, few understand, and still fewer strive to live up to. If +the war has not yet taught the political and social and Christian world +wisdom, nothing ever will; and, moreover, it does not deserve to learn. +Yet, only the other day, I heard some elderly gentlemen discussing the +next war--as if the last one were but a slight skirmish far away amid +the hills of Afghanistan. Well, better an era of the most +revolutionary socialism than that the world should once again be +plunged into such another tragedy as it has passed through during the +last five years. + + + + +_Humanity_ + +"Humanity is one, and an injury to one member is an injury to the +whole." I cull this line from Mr. Gilbert Cannan's book, "The Anatomy +of Society." And I quote it because I believe that it sums up in a few +words, not only the world-politics of the future, but the religion--the +real, practical religion, and therefore the only religion which counts +in so far as this life is concerned--of the future as well. The +snowball--if I may thus describe it symbolically--has just begun to +roll, but it will gather weight and impetus with every succeeding year, +until, at last, there will be no nations--as we understand nations +to-day--but only _one_ nation, and that nation the whole of the human +race. The times are dead, or rather they are dying, which saw +civilisation most clearly in such things as the luxury of the Ritz +Hotels, the parks and palaces of Europe, the number of tube trains and +omnibuses running per hour along the rail and roadways of London, and +the imitation silk stockings in which cooks and kitchenmaids disport +themselves on Sundays. A New Knowledge is abroad--and that New +Knowledge is a fuller realisation that the new world is for all men and +all women who work and do their duty, for all humanity, and not merely +for the few who get rich upon the exploitation of poverty and +helplessness of the masses. And this realisation carries with it the +realisation that the governments of the future will be more really +governments of the people for the people--and by people I do not mean +merely those of Britain or France, or whichever nation men happen to +belong to, but humanity all over the world. The things which nowadays +only money can buy must be brought within the grasp of the poorest, and +civilisation must be recognised as coming _from the bottom upwards_, +and not only from the _top_--a kind of golden froth which strives to +hide the dirt and misery and suffering beneath. So long as slums +exist, so long as poverty is exploited, so long as the great masses of +men and women are forced to lead sordid, unbeautiful, cramped, +hopeless, and helpless lives, as they are forced to live now--call no +nation civilised. So long as these things exist--call no nation +religious. The one is a mockery of human life; the other is a mockery +of God. + +It always strikes me that the greatest lack in all education--and this +applies to the education of princes as well as paupers--is the spirit +of splendid vision. Most things are taught, except the "vision" of +self-respect and responsibility. The poor are not taught to respect +themselves at all, and certainly their lives do not give them what +their education has forgotten. They are never encouraged to learn that +each individual man and woman is not only responsible to him and +herself, but to all men and all women. Certainly the rich never teach +it them. For the last thing which rich people ever realise is that +their wealth carries with it human obligations, human responsibilities, +as well as the gratifications of their own appetites and pleasures. +The only objects of education seem to be to teach men to make money, +nothing is ever done to teach them how best to make life full of +interest, full of human worth, full of those "visions" which will help +to make the future or the human race proud in its achievements. The +failure of education as an intellectual, social, and moral force is +best shown the moment men and women are given the opportunity to do +exactly as they please. Metaphorically speaking, the poor with money +in their pockets immediately go on the "booze," and the rich "jazz." +And men of the poor work merely for the sake of being able to booze, +and the rich merely for the sake of being able to jazz. And the rich +condemn the poor for boozing, and the poor condemn the rich for +jazzing--but this, of course, is one of life's little ironies. + + + + +_Responsibility_ + +Personally, I blame the poor for boozing less than I blame the rich for +"jazzing." If I had to live the lives which millions of working men +and women lead, and amid the same surroundings, and with the same +hopeless future--I would booze with the booziest. You can't expect the +poor to respect themselves when the rich do not respect them. Without +any feeling of human responsibility in the wealthier classes, you +cannot expect to find any human responsibility in the lower orders. +And by human responsibility I do not mean some vague thing like +"Government for the People," or subscriptions to hospitals, or bazaars +for the indigent blind, or anything of that sort--though these things +are excellent in themselves. I mean something more practical than +that. Hospitals should be state-owned, and the indigent blind should +be pensioned by the state. These things should not be left to private +enterprises, since they are human responsibilities and should be borne +by humanity. I mean that all owners of wealth should be made to +realise their moral responsibilities to their own workmen--the men and +women who help to create their wealth--and that with poverty there +should not go dirt and drudgery and that total lack of beauty and +encouragement to a cleaner, finer life without which existence on earth +is Hell--Hell being preached at from above. + + + + +_The Government of the Future_ + +The worst of government by the people is that the moment the people put +them into power they are gracefully forgotten. The only _real_ +government by the people comes through the people themselves in the +form of disturbances and strikes and revolutions. Then, alas, the tiny +craft of Progress is borne towards the ocean on a river of bad +blood--which means waste and unnecessary suffering, and leaves a whole +desert of anger and revenge behind it. The most crying need of the +times is the very last to be heard by governments. They are so +engrossed in the financial prosperity of the country that they forget +the social and moral prosperity altogether--and financial prosperity +without social and moral progress is but the beginning of bankruptcy +after all. A government, to be a real government and so to represent +authority in the eyes of the people, has not only to nurse and to +harbour, but also to _rebuild_. It does something more than govern. +It has been placed there _by the people_ in order that it may help +rebuild the lives _of the people_--so that, besides helping capital to +increase and develop, it at the same time safeguards the people against +exploitation by capital, and sees to it that, through this capital, the +people are enabled to live cleaner, better, happier lives, are given an +equal chance in the world, and encouraged and given the opportunity to +live self-respecting lives--lives full not only of responsibility to +themselves, but to humanity at large. That to my mind is the true +socialism--and it is a socialism which could come within the next ten +years, and without any sign of revolution, were the Government to +realise that it is something more than the foster-mother of +capital--that it is also a practical rebuilder of the human race--yes, +even though it has to cut through all the red-tape in the world and +throw the vested interests, owners and employers, on the scrap-heap of +things inimical to human happiness in the bulk. Sometimes I think that +the franchise of women will do a great deal towards this juster world +when it comes. Women have no "political sense," it is said. Well, +thank God they haven't, say I! They have the _human sense_--and that +will be the only political sense of any importance in the world of +to-morrow. + +And this war has been the great revelation. Masses of men and women +who never thought before--or, rather, who thought but vaguely, not +troubling to put their thoughts into words--have by war become +articulate. They are now looking for a leader, and upon their faces +there is the expression of disappointment. They do not yet realise +that they have discovered within their own minds and hearts that +Splendid Vision which once came through one, or, at most, a small group +of individuals. This vision is the vision of humanity as apart from +the vision of one special nation. It sees a new world in which +science, the practical knowledge and the material advancement of the +West, combine with the greater peace and happiness of the East, to make +of this world an abiding place, an ideal nearer the ideal of Heaven. +Man, after all, possesses mind. His failure has been that, so far, he +has not learned wisdom--the wisdom to employ that mind for the +realisation of his own soul--that realisation without which life +becomes a mockery and civilisation a sham. + + + + +_The Question_ + +Can a man love two women at the same time? If he be married to one of +them--Yes. If he isn't--well, I cannot imagine it possible. Nor can I +imagine that every man is capable of this double passion. Some people +(in parenthesis, the lucky ones!) have characters so simple, so direct, +so steadfast, so very peaceful. Their soul is not torn asunder, first +this way, then that, perfectly sincere in all its varying moods, though +the mood changes like the passing seasons. Once having liked a thing, +they like it always, and the opposite has no attraction for them. +These people are, as it were, born husbands and born wives. They are +faithful, though their fidelity may not be exciting. This type could +hardly love two people, though they are quite capable of loving twice. +As individuals they are to be envied, because for them the inner life +is one of simplicity and peace. But there are other people who, as it +were, seem to be born _two people_. They are capable of infinite +goodness; also they are capable of the most profound baseness. And +never, never, never are they happy. For the good that is in them +suffers for the bad, and the bad also suffers, since it knows that it +is unworthy. So their inner life is one long struggle to attain that +ideal of perfection which they prize more than anything else in the +world, but are incapable of reaching--or, rather, they are incapable of +_sustaining_--because, within their natures, there is a "kink" which +always thwarts their good endeavour. Thus for ever do they suffer, +since within their souls there is a perpetual warfare between the good +which is within them and the bad. These people, I say, can love two +people at the same time, since two different people seem to inhabit the +same body, and both yearn to be satisfied; both _must_ be satisfied at +some time or another. The Good within them will always triumph +eventually, even though the Bad must have its day. But do not blame +these people. They suffer far more than anyone can suspect. They +suffer, and only with old age or death does peace come to them. If +there are people born to be unhappy in this world, they are surely in +the forefront of that tragic army! + + + + +_The Two Passions_ + +Yet these people, as I said before, _must be married_ to one of the two +Adored, if their sentiment for each can be called Love. Love, in which +passion plays the larger part, is so all-absorbing while it lasts, that +only the deep affection and respect which may come through the intimacy +of matrimony can exist within the self-same heart great enough to be +called Love. A man may adore and worship the woman who has proved +herself a perfect mate, who is the mother of his children, and yet be +unfaithful to her--not with any woman who crosses his path and beckons, +but with the _One_ who appeals to the wild, romantic adventurer which is +also part of his nature, though neither the best part, nor the strongest. +But I cannot imagine a man adoring and respecting a woman who is not his +wife the while he loves with a burning passion another woman who promises +rapture, passion, and delight. Passion is so intense while it lasts that +there is in the heart of man no equal place for another woman who holds +him by no legal and moral tie. But a man, having a double nature, can +worship his wife, yet love with passion another woman--even though he +hates and despises himself for so doing. But it is rare, if not +impossible, for one woman to completely satisfy the man whose nature is +made up of good and bad, of high ideals and low cravings, of steadfast +fidelity, yet with a yearning for the wild, untrammelled existence of the +mountain tops. With such a man--and how many there are, if we but +knew!--the woman he respects will always win in the end, even though the +woman who entices has also her day of victory. The Good Woman will +suffer--God knows she will! But the man will suffer too. A man has to +be wholly bad to thoroughly enjoy evil. The man who is only half a +saint--secretly goes through hell. That is his punishment, and it is far +more difficult for him to bear than the finger pointed in contempt. +Therefore, I believe that the happiest men and women are the men and +women who are born good and steadfast, simple and true, or those who +cultivate with delight scarcely one unselfish thought. That is why the +vast majority of people live so really lonely, so secretly sad at heart +and soul. Only the born-good or the born-bad know the blessedness of +inner peace. + + + + +_Our "Secret Escapes"_ + +I suppose that we all of us have our own little secret +"dream-sanctuary"--our way-of-escape which nobody knows anything about, +and by which we go when we are weary of the trivialities of the domestic +hearth and sick unto death of the "cackle-cackle" of the crowds. When we +are very young we long to share this secret little dream-sanctuary with +someone else. When we are older and wiser, we realise that if we don't +keep it to ourselves we are spiritually lost; for, with the best +intentions in the world, the best-beloved, to whom in rapture we give the +key, either, metaphorically speaking, leaves the front gate open or goes +therein and turns on a gramophone. We come into this world alone, and we +leave it by ourselves; and the older we grow the more we realise that, in +spite of our own heart's longing to share, we are most really at peace +when we are quite alone in our own company. When we are young we hope +and expect our "dreams" to become one day a glorious reality. When we +are older we realise that our "dreams" will always remain "dreams", and, +strange as it may sound, they become more real to us, even as "dreams," +than do any realities--except bores and toothache. For the "dreams" of +youth become the "let's pretend" of age. And the person who has +forgotten the game of "let's pretend" is in soul-colour of the dulness of +ditch-water. And "let's pretend" is a game which we can best play by +ourselves. Even the proximity of a living being, content to do and say +nothing, robs it of its keenest enjoyment. No, we must be by ourselves +for the world around us to seem really inhabited by people we love the +most amid surroundings nearest our ideal. There are no bores in our +dream-world. Nothing disagreeable happens there. And, thank Heaven, we +can enter it almost anywhere--sometimes if we merely close our eyes! And +we can be our real selves in this dream-world of ours too, there is +nobody to say us nay; there are no laws and no false morals; we are fairy +kings and queens in a fairy kingdom. I always pity the man or woman who +is no monarch in this very real kingdom of shadows which lies all around +us, and which we can enter to reign therein whenever the human "jar" is +safely out of the way. There we can be our true selves and live our true +life, in what seems a very real world--a world, moreover, which we hope +one day will be the reality of Heaven. + + + + +_My Escape and Some Others_ + +Everybody, as I said before, has his or her own receipt for "getting +away." Some find it in long "chats" over the fireside with old friends; +some in reading and music and art; some in travel, some in "good works" +and just a few in "bad" ones. A new hat will often lift a woman several +floors nearer to the seventh heaven. A good dinner in prospect will +sometimes elevate the spirit of man out of the dreary "rut" and give that +_soupcon_ of something-to-live-for which can take the ordinary everyday +and turn it into a day which belongs to the _extraordinary_. For myself, +I like to get out into the country alone; or, if I can't do that, or the +weather sees to it that I shan't, I like to get by myself--anywhere to +dream, or, preferably, to explore some unknown district or street or +place in my own company. Sometimes I find that to open a new book or a +favourite old one, soon takes the edge off "edgyness," and makes me see +that the pin-pricks of life are merely pin-pricks, from which, unless +there are too many of them, I shan't die, however much I may suffer. But +even when reading--I like best to read alone--I am never really at ease +when at any moment a companion may suddenly break the silence and bring +me back to reality by asking the unseen listening gods "if they've locked +the cat out?" You condemn me? Well, perhaps I am wrong. And if you can +find happiness perpetually surrounded by people, then I envy you. It is +so much easier to go through life requiring nothing but food, friends, +and a bank balance, than always to hide misanthropic tendencies behind a +social smile. I envy you, because I realise that the fight to be alone, +the fight to be yourself, is the longest fight of all--and it lays you +open to suspicion, unfriendliness, even dislike, everywhere you go. But, +if I must be honest, I will confess that I _hate_ social pastimes. To +work and to dream, to travel, to listen to music, to be in England in the +springtime, to read, to give of myself to those who most specially need +me--if any there be?--that is what I now call happiness, the rest is +merely boredom in varying degree. My only regret is that one has +generally to live so long to discover what the constituents of happiness +are, or what is worth while and what worthless; what makes you feel that +the everyday is a day well spent, and not a day merely got through +somehow or other. You lose so much of your youth, and the best years of +your life, trying to find happiness along those paths where other people +informed you that it lay. It takes so many years of experience to +realise that most of the things which men call "pleasure" are but, as it +were, tough dulness covered with piquant sauce--a tough mess of which, +when you tire of the piquant sauce the toughness remains just so long as +you go on trying to eat it. + + + + +_Over the Fireside_ + +Most especially do I feel sorry for those people who cannot find a +certain illusion of happiness in reading. I thank whatever gods there be +that I can generally find the means of "getting-away" between the covers +of a book. A book has to be very puerile indeed if I cannot enjoy it to +a certain extent--even though that extent be merely a mild ridicule and +amusement. I can even enjoy books about books--if they are very well +done, which is rare. I am not particularly interested in +authors--especially the photographs of authors, which usually come upon +their admirers with something approaching shock--because I always think +that the most interesting part of an author is what he writes, not what +he looks like. What he writes is generally what he _is_. You can't keep +everything of yourself out of anything you may write--and thank Heaven +for it! Apart from the story--often indeed, before the story itself--the +most delightful parts of any book are the little gleams of the writer's +point of view, of his philosophy, of his own life-experiences, which +glint through the matter in hand, and sometimes raise a commonplace +narrative into a volume of sheer entrancing joy. And perhaps one of the +most difficult things to write is to write about books--I don't mean +"reviews." (Almost anybody can give their opinion on books they have +read, and tell you something about them--which is nine hundred and ninety +per cent. of literary reviews.) But to write about books in a way which +amuses you, or interests you, and makes you want immediately to read the +book in question--that is a more difficult feat. And sometimes what the +writer about books says about books is more entertaining than the books +themselves. But then that is because of those little gleams of the +personal which are always so delightful to find anywhere. + + + + +_Faith Reached Through Bitterness and Loss_ + +Looking back on one's life, I always think it is so strange that just +those blows of fate which logic would consider as certain to destroy such +things as Faith and Belief, optimism and steadfastness of soul-vision, so +many times provide their very foundations. How often those whose Belief +in a Life Hereafter is the firmest have little reason to encourage that +belief. We often find through sorrow, a happiness--no, not happiness, +but a peace--which is enduring. When the waves of agnosticism and +atheism have broken over our souls, the ebb tide is so often Faith and +Hope. And, as we approach nearer and nearer to the time when, in the +ordinary course of events, we so soon _shall know_, there creeps into our +hearts a certainty that all is not ended with life, a belief which defies +reason, and logic, and common sense, and which, to outsiders, often +appears to be merely a clutching at straws. But these straws save us, +and, through their means, we eventually reach the shore where doubts +cannot flourish and agnosticism gives way to a Faith which we _feel_ more +than we can actually define. + + + + +_Aristocracy and Democracy_ + +I believe in the _heart_ of democracy, but I am extremely suspicious of +its _head_. Popular education among the masses is the most derelict +thing in all our much-vaunted civilisation. To talk to the masses +concerning anything outside the radius of their own homes and stomachs +is, for the most part, like talking to children. It is not their fault. +They have never had a real chance to be otherwise. When I contemplate +the kind of education which the average child of the slums and country +villages is given--and the type of man and woman who is popularly +supposed to be competent to give it--I do not wonder that they are the +victims of any firebrand, crank, or plutocrat who comes to them and sails +into the Mother-of-All-Parliaments upon their votes. For the last six +years I have been placed in circumstances which have enabled me to +observe the results of what education has done for the average poor man. +The result has made me angry and appalled. The figure is low when I +declare that ninety per cent. of the poor not only cannot write the +King's English, but can neither read it nor understand it--beyond the +everyday common words which a child of twelve uses in his daily +vocabulary. Of history, of geography, of the art and literature of his +country, of politics or law, of domestic economy--he knows absolutely +nothing. Nothing of any real value is taught him. Even what he knows he +knows so imperfectly that absolute ignorance were perhaps a healthier +mental state. Until education is regarded with the same seriousness as +the law, it is hopeless to expect a new and better world. For education +is the very foundation of this finer existence. You can't expect an A1 +nation among B3 intellects. Ornamental education is not wanted--it is +worse than useless until a _useful education_ has been inculcated. And +what is a useful education? It is an education which teaches a man and +woman to be of some immediate use in the world; to know something of the +world in which they live, and how best to fulfil their duty as useful +members of a community and in the world at large. At present the average +boy and girl are, as it were, educationally dragged up anyhow and +launched upon the world at the first possible moment to earn the few +shillings which two hands and an undeveloped intelligence are worth in +the labour market. No wonder there is Bolshevism and class war and +anarchy and revolution. Where the ruled are ignorant and the ruling +selfish--you can never expect to found a new and happier world. + + + + +_Duty_ + +As for a sense of duty, to talk to the average man and woman, no matter +what may be their class in life, of a sense of duty, is rather like +reading Shakespeare to a man who is stone deaf. And yet, an education +which does not at the same time seek to teach duty--duty to oneself, to +the state, to humanity at large--is no real education at all. But in the +world in which we live at present, a sense of duty is regarded as +nonsense. Labour does not realise its duties, neither does wealth; +neither does the Church, except to churchmen; nor Parliament, except to +the party which provides its funds. And yet, as I said before, a sense +of duty is the very foundation of all real education. + +Even if the children of the poor were taught the rudiments of some trade +while they were at school, the years they spend there would not be so +utterly and entirely wasted. Even though they did not follow up that +trade as their occupation in life, it would at any rate give them some +useful interest in their hours of recreation. As it is they know +nothing, so they are interested in nothing. And this, of course, applies +to the so-called educated people as well. It always amuses me to listen +to the well-to-do discussing the working classes. To hear them one would +think that the working classes were the only people who wasted their +time, their money, and their store of health. It never seems to strike +them that the working classes for the most part live in surroundings +which contain no interest whatsoever--apart from their work. They are +given education--and _such_ education! They are given homes--and _such_ +homes! They are plentifully supplied with public houses--and ye gods, +such public houses! The Government hardly realises yet that it is there, +not to listen to its own voice and keep its own little tin-pot throne +intact, but as a means by which the masses may arrive at a healthier, +better, more worthy state of existence. The working-classes are not +Bolshevik, nor do I think they ever will be; but deep down in their +hearts there is a determination that they and their children shall +receive the same educational advantages, the same right to air and light +and decent amusement, as the children of the wealthy. Because I am poor, +they say to themselves, why should I therefore have to inhabit a home +unfit for decent habitation, receive education utterly useless from every +practical point of view--be forced to live in surroundings which +absolutely invite degradation of both mind and body? There will always +be poverty, but there ought never to be indecent poverty. Better +education; better housing; better chances for healthy recreation--these +are the things for which the masses are clamouring. Why is it wrong for +a workman who has made money during the war to buy a piano--and to hear +people talk that seems to be one of their most dastardly crimes--when it +is quite all right for his employer, who has made more money out of the +war, to pay five pounds for one good dinner, or a night's "jazzing"? + + + + +_Sweeping Assertions from Particular Instances_ + +And this mention of the piano-crime among the munition-makers brings me +to another fact--how utterly impossible it is for the majority of people +to judge any big scheme without having regard to the particular instances +which threaten its success. Because some working people are so utterly +bestial that they are unfit to live in decent homes--so the majority of +poor people are unworthy of better surroundings. You might just as well +judge the ruling classes by the few units who advertise their own +extravagant tom-fooleries! In all questions of reform you have to work, +as it were, up to the vision of an ideal. The real, however +disappointing at the outset, will eventually reach the higher plane--of +that I am certain. And in no question am I more certain of this than in +the question of the working classes. The heart of democracy, as I said +before, is absolutely in the right place; only its "head" is as yet +undeveloped. Its mental "view" is restricted--and no wonder! Everything +that has so far been done has helped to restrict that view. This war has +let more "light" into the "soul" of democracy than all the national +so-called education which has ever been devised and made compulsory. +Confiscation of property and all those other tom-fool cries are but the +screams of a handful of silly Bolsheviks. There is no echo in the heart +of the real labouring men and women. If they applaud it, it is only that +these cranks, at least, seem to be fighting for that human right to an +equal share of the common good things of this life which ought to be the +possession of all labour, however lowly. Take the education of the +masses out of the hands of the for the most part ignorant men and women +who nowadays make it their profession to teach it; raise the standard of +payment so that this all-important branch of citizenship will encourage +educated and refined men and women to take up that duty--and give the +working classes decent homes, plenty of air, and the chance of healthful +recreation close at hand, and you have solved the most vital labour +problems of this old world of ours and laid the foundation stones of the +new. + + + + +_How I came to make "History"!_ + +Only those who have worked in the offices of an important newspaper, know +that the Power Behind the Throne--which is the Editorial Chair--is rarely +the Church, scarcely ever the State, infrequently the Capitalist, and +_never_ Labour,--but simply the Advertisement Department. + +I was sitting the other afternoon--dreaming, as is my wont; and smoking +cigarettes, which is one of my bad habits,--when the head-representative +of this unseen Power rushed into my sanctum. + +"Will you do something for me?" he demanded, with that beneficent smile +on his face which, through experience, I have discovered to be the +prelude of most disagreeable demands. + +"Certainly," I answered, inwardly collecting my scattered brains +preparatory to a brilliant defence. "What is it?" + +Without more ado he, as it were, threw his bomb. + +"Will you write me an Essay on Corsets?" + +"On _what_?" I asked incredulously--knowing that he had been a +distinguished soldier, and suspecting that he had suddenly developed what +the soldiers describe as "a touch of the doolally." + +"On _Corsets_!" + +"But I don't know anything about them," I protested, "except that I +should not like to wear them!" + +"That doesn't matter," he answered reassuringly. "All we want is a page +of 'matter.'" + +Then he proceeded to explain that he had secured several highly-paid +advertisements from the leading corsetieres, and that his "bright idea" +was to connect them together by an essay illustrated by their wares, in +order that those who read might be attracted to buy. + +Then he left me. + +"Just write a history of corsets," he cried out laughing. Then, by way +of decorating the "bitter pill" with jam, he added: "I'm _sure_ you'll do +it _splendidly_!" + +"Splendidly" I know I could not do it, but to do it--rather amused me. + +After all, there is one benefit in writing of something you know nothing +about (and you are certain that ninety-nine per cent. of your readers +will not be able to enlighten you) the necessity for accuracy does not +arise. And so, I settled myself down to invent "history," and, if my +historical narrative is all invention, I can defend myself by saying that +if it isn't _true_--it _might be_. And many historical romances cannot +boast even that defence. + +Most people who write about the early history of the world have to guess +a good deal; so I don't see why I shouldn't state emphatically that, +after years and years and years of profound research, the first corset +"happened" when Eve suddenly discovered that she was showing signs of +middle-age in the middle. So she plaited some reeds together, tied them +tightly round her waist-line, and, sure enough, Adam had to put off +making that joke about "Once round Eve's waist, twice round the Garden of +Eden" for many moons. But Eve, I suppose, discovered later on, as many a +woman has also discovered since her day, that, though a tight belt maketh +the waistline small, the body bulgeth above and below eventually. So Eve +began making a still wider plait--chasing, as it were, the "bulge" all +over her body. In this manner she at last became encased in a belt wide +enough to imprison her torso quite _un_comfortably, but "she kept her +figure"--or thought she did--and thus easily passed for one hundred and +fifty years old when, in reality, she was over six hundred. + +And every woman who is an "Eve" at heart has followed in her time the +example of the mother of all of 'em. As they begin to fatten, so they +begin to tighten, and the inevitable and consequential "bulge" is +imprisoned as it "bulgeth" until no _corsetiere_ can do more for them +than hint that men like their divinities a trifle plump in places. But +to arrive at this--the last and only consolation--a woman has to become +rigidly encased from her thighs almost to her neck. She can scarcely +walk and she can hardly breathe, and the fat which must go somewhere has +usually gone to her neck, but--thank Heaven!--"she has kept her figure" +(or she likes to think she has), and many a woman would sooner lose her +character than lose her "line." + +You may think that this only applies to frivolous and silly women, but +you are wrong. It applied even to goddesses! Historians inform us that +the haughty Juno, discovering that her husband, Jupiter, was going the +way of all flesh and nearly every husband, borrowed her girdle from +Venus, with the result that when Jupiter returned home that evening from +business, he stayed with his wife--the club calling him in vain. Thus +was Juno justified of her "tightness." + +But then, many a wife has cause to look upon a well-cut corset as her +best friend. And many a husband, too, has every reason to be grateful to +that article of his wife's apparel which the vulgar _will_ call "stays." +In earlier days a husband used to lock his wife in a pair of iron-bound +corsets when he went away from home, keeping the key in his pocket, and +thus not caring a tinker's cuss if his home were simply overflowing with +handsome gentleman lodgers! The poor wife couldn't retaliate by locking +her husband in such a virtuous prison, because men never wore such +things--which, perhaps, was one or the reasons why they didn't, who knows? + +Also, the corset--or rather, the "bulge" of middle-age, which was the +real cause of their ever being worn--has always strongly influenced the +fashions. I don't know it as a positive fact, though I suspect it to be +true nevertheless, that the woman of fashion who first discovered that no +amount of iron bars could keep her from bulging in the right place, but +to the wrong extent, suddenly, thought of the pannier and the crinoline +and--well, that's where _she_ found that she was laughing. For almost +any woman can make her waist-line small: her trouble only really comes +when she has to tackle other parts of her anatomy which begin to show the +thickening of Anno Domini. Panniers and the crinoline save her an +enormous amount of mental agony. On the principle of "What the eye +doesn't see, to the imagination looks beautiful"--the early Victorian +lady was wise in her generation, and her modern sister, who shows the +world most things without considering whether what she exhibits is worth +looking at, is an extremely foolish person. One thing, however, which +women have never been able to fix definitely, is _exactly where_ her +waist should be. Men know where it is, and they put their arms round it +instinctively whenever they get the chance. But women change their mind +about it every few years. Sometimes it is down-down-down, and sometimes +it is under their armpits. A few years ago a woman who had what is known +as a "short waist" was referred to by other women as a "Poor Thing." +Then the short-waisted woman came into fashion--or rather, fashions +fashioned themselves for her benefit--and her long-waisted sister had to +struggle to make her waist look to be where really her ribs were. Only a +few weeks back a woman's waist and bust and hips had all to be definitely +defined. Nowadays they bundle them all, as it were, into clothes cut in +a sack-line, and are the very last letter of the very latest word in +fashion. I can well imagine that a few years hence women will be as +severely corseted as they were a short time ago. + +I can well remember the time when a woman who held "views" and discarded +her stays sent a shudder through the man who was forced to dance with +her--though whether they were pleasurable shudders or merely shuddery +shudders I do not know. Nowadays, the woman who wears an out-and-out +corset, tightly laced, is either a publican's wife or is just bursting +with middle age. The corset of to-day is little more than the original +plaited grass originated by Mother Eve--in width, that is; in texture it +is of a luxury unimaginable in the Garden of Eden. + +Women are not so concerned nowadays that their waist should be the +eighteen inches of 1890 beauty as that their figure elsewhere should not +presume their condition to be at once national and domestic. The modern +corset starts soon and finishes quite early. Thus the cycle from Mother +Eve is now complete. "As we were" has once more repeated itself. + +The only novelty which belongs to to-day is that _men_ are wearing +corsets more than ever. A well-known _corsetiere_ has opened a special +branch for her male customers alone. Their corsets, too, are of a most +beautiful and elaborate description--ranging from the plain belt of the +famous athlete to the brocade, rosebud-embroidered "confection" of a +well-known general. Perhaps--say fifty years hence--my grandson will be +writing of male lingerie, and men will rather lose their reputations than +lose their figure. Well, well! if we live in a topsy-turvy world--as +they say we do--let's all be topsy-turvy! + + + + +_The Glut of the Ornamental_ + +How strange it is that human endeavour is, for the most part, always +expended upon accomplishing something for which no one has any particular +use, while the things which, as it were, are simply begging to be done, +are usually among the great "undone" for which we ask forgiveness every +Sunday morning in church--that is, presuming we go to church. While +there is a world shortage of cooks, the earth is stuffed with lady +typists far beyond repletion. Whereas you can always buy a diamond +necklace (if you have the money), you can hardly find a tiny house, even +if you throw "love" in with the payment. Where you may find a hundred +people to do what you don't want, you will be extremely lucky if you come +across even one ready and willing to do what you really require done. +Nobody seems to like to be merely useful; they would far sooner be +ornamental--and starve. Where a man can have the choice of a thousand +girls who can't even stitch a button on a pillow-case, the feminine +expert in domestic economy will go on economising all by herself, until +the only man who takes any real interest in her is the undertaker! It is +all very strange, and very unaccountable. But I suppose it will forever +continue thuswise until the world ceases to lay its laurels at the foot +of Mary and to give Martha the "go by." + +I never can quite understand why the bank clerk who marries a chemist's +"lady" assistant is not considered to marry very much beneath him, +whereas if he elopes with a cook we speak of it as a complete +mesalliance. But the cook would, after all, prove extremely useful to +him, whereas the chemist's "lady" assistant could only make use other +knowledge to poison him one evening without pain. In the same way, if a +bankrupt "Milord" takes in "holy matrimony" a barmaid with a good +business head, the world wonders what heaven was doing to make such an +appalling match. Should, however, he marry "a lady of title" who is +entitled to nothing under the will of her late father, the Duke of +Poundfoolish-pennywise, and can't earn anything herself, the marriage is +spoken of as a romance, and the Church blesses it--and so does the most +exclusive society in Balham. Utility seems never to be wanted. The +world only asks for ornaments. + +It is the same in the drama, where Miss Peggy Prettylegs of the Frivolity +Follies will draw the salary of a Prime Minister for showing her surname, +while Miss Georgiana de Montmorency, the actress who knows Shakspere so +intimately that she mutters "Dear old Will" in her sleep, is resting so +long in her top flat in Bloomsbury that if she lived on the ground floor +she would inevitably take root. + +It is the same in literature, where "Burnt Out Passion" runs through +sixty editions and dies gloriously in a cheap edition with a +highly-coloured cover on the railway book-stalls, while Professor I. +Knowall's wonderful treatise on "What is the Real Origin of Life?" has to +be bought by subscription, with the Professor's rich wife as principal +purchaser. + +It is the same in love, where the worst husbands have the most loving +wives, and a good wife lives for years with a positive "horror," and is +never known really to smile until she lies dead in her bed! + +It is the same in art . . . and yet it is not quite the same here, +because the picture which "sells," and is reproduced on post cards, +generally inculcates a respectable moral, even though the sight of it +sends the artistic almost insane. And yet, where you can find a hundred +houses the interiors of which are covered in wallpapers which make you +want to scream, you will find only a comparative few who prove by their +beauty of design just exactly why they were chosen--and these rooms, in +parenthesis, are never let as lodgings. + +Not that there seems any cure for this world-wide rage for the useless. +We have just to accept it as a fact--and _wonder_! Meanwhile we have to +make the best of the men and women who, metaphorically speaking, would +far sooner sit dressed in the very latest fashion, underclothed in cheap +flannelette, than buy dainty, real linen "undies," and make last year's +"do-up" do for this year's "best." + + + + +_On Going "to the dogs"_ + +I always secretly wonder what people mean when they say they are "going +to the dogs." Do they mean that they are going to enjoy themselves +thoroughly, with Hell at the end of it?--or do they mean that they are +going to raise Hell in their neighbourhood and prevent everybody else +from enjoying themselves? Personally, I always think that it is a very +empty threat--one usually employed by disillusioned lovers or children. +From the casual study I have made of the authorised "dogs," I find them +unutterably boring "bow-wows." Of course, I am not exactly a canine +expert. Like most men, I have ventured near the kennels once or twice, +and made good my escape almost at the first sound of a real bark. People +who are habitually immoral, who make a habit of breaking all the +Commandments, are rarely any other than very wearisome company. What +real lasting joy is there in a "wild night up West" if you have a "head" +on you next morning that you would pay handsomely to get rid of, and a +"mouth"? . . . "Oh, my dear, _such a_ 'mouth'! Appalling!" Besides, +the men and women who are in the race with you are usually such dreary +company. Either they are so naturally bad that they do not possess the +attraction of contrast or variety, or else they are so bitterly repentant +that one has to sit and endure from them long stories proving that they +are more sinned against than sinning, or that they all belong to old +"county families," or are the left-handed offspring of real earls. In +any case, one must needs open yet another bottle to endure the fiction to +the end. + +No, I have long since come to the conclusion that most people don't +really enjoy themselves a bit when they are _determined_ to do so. They +only have a thoroughly "good time" unexpectedly, or when they oughtn't to +have it. Of course, there is always the question whether people are most +happy when they don't _look so_, and whether they are usually most +miserable when apparently smiling their delight. At any rate, if there +be one day, or days, in the whole year when all England looks utterly +miserable, it is on a fine Bank Holiday or at a picnic. Of course, the +newspapers will tell you, for example, that Hampstead Heath was +positively pink with happy, smiling faces. But if you did find yourself +in the midst of the Bank Holiday crush, you would be struck by the hot, +irritated, bored, and weary look of this "happy crowd." Even at the +Derby, the only people you see there who, if they are not happy, at least +look so, are those who have just come out of the saloon bar. +Occasionally, someone here or there will let the exuberance of his +"spirits" overflow, but he won't get much encouragement from the rest of +his listeners squashed together in the same char-a-banc. At the most +they will look at each other and smile in a half-discouraging manner, as +if to say, "Yes, dear, he _is_ very funny. But what a common man!" It +is all rather depressing. Only a street accident or standing in a queue +will make the majority of English people really animated. No wonder that +foreigners believe that we take our pleasures sadly. They only observe +us when we are out to enjoy ourselves. But if they could see us at a +funeral, or when we're suffering from cold feet, then they'd see us +smiling and singing! No wonder the French have never really recovered +from the gaiety of the British soldier as he went into battle. But if +they really want to see the average Britisher looking every bit as +phlegmatic as his Continental reputation, they should look at him when +he's out for a day's gaiety. No wonder that men, when they "go to the +dogs," go to Paris. "The dogs" at home are too much like a moral purge +to make a long stay in the "kennel" anything but a most determined effort +of the will. We possess, as a nation, so strangely the joie de mourir +without much knowledge of the joie de vivre. + + + + +_A School for Wives_ + +All marriage is a lottery--that is why the modern tendency is to examine +both sides of the hedge before you ask someone to jump over it with you. +A single man may be said to have his own career in his own hands; but +once married, he runs the risk of having to begin all over again, and +recommence with a load on his back. A good wife can make a man, but a +bad wife can undo a saint. And how's he to know if she be a good wife or +a bad 'un _until she's his wife_, which is just too late, as the corpse +said to the tax collector. You see, a man has nothing to go on, except +to look at what might be his mother-in-law. A girl is far more +fortunate. If a man can afford to keep a wife, he's already passed the +examination as a "highly recommended." He, at any rate, has to take +marriage seriously. No man wants to put his hard-earned savings into a +purse with a hole at the bottom, nor live with a woman who begins to +"nag" the moment she ceases to snore. If only women were brought up with +the idea that marriage is a very serious business, and not merely the +chance to cock-a-snook at Mamma, marriage would be far less often a +failure. But most girls are brought up to regard the serious business of +matrimony from the problematical point of view of whether her husband +will earn enough money to give her a "good time." If it be a "serious +business," as Mamma and Papa and the parish priest assert it to be, then +let her begin as she would begin a business, by starting to learn it. I +don't see why there shouldn't be a School for Wives, and no girl be +allowed to marry until she has at least passed the fourth standard. +After all, it is only fair on the man that he should know that with the +sweetest-dearest-loveliest-little-darlikins-in-the-whole-world he is also +getting a woman who knows how to boil an egg, and make an old mutton bone +and a few potatoes go metaphorical _miles_. The knowledge would be a +great comfort to him when his little "darlikins'" feet-of-clay began to +show through her silk stockings. As it is, marriage to him is little but +a supreme example of buying a pig in a poke, followed by an immediate +slump in his own special purchase. + +I never can understand why women immediately become "ruffled" when a mere +man suggests that, if marriage be a serious business, the least a girl +can do is to learn the business side of that business before she enters +into partnership. But "ruffle" they do. Also they think that you have +insulted the sex, rather as if you had accosted a goddess with a +"tickler," or stood before the Sphynx and, regarding her mysterious +smile, said, "Give it up, old Bean!" For, after all, if the man has to +pay the piper, it's up to the woman to know how to make a tune! As it +is, so many husbands seem to make money for their wives to waste it. No +wonder there are so many bachelors about, and no wonder there is an +outcry to "tax them." Even then many men will pay the tax gladly, plus +an entertainment tax if necessary--who knows? For elder people are so +fond of drilling into the ears of youth the truism that passion dies and +that marriage, to be successful, must be founded upon something more +enduring than a feeling of delirium under the stars. That is why a +School for Wives would be so useful. After passion is dead, it would be +a poor creature of a husband who couldn't find comfort living in the same +house with a woman who had obtained her certificate for economical +housekeeping and sock-mending. You see, the home is the wife's part of +the business. The husband only comes in on sufferance, to pay the bills, +listen to complaints, and be a "man about the place," should a man be +required. A happy home, a comfortable home, that is a wife's creation. +But she can't create the proper atmosphere merely by being an expert on +Futurism in music, nor by possessing a back which it would be a crime of +fashion not to lay bare. She has got to know the business side of +housekeeping and home economics before an indifferent husband can be +turned into a good one. You ask, why not a School for Husbands? Well, +husbands have passed their "final" when they have earned enough money to +keep a wife. The husband provides the house and the wife makes the home. +But most wrecked homes are wrecked through ignorance, so why not let +wisdom be taught? A well-run home is three parts of a happy one. And if +the other part be missing--well, let's have a divorce. Easy divorce +certainly encourages domestic mess-ups, but they are not half such a +"mess" as the mess of a matrimonial "hash." The home is the other side +of a man's business, the side which his wife runs. Well, as he has had +to study to work up his side, why let hers be such a "jump in the dark," +for him? Let the home become a study, even a science, and let not so +many wives reach a forgivable level of domestic excellence on the "dead +bodies" of so many unforgivable "bloomers." Remember that in matrimony, +as in everything else it is the premier "bloomer" which blows up les +chateaux en Espagne. Afterwards you have to use concrete--and build as +you may. + + + + +_The Neglected Art of Eating Gracefully_ + +Were it not for the fact that we are usually eating at the same time, and +so in no mood to criticise the mastication of others, I am sure that not +half so many people would fall into love, nor be able to keep up the +passionate illusion when fate had pushed them into it. For to watch +people eat is, as a rule, to see them at the same disadvantage as the +housemaid sees them when she calls them in the morning. Very few people +can eat prettily. The majority "munch" in a most unbecoming fashion. +For, say what you will, to eat may possibly be delightful, but it is +certainly not a romantic episode of the everyday. True, restaurants have +done their best to add glamour to our daily chewing. And the better the +cuisine, the less time we have for regarding others. That is why +hostesses are usually so harassed over their menus. Very few guests +arrive really hungry. So she has to entice, as it were, the already +replete stomach by delicacies which it really doesn't want, but is not +too distended to enjoy. Thus they are kept busy all the time, and have +no leisure to observe. But I always wish that part of our education +included a course of lessons in the art of eating enough, and of eating +it elegantly. Not one person in a hundred is anything but a monstrous +spectacle in front of a plateful of stewed tripe. But, as I said before, +we are, happily, so busy with our own plateful at the time that we have +usually no leisure to regard their stuffing. Personally, I always think +that the only way to enjoy a really good dinner is to eat it alone. +People are delightful over coffee, but I want only my dreams with salmon +mayonnaise. + +Of course you _can_ eat _and_ talk, but only the exceptionally clever +people can talk and enjoy what they eat. I always envy them. Many an +excellent dinner have I lost to all intents and purposes because my +companion insisted on being "lively," and expected a "certain liveliness" +on my front at the same moment. If you _must_ eat in company--then two +is an ideal number. But don't place your companion opposite you. Many a +"sweet nothing" has been lost in bitterness because the person to whom it +was addressed saw inevitably a morsel of caviare preparing to become +nourishment. No, the best place for a solitary companion at meals is, +either on the right or on the left, never immediately in front. I have +sat opposite some of the most handsome people, and wished all the time +that I could have changed them into a "view of sheep"--even one of a +brick wall would have been better than nothing. When you are talking to +someone at your side, you can turn your face in their direction for the +first few words, and then look at something else for the rest of the +sentence. But if you turn your head away while talking to someone +immediately in front of you--if not necessarily rude, it gives at least +the impression that you are merely talking because to talk is expected of +you, otherwise you are slightly bored. I know that the popular picture +of an Ideal Dinner for Two is one of an exquisitely gowned woman sitting +so close to the man-she-loves that only a spiral table decoration +prevents their noses from rubbing; with a quart bottle of champagne +reclining in a drunken attitude in a bucket of ice, and a basket of +choice fruit untouched on the table. But if you examine that picture of +the ideal, you will always discover that the artist has missed the ugly +foundations of his fancy, as it were, by jumping over the soup and fish, +the joint, the entree, and the sweet, and has got his lovers to the +coffee, the cigar-and-liqueur stage, when, if the truth be known, all the +hurdles over which the "horse of disillusion" may come a nasty cropper +have been passed. So, if you be wise, sit on the side of your +best-beloved until the nourishing part of your gastronomic "enfin seul" +is over; and then, if you must gaze into his eyes and he into yours, move +your seat round--and your evening will probably end by both of you being +in the same infatuated state in which you began it. It is only by the +strictest attention to the most minor among the minor details of life, +that a clever woman is able to keep up the reputation of charm and beauty +among her closest intimates. She realises that Nature has given to very +few people a "sneeze" which is not something of an offence, and that not +even one possessing the loveliness of Ninon de l'Enclos can look anything +but a monstrous spectacle when a crumb "goes down the wrong way." But +there are other "pitfalls" which it is in the power of all of us to +avoid, and the "pitfall" of eating ungracefully is not the least among +them. + + + + +_Modern Clothes_ + +I often think that, if those "Old walls only could speak"--as the +"tripper" yearns for them to do, because he can't think of anything else +to remark at the moment--all they would say to him would be the words, +"For God's sake, you guys, CLEAR OUT!" As a matter of fact, it is just +as well that old walls can't talk, or they might tell us what they +thought of us; and you can't knock out a stone wall--at least, not with +any prospect of success--in a couple of rounds. For we must look very +absurd in the eyes of those who have watched mankind get more absurd and +more absurd-looking throughout the ages. Take, for example, our clothes. +No one could possibly call them comfortable, and, were we not so used to +seeing them ourselves, we should probably call them ugly as well. In the +autumn of 1914 we suddenly woke up to the fact that we belonged to a very +good-looking nation. It was, of course, the cut of the uniform which +effected this transformation. It not only showed off a man's figure, but +it often showed it up--and that is the first and biggest step towards a +man improving it. Sometimes it gave a man a figure who before possessed +merely elongation with practically no width. But the days of khaki are +over--thank God for the cause, but aesthetically it's a pity. We have +returned to the drab and shoddy days of dress before the war, and men +look more shoddy and more drab than ever. + +Surely clothes are designed, apart from their warmth, to make the best +show of the body which is in them. Having discovered that style in which +the average man or woman looks his very best, it seemed so needlessly +ridiculous to keep changing it. Beauty and comfort--that surely is the +_raison d'etre_ of apparel--apart from modesty, which, however, a few fig +leaves can satisfy. Fashion opens the gate, as it were, and we pass +through it, one by one, like foolish sheep--without a sheep's general +utility. Mr. Smith, who is short, fat, and podgy, dresses exactly like +Mr. Brown, who is tall, muscular, and well proportioned. Mr. Smith would +not look so dreadful if he wore a coat well "skirted" below the waist, +with tight-fitting knickerbockers and stockings. Mr. Brown's muscles and +fine proportions are very nearly lost in a coat and trousers, which only +make his muscular development look like fat and his fine proportions +merely breadth without much shape. Mrs. Smith, who is modelled on the +lines of Venus, bares her back at the dictates of some obscure couturiere +in Paris, and the result gives a certain aesthetic pleasure. Mrs. Brown, +determined also to be in the fashion, valiantly strips herself, and looks +like a bladder of not particularly fresh lard! Were she to wear a +modified fashion of the mode 1760 she would probably look almost charming. + +And so we might go on citing examples and improvements until we had +tabulated and docketed every human being. For an absolute proof that the +present mode of dressing for both men and women is generally wrong, is, +that the men and women who look best in it are those who possess bones +without flesh, length with just that one suggestion of a curve common to +all humanity. And think how much more interesting the world would be +were each of us to dress in that style which showed our good points to +advantage. For, after all, what is the object of clothes, apart from +modesty and warmth--which a blanket and a few safety pins could +satisfy--if it be not to create an effect pleasant to the eye. And why, +when once we have discovered a style which certainly makes the majority +of people look their best, should we wilfully discard it and return to +the unimaginative and drab? We complain that the world of to-day, +whatever may be said in its favour, cannot possibly be called +picturesque. Well let us _make_ it picturesque! And having made it more +beautiful--for Heaven's sake let us _KEEP_ it beautiful. Let it be a +sign of cowardice--not one of the greatest signs of courage of the +age--to fail to put on overalls, if we look our best in them! After all, +every reform is in our own hands. But most people seem so entirely +helpless to do anything but, metaphorically speaking, flick a fly off +their own noses, that they leave reformation to God, and look upon their +own unbeautiful effect and the unbeautiful effect of other men as an act +of blind destiny. So we, as it were, sigh "Kismet"--in front of garments +which a monkey, with any logic or reason in his composition, would not +deign to wear. Yes, certainly, if "these old walls could only speak," +they would tell us a few home truths. Our ears would surely burn at +their eloquence. + + + + +_A Sense of Universal Pity_ + +Nearly everybody can "feel sorry"--some, extremely so! Lots of people +can exclaim, "How ghastly!" in front of a mangled corpse--and then pass +shudderingly on their way with a prayer in their hearts that the dead +body isn't their own, nor one belonging to their friends and +acquaintances. But very few people, it seems to me, possess what I will +call a sense of universal pity, which is the intuition to know and +sympathise with people "who have never had a chance"; with men and women +who have never had "their little day"; with the poor, and hungry, and +needy; with those whom the world condemns, and the righteous consider +more worthy of censure than of pity. That is to say, while nearly +everybody can sympathise with a tragedy so palpable that a dog could +perceive it, there are very few people who can sympathise with the misery +which lies behind a smiling face, that sorrow of the "soul" which would +sooner die than be found out. They can realise the tragedy of a broken +back, but they cannot realise the tragedy of a broken heart, still less +of a broken spirit. And if that heart and that spirit struggle to hide +their unshed tears behind a mask of cheerfulness, or bravado, or +assumed--and sometimes very real--courage, they neither can perceive it +nor realise it, and the well-spring of their sympathy, should it be +pointed out to them, is a very faint and uncertain trickle indeed. Most +of us like to take the sorrows of other people merely at their face +value, and if the face be cheerful our imagination does not pierce behind +that mask to take, as it were, the secret sorrow in its all-loving arms. +But personally, to my mind, the easiest sorrows of all to bear are the +sorrows which need not be hidden, which, maybe, cannot be hidden, and +which bring all our friends and neighbours around us in one big echoing +wail. The sorrows which are the real tragedies are the sorrows which we +carry in our hearts every hour of our lives, which stalk beside us in our +days of happy carelessness, and add to the misery of our days of woe. We +do not speak of them--they are too personal for that. We could not well +describe them--their history would be to tell the whole story of our +lives. But we know that they are there nevertheless. And the men or +women who are our intimates, if they do not perceive something of this +shadow behind our smiles, can never call themselves our friends, although +we may live in the same house with them and exist side by side on the +most friendly terms. That is why, if we probe deep down into the hearts +of most men and women, we discover that, in spite of all their gaiety and +all their outward courage, inside they are very desolate, and in their +hearts they are indescribably lonely. + + + + +_The Few_ + +But just a few people seem to be enabled to see beneath the surface of +things. Around them they seem to shed an extraordinary kind of +understanding sympathy. They are not entirely the "people in trouble" +who appeal to them; rather they seem able to perceive the misery of a +"state of life"--something which obtains no sympathy because people +either condemn it or fail to realise the steps which led up to it--in the +long, long ago. To them, everybody unfortunate--whether it be by their +own fault or by the economic, moral, or social laws of the +country--arouses their sympathy. It would seem as if Nature had given +them the gift of intuition into another's sorrow--especially when that +sorrow is not apparent to the outside world. You will find these people +working, for the most part, among the poor and needy, in the slums of big +cities, in the midst of men and women whose life is one long, hard +struggle to keep both ends meeting until death releases them from the +treadmill which is their life. They do not advertise themselves nor +their philanthropy. One often never hears of them at all--until they are +dead. They do not seek to hide their light under a bushel, because to +them all self-advertisement is indecent. They do not realise that what +they do is "light" at all. But the world does not realise all that it +owes to these unknown men and women, whose sympathies are so wide, so +all-absorbing, that they can give up their lives to minister to the +sorrows and hardships of others--and, in succouring them, find their only +reward. I have known one or two of these people in my life, and they +have given me a clearer insight into the nobility inherent in human +nature than all the saints whose virtues were ever chronicled, than all +the wealthy philanthropists whose gifts and generosity were ever +overpraised. + + + + +_The Great and the Really Great_ + +I always think that one of the most amusing things (to watch), in all +life, is what I term the "Kaiser-spirit" in individuals. Nearly everyone +mistakes the trimmings of greatness for the real article, and most people +would sooner expire than not be able to flaunt these wrappings, or the +rags or them, before somebody's eyes. And this spirit exists in +individuals in almost every grade of society; until you get to the rock +bottom of existence, when the immediate problems of life are so menacing +that men and women dare not play about with the gilded imitations. This +"Kaiser-spirit"--or the spirit which, if it can't inspire homage, will +buy the "props" of it and sit among the hired gorgeousness in the full +belief that their own individual greatness has deserved it--is +everywhere. Very few men and women are content to be simply men and +women. They all seek strenuously to be mistaken for Great Panjandrums. +The woman who takes a little air in the park in the afternoon with two +full-grown men sitting up, straight-backed and impassive, on the box of +the carriage, is one example of this. The chatelaine of a jerry-built +villa, who is pleased to consort with anybody except servants and the +class below servants, is another. The majority of people need money, not +in order to live and be happy, but in order to impress the crowd that +they are of more value than those who are thereby impressed. The drama +which goes on around and around the problem of whom to "call upon" and +whom to "cut," fills the lives of more men and women than the problem of +how to make the best of life and pave one's way to the hereafter. If +Christ came back to earth, He would have to choose one set or +another--Belgravia, Bayswater, or Brixton. + + + + +_Love "Mush"_ + +I was standing outside a music shop the other day, gazing through the +windows at the songs "everybody is singing." Their titles amused me. +Not a single one promised very much real sense. They were all what I +will call love "mush"--"If you were a flowering rose," and "Come to my +garden of love," were two typical examples. The remainder of the +verses--with which the suburban sopranos will doubtless break the +serenity of the suburban nights this summer--were of a "sloppy" +sentimentality combined with a kind of hypersexual idiocy unparalleled +except in an English ballad of the popular order. On such belief, I said +to myself, are young lovers brought up. Well, I suppose it would be +difficult for a youthful soprano to put "her soul" into a song which +asked, "What shall I give my dear one every morning for his breakfast?" +or, "Who'll soothe your brow when the Income Tax is due, dear?" And yet, +sooner or later, she will be faced with some such problems, and then her +beloved won't ask her if she be a flowering rose or invite her into his +garden of love unless she can find an answer which will carry them both +over to the next difficulty fairly successfully. But to live in an +eternal state of love-mush is what young people are brought up to regard +as matrimony. The plain facts of matrimony are carefully hidden from +them, as either being too "prosaic" or too indelicate. The most +responsible position in all life for a man and a woman is entered upon by +them with an ignorance and an irresponsibility which are neither +dignified nor likely to be satisfactory. A woman goes in for several +years' training before she can become a cook; a worker in every grade of +life has to go through a long period of initiation before she can be said +to be really fit for her "job." But any girl thinks she is fit to become +a wife, with no other qualification except that she is a woman, and can +return endearment for endearment when required. She is not expected to +know or do anything else. But her husband expects many and more +important things from her if he is not to live to regret his bargain. He +may not know it when he is asking her to live with him in his garden of +love, but he will realise it a few years later, especially if she has +turned that garden of love into a wilderness of expensive weeds. + + + + +_Wives_ + +The wife of a poor man really can be a helpmate, but the wife of a rich +man is so often only asked to be a mistress who can bear her husband +legitimate children. Everything which a woman can do, a rich woman pays +other women to do for her, while she graces the results of their labour +with a studied charm which receives its triumph in the envy of her +husband's male friends. No wonder there are so many wild and +discontented wives among the middle and upper classes. Where a man or a +woman has no "ideal," where they have nothing to do which is really worth +doing, they always approach the primitive in morals. We may pretend to +spurn the _cocotte_--but to look as nearly as she looks, to live as +nearly as she lives, to resemble her and yet to place that resemblance on +a legal and, consequently, secure foundation, is becoming more and more +the life-work of that feminine "scum" which the war stirred up and peace +has caused to overflow. Beneath it all I know there is a strata of the +Magnificent, but the surface-ground is weedier than ever. I am not a +prude (I think!), but the eternally amusement-seeking and irresponsible +lives led by many of the rich, and the really appalling looseness of +morals now being led by girls without a qualm, bode very seriously ill +for the future of that New World which we were promised the war would +make safe for--well, I believe we were told it was to be Democracy, but +the Government official and the profiteer still seem the most firmly dug +in of us all. I go to the fashionable West-end haunts, and I see the +crowds of wealthy women getting as near the nude as they and their +dressmakers can manage; I go to the poor parts of London, and I am really +shocked by the immense number of girls, some only children, who are +practically and _voluntarily_ on the streets. These may only be the +minority of women and girls, I admit, but they are a minority which is +having, and is going to have, a very sinister influence on the +future--and the peace and beauty of that future. For the out-and-out +prostitute one can feel understanding, and with understanding there is a +certain respect; but these amateur "syrens" are a menace and a disgrace +to the "homes" which breed them so carelessly, and look after them so ill. + + + + +_Children_ + +I suppose the most absurd fetish of modern so-called democratic politics +is that fetish of the liberty of the subject. In theory it is ideal--let +there be complete liberty of ideas by all means; but when that liberty, +as is nearly always the case, means that the liberty of one man is gained +by the sacrifice of another--then it is the enemy of humanity as well as +of nature. I always consider that, in the really Socialistic state, +children will not entirely belong to their parents, but will also be +guarded and looked after as an asset to the world. This will, of course, +give complete liberty to _good_ parents, but it will prevent _bad_ +parents from wrecking the lives of their children, as is the case to-day, +unless the parents' wickedness is so disgracefully bad that they come +under the eye of the N.S.P.C.C. But the law always shields the +wrong-doer. We are far more concerned that mothers and fathers should +have complete control of their children even when they have proved +themselves unfit to bring up children, than that the children themselves +should be protected. We are far more concerned that the drunkard should +be given complete freedom to go out and get drunk than that the misery +which his drunkenness causes to innocent people should be punished, or +prevented. The helpless must always suffer for the selfishness of other +people--that is one of the "divine" laws of civilisation. The liberty of +the subject is not only a farce, but a crime, when the liberty +jeopardises the lives of the minority. The liberty to harm others will +be a "liberty" punishable by law in the state which is anything more than +democratic, except as a political catchword. + + + + +_One of the Minor Tragedies_ + +One of the minor tragedies of life (or is it one of the _major_?) is the +way we grow out of things--often against our will, sometimes against our +better judgment. I don't mean only that we grow out of clothes--that, +after all, is nothing very serious, unless you have no younger brother to +whom to hand them on; but we also grow out of desires, out of books, out +of pictures, out of places, friendships, even love itself--oh, yes, most +often out of love itself. You never seem to be able to say to yourself +and the world: "There! this is what I yearn for; this is what I desire; +this is what I adore; this is what I shall never tire of--shall always +appreciate, to which I shall always show my devotion." Or rather, you +_do_ say this in all sincerity _at the moment_. Only the passing of time +shows you that you were wrong. You seem to grow out of everything which +is within your reach, and are only faithful to those things which have +just eluded your grasp. It is human nature, I suppose; but it is a +dreadful bore, all the same! It would seem as if the brain could not +stand the same mental impression for very long; it becomes wearied, +eventually seeking to throw off the impression altogether. They tell us +that everything we do, or hear, or say--every thought, in fact--is +photographed, as it were, on the brain as a definite picture. And if +this be true, the same impression must affect the same part of the +brain--that part of the brain which becomes tired of this same impress, +until it eventually seeks to throw it off as the body throws off disease. +Take a very simple instance--that of a popular song. Experience has +taught you to realise that, although the melody haunts you deliciously at +first, you will eventually grow to hate it, and the tune which once sent +you swaying to its rhythm will at last bore you to the point of +anaesthesia. I often wonder why that is so? The answer must be +physical, since the melody is just the same always--and, if it be really +physical, then that surely is the answer to the weariness which always +comes with repetition of even the greatest blessings of life in both +people as well as things. If only we understood the psychology of +boredom we might attain the eternal delight of never being bored, and +what we loved once we should always love, until the end of our life's +short chapter. And that would simplify problems exceedingly, wouldn't it? + + + + +The "Glorious Dead" + +For a long time past people have been--and, I suppose, for a long time +hence people will be--dusting their imaginations in order to discover the +most fitting tribute their and other people's money can erect to the +memory of the sailors and soldiers who died so that they and their +children might live. And yet it seems to me that in most of these +tributes the wishes of the "Glorious Dead," or what might easily be +regarded as their wishes, have rarely been consulted. The wishes of the +living have prevailed almost every time. Thus the "Glorious Dead" have, +as it were, paid off church debts, erected stained-glass windows in +places of worship which are beautified considerably thereby, paid for +statues of fallen warriors which have been placed in the middle of open +market-places to attract the passing attention of pedestrians and the +very active attention of small birds. A thousand awkward debts have been +wiped out by the money collected for the memory of deeds which for ever +will be glorious, and yet, it seems to me, in most of the cases the +wishes of the wealthy living--and of a very narrow circle of the +living--were at all times the primary, albeit the unconscious, object +which lay behind the tribute. And the worst of it is that so many of +these memorials to "Our Glorious Dead" are as "dead" as the heroes whom +they wish to commemorate. In ten years' time they will, for all +practical purposes be ignored. Maybe some little corner of the world is +more lovely for their being, but the world, the new and better world, for +which the "Glorious Dead" died, is just as barren as ever it was. +Rarely, only rarely, have these memorials been at all worthy of the +memory which they desire to keep alive. And these rare instances have +not been popular among the wealthy and the Churchmen, whose one cry was +that "something must be done"--something beautiful, but useless, for +preference. Mostly, they constitute some wing added to a hospital; +hostels for disabled soldiers; alms-houses, and other purely practical +benefits which afford nothing to gape at and not very much to talk about. +People infinitely prefer some huge ungainly statue or some indifferently +stained glass window, any seven-days' wonder in the way of marble, +granite, or glass. They would like the Cenotaph to fill St. James's +Park, and fondly believe that the "Glorious Dead" would find pride and +pleasure in such a monstrosity. But it seems to me that any memorial to +the dead heroes falls short of its ideal which does not, at the same +time, help the living in some real practical and unsectarian way. Heroes +didn't die so that the parish church should have a new window or the +market place a pump; they died so that the less fortunate of this world +should have a better chance, find a greater health, a greater happiness, +a wider space in the new world which the sacrifice of their fathers, +brothers, and chums helped to found. + + + + +_Always the Personal Note_ + +The longer I live the more clearly I perceive the extreme difficulty +reformers have to interest people in philanthropic schemes which do not +place their religion, their brand of politics, or they themselves in +prominent positions on the propaganda. It seems to be very much the +fashion among those who desire to help others that they do so in the +belief that they will thereby be themselves saved. So few, so very few, +help the less fortunate on their way without cramming their own religion, +or their own politics, or their own munificence down their throats at the +same time. They cannot be kind for the sake of being kind; they cannot +help others up without seeking to brand them at the same time with their +own pet views and beliefs. And then they wonder why the poor will not be +helped; why they are suspicious, or ungrateful, or allow themselves to be +helped only that they may help themselves at the same time--and to +something more than their individual share. Humility and tolerance--and +tolerance is, after all, but one aspect of humility--are the rarest of +all the human virtues. So much philanthropy merely means the giving of a +"bun" on the condition that he who takes the bun will also stop to pray, +to become Conservative, and to give thanks. Good is so often done for +the sake of doing good, not to right a social wrong--which should be the +end of all goodness. Even then, so many people are content to do good +from a distance; or if, perhaps, they do come among the objects of their +unselfishness, they do so with, as it were, the dividing-line well +marked--with them, but not _of them_, and with the air of regarding +themselves as being extremely kind-hearted to be there at all. It is +their "bit"--not to help on the peace, of course, but to help themselves +into Heaven. The poor are but the means to this end. + + + + +_Clergymen_ + +I always feel so sorry for clergymen--the clergymen who are inspired to +their calling, not, of course the "professional" variety who are +clergymen because they preferred the Church to the Stock Exchange. They +carry with them wherever they go the mark of the professional servant of +God, and it creates a prejudice, between them and those who really need +their succour, which is almost unsurmountable. Many clergymen, I know, +adore the trimmings of their profession--the pomps and vestments, the +admiration of spinster ladies, and opportunity to shake the friendly +finger at Mrs. Gubbins and regret that she hasn't been seen in church +lately--this same Mrs. Gubbins who works sixteen hours a day to bring up +a large family in the greatest goodness and comfort her mother's heart +can supply, and, so it seems to me, _lives_ her prayers--which is a far +finer thing than merely uttering them in public and respectability. But +the clergyman whose heart is in his work, who lives for the poor and +needy, and finds no greater joy than in bringing joy into the lives of +others, has to make those he wishes to _forget_ first of all that he is a +clergyman and not merely a man ready, as it were, to barter a bun for an +attendance at church. Until he does this he cannot surmount that +prejudice, that suspicion, and that atmosphere of unnaturalness without +which no lasting comfort and good is ever done. For how can he live +among the poor as one of the poor when at the same time he has to keep in +the "good books" of the wealthy, who pay the pew rents, and the +evil-minded "do-nothings," who are ever ready to declare that he is +demeaning himself and their Church when he breaks down the barrier of +caste and position in his efforts to live and suffer and work as do the +men and women he wishes to make happier and better? He can do it, if he +possesses the right personality, but it is a fight which, for the most +part, seems so hopeless as not to be worth while. You have only to watch +the restrained jollity of his flock the moment a clergyman enters the +room to realise the crust which he will have to break through in order to +bring to light the jewel of human nature which really shines so brightly +in the hearts of the very poor. + + + + +_Their Failure_ + +It is so difficult for men and women, as it were, to really help the +East-end while living in West-end comfort. It is so difficult for +religious people to realise that the finest prayer of all is to "play the +game." But the poor understand the wonder of that prayer full well; it +is, indeed, I rather fancy, the only prayer that they really do +understand, the only one which really and truly touches them and helps +them on their way. And, when I see among the very poor the simply +magnificent human material which is allowed to run to waste, +misunderstood, unheeded, I sometimes feel that the only hope of real +lasting good will be found by those who work _outside_ the Church, not +among those who work within it. For those who have worked within it have +let so many generations of fine youth run to seed, that the time has come +for practical lay-workers to take on the job. The poor need more +practical schemes for their guidance and their good, and fewer +prayer-meetings and sing-songs from the hymnals. For, to my mind, the +very basis of all real religion is a practical basis. It is useless to +live with, as it were, your head in Heaven if you stand knee-deep in +filth. Of what good is your own personal salvation if you have not done +your best to make the world better and happier for others? To worry +about their salvation is less than useless--if that be possible. +Providing they have something to live for, something to make life worth +living, surroundings which bring out all that is best and bravest and +finest in their natures, their heavenly salvation will take care of +itself. The pity is that there is so much magnificent youthful promise +which prejudice and tradition and social wrongs never allow to be +fulfilled. There is only one real religion, and that is the religion of +making life happier and more profitable to others. You may not make them +pray in the process, you may not make them sing hymns--prayers and +hymn-singing are merely beautiful accompaniments--in a practical +uplifting of the human state, the human "soul." "Love"--that is the only +thing which really matters, Love--with Charity, and Self-sacrifice, and +Unselfishness, and Justice--which are, after all, the attributes of this +Love. + + + + +Work in the East-end + +It seems to me that the poor need a friend more urgently than they need a +pastor, or, if they must have a pastor--then the pastor must be +completely disguised as a friend. I always wonder why it is the popular +fallacy that the poor need religion more than the wealthy. My own +experience is that you will find more real Christianity in Shoreditch +than you will ever find in Mayfair--even though the "revealers" of it may +drink and swear and otherwise lead outwardly debased lives. Well, the +surroundings, the "atmosphere" in which they have been forced to live, +encourage them in their blasphemy. I never marvel that they are often +profane; I wonder more greatly that they are not infinitely more so. But +it seems to me that you will "uplift" them far more by pulling down their +filthy habitations than by preaching the "Word of God" at them at every +available opportunity. They are the landlords, the profiteers, the +members of Society who do so little to cleanse and purify the human life +among the tenements, who require the "Word" more urgently than the +enforced dwellers therein. Only the other evening I paid a visit to one +of the general committee of the Oxford and Bermondsey Mission in the +little flat which he occupies at the top of a huge building called +"flats." These flats consist of only two rooms, a bedroom and a kitchen. +There are no "conveniences"--except some of an indescribably filthy +nature which are mutually shared by the inhabitants of several flats, to +their own necessary loss of self-respect and decency. And in these +two-roomed flats families ranging from three to twelve members are forced +to live, and for this benefit they must pay six shillings a week. How +can youth reach its full perfection amid such surroundings--surroundings +which can be multiplied hundreds of times in every part of London and our +big cities? And when I _know_ the magnificent "promise" of which this +same youth is capable--the war showed it in one side of its +greatness--and see the surroundings in which it must grow and expand, +physically as well as spiritually, I marvel at its moral achievements and +I hate the society which permits this splendid human material only by a +stroke of luck ever to have its chance. For what has this youth of the +slums got to live for? He can have no home-life amid the pigsties which +are called his "home", his strength is mostly thrust into blind alley +occupations which he is forced to take, since his education has fitted +him for nothing better, and he must accept them in order to live at all; +and for his recreation, he is given the life of the streets and the +public-house--nothing else. It is only such groups of unselfish men as +are represented by the Oxford and Bermondsey Mission and by the men who +run the London Working Boys' Clubs in the poorest parts of London, +together with those other men and women, clergymen and laymen, who are +struggling to bring a little happiness and light into the lives of the +men and boys of the East-end by providing them with comfort and warmth in +the club houses and with healthy recreation for their hours of freedom, +who are helping to kill Bolshevism at its roots. For it seems to me that +youth is the supreme charge of those who have grown old. The salvation +of the world will come through the young; the glory of the old is that +age and experience have taught them to perceive this fact. Give the +majority of men something noble to live for, and the vast majority will +live up to their "star." + + + + +_Mysticism and the Practical Man_ + +I wish the Mystics and the Practical Men could meet, fraternise, and +still not yearn to murder one another. It would be of immense benefit to +you and me and the rest of us who make up the "hum-drum" world. For the +Practical Man who is not something of a mystic is at best a commonplace +nuisance, and at his worst a clog on the wheels of progress. And the +mystic who is only mystical is even less good to anyone, since his Ideals +and his Theories, and often his personal example, fade away in the smoke +of factory chimneys belching out the sweat of men and women's labour into +the pure air of heaven. No, the Mystic who is to do any good to his +brother men must be at the same time a practical man, just as the +practical man must possess some Big Idea behind his commerce and his +success in order to escape the ignominy of being a mere money-maker, the +inglorious driver of sweated labourers. If only these two could +meet--_and agree_--there might possibly be some hope for the Dawn of that +New World which the War surely came to found and the washy kind of Peace +which followed seems to have thrust back again into darkness. True, +there are some business men who perceive behind their business a goal, an +ideal, in which there is something more than their own personal wealth +and glory, the be-diamonding of a fat wife, and the expensive upbringing +of a spoilt family. They make their wealth, but they seek to make it +justly, to make it cleanly, and, having amassed their fortune, strive to +benefit the lot of those by whose labour they amassed it, and whose +future, and the future of whose children, are at once their charge and +their most profound interest. But these men are so few--they are so few +that almost everybody knows their names. The great masses of practical +business men possess the "soul" of a lump of lead, the ideals of little +money-grubbing attorneys, the "vision" of a chimpanzee in a jungle. They +are "cute," and, for the end towards which they strive, they are clever. +But they are nothing more. And, because of them, there is this "eternal +unrest" for which the ignorant blame "labour" and the still more ignorant +blame "modern education." (Ye gods--what is it?) + + + + +_Abraham Lincoln_ + +Success and fame which are purely personal are always abortive in the +long run. Unless a Big Achievement has some splendid Vision behind it, +it is soon almost as completely forgotten as if it had never been. Or it +may remain in the memory of posterity as a name only, without influencing +that mind in the very slightest degree. A mystic must be a practical man +as well, if his "vision" is not to be lost in the smoke of mere words and +theories; just as a practical man must at the same time be something of a +mystic if his labour is to live and bear fruit a hundredfold. Abraham +Lincoln was a mystic as well as a practical man. That is why the ideal +of statesmanship for which he lived has influenced the world since his +time far more than men equally famous in their day. It was this +"invisible power" behind his ideal which triumphed over all opposition at +last, and which continues to triumph in spite of the pigmy-souled crowd +of party politicians who still wrangle in the political arena. Nothing +lasting is ever accomplished without "vision," and the spiritual, though +long in coming, will yet triumph over ignorance and prejudice and +selfishness, even though it comes through war and the overthrow of +capitalists and autocrats. The life and the ideals of Abraham Lincoln +are yet one more piece of evidence of this. + + + + +_Reconstruction_ + +And just so far as modern Socialism possesses this "mystical power" just +so far will it go--inevitably. But, personally, I always think that +Socialism (so-called) is far too busy attacking the elderly and decaying, +both in men and traditions. It should attack youth; or, rather, it +should fight for youth, and for youth principally and almost alone. You +cannot found the New World in a day, but if the youthful citizen is taken +in hand, educated, inspired, and given all possible advantages both for +intellectual improvement and bodily health, this New World will come +without resistance, inevitably, and of its own accord and free will. To +a certain extent the ideals of the British Empire succeed only for the +socialistic "vision" which inspires it. But the chief fault of this +"vision" is that it is so busy making black men clean and "Christian" +that it has no vigour left to clean up and "Christianise" the dirt and +heathenism at home. It would rather, metaphorically speaking (I had +vowed never to use that expression again in the New Year, but--well, +there it is!), bring the ideals of Western civilisation into the jungles +of Darkest Africa than tackle the problems of the slums of Manchester. +And this, not so much because a "civilised" Darkest Africa will have +money in it, as because in tackling the problem of the slums it will have +to fight drastically the rich and poor heathens at home--with all the +tradition and prejudice, ignorance, and selfishness with which they are +bolstered up and deluded with the cry of "Freedom" and "Liberty," and +that still greater illusion--Legal "Justice." + + + + +_Education_ + +Education of the mind, education of the body--to stop at the very +beginning that tragic waste of human material, both physical, mental, and +spiritual, which forces youth into blind-alley occupations or into +occupations unworthy of physically fit men and women--that is the first +stone in the foundation of the New World--a step far more important than +the confiscation of capital, which seems to be the loudest cry of those +who, in their ignorance, claim to be Socialists. Socialism is +_constructive_ not _destructive_--but the construction must have the +vision of the future always before its eyes, and that future must be +prepared for--drastically, if need be. + + + + +_The Inane and Unimaginative_ + +In every mixed crowd there always seems such a large percentage of the +unimaginative and the inane that I am never surprised that the silliest +superstitions still flourish, "the Thing" is rampant, and that, in +every progress towards real civilisation, the very longest way round is +taken with the very feeblest results. It is not that this percentage +is wicked, nor is it strikingly good, neither is it necessarily +feeble-minded, but it shows itself so entirely unimaginative and inane +that it is no wonder that the charlatan in religion, politics, and +education rampages over the world through a perfect maelstrom of +bouquets. Nothing impersonal ever seems to stir the sluggishness of +their "souls." They feel nothing that does not hit them straight +between the eyes. They never perceive the tragedy behind the smile, +the wrong behind the justice of the law, the piteousness and +helplessness of men and women. The price of currants stirs them to +revolt far more rapidly than that disgrace to civilisation which are +the slums. Air raids were the greatest injustice of the war--air +raids, when they never knew from one moonlight night to another if they +might not join unwillingly the army of the heroic dead in heaven. That +is why so many of them secretly believe that they endured far more at +home than the ordinary common soldier did in the front-line trenches. +They cannot realise _his_ tragedy; they can, however, fully realise +their own. That is why they talk of it with so much greater eloquence; +that is why, when they listen to his recitals of dirt and hunger and +indescribable pain, they do so with a suppressed yawn and a secret +conviction that they have heard quite enough about the war. As for +tragedy--their apotheosis of the tragic is reached in a street accident +at which they can stand gaping, nursing the details for the moment when +they can retail them with gusto at home; but I verily believe that, if +the dying man cut rather a ridiculous figure, _some of them would have +to laugh_. But then, this inane and unimaginative percentage among the +crowd is always ready _to laugh_. Their special genius is that they +will always guffaw in the wrong place. Or, if they do not laugh, they +will let fall some utterly stupid remark--so stupid that one wonders +occasionally if nature by mistake has given them a bird's brain without +giving them at the same time a bird's beautiful plumage. And the worst +of it is one is up against this inane percentage in every walk of +life--this unimaginative army of men and women who can perceive +_nothing_ which does not absolutely concern themselves and their own +soul's comfort. + + + + +Life's Great Adventure + +I hope when I am old that Fate will give me a garden and a view of the +sea. I should hate to decay in a suburban row and be carried away at +the end of all my mostly fruitless longings in a hearse; the seven +minutes' wonder of the small children of the street, who will cry, +"Oo-er" when my coffin is borne out by poor men whose names I can't +ever know! Not that it really matters, I suppose; and yet, we all of +us hope to satisfy our artistic sense, especially when we're helpless +to help ourselves. Yes, I should like to pass the twilight of my life +in a garden from which there would be a view of the sea. A garden is +nearly always beautiful, and the sea always, always promises adventure, +even when we have reached that time of life when to "pass over" is the +only chance of adventure left to us. It seems to beckon us to leave +the monotonous in habits, people and things in general, and seek +renewed youthfulness, the thrill of novelty, the promise of romance +amid lands and people far, far away. And we all of us hope that we may +not die before we have had one _real_ adventure. Adventure, I suppose, +always comes to the really adventurous, but so many people are only +half-adventurous; they have all the yearning and the longing, but +Nature has bereft them of the power to act. So they wait for adventure +to come to them, the while they grow older and staler all the time. +And sometimes it never does come to them; or, perhaps, it only comes to +them too late. There are some, of course, who never feel this wild +longing to escape. They are the human turnips; and, so long as they +have a plot of ground on which to expand and grow, they look for +nothing else other than to be "mashed" from time to time by someone of +the opposite sex. These people are quite content to live and die in a +row, and to have an impressive funeral is to them a sufficient argument +for having lived at all. But their propinquity is one of the reasons +why I should not like to grow old in a crowd. I know there are +turnips--human turnips, I mean--living amid the Alps. But these don't +depress you, for the simple reason that, besides them, you have the +Alps anyway. And the Alps have something of that spirit of eternity +which the sea possesses. + + + + +_Travel_ + +Do you know those men and women who, to paraphrase Omar Khayyam, "come +like treacle and like gall they go"? Well, it seems to me that life is +rather like such as they. You may live for something, you may live for +someone, but some time, sooner or later, you will be thrown back upon +your own garden, the "inner plot" of land which you have cultivated in +your own heart, to find what flowers thereon you may. Live for others, +yes! but don't live entirely for them. No. For if you live altogether +for someone, it stands to reason that they cannot well live for +you--or, if they can, then they don't trouble, since you are such a +certain asset in their lives. So they will begin to live for someone +else. For this living for people is part of the nature of all hearts +which are not the hearts of "turnips." And then, what becomes of you? +No, the wise man and woman keep a little for themselves, and that +"little" is barred to permanent visitors. You may allow certain people +to live therein for a while, but, as you value your own joy and +happiness, your own independence and peace, do not deliver up to them +the key. Keep that for yourself, so that, when the loneliness of life +comes to you, as come it will--that is part of the tragedy of human +life--you may not be utterly desolate, but possess some little ray of +hope and delight and joy to illumine the shadows of loneliness when +they fall across your path. And, for what they are worth to me for +consolation, I thank Heaven now for the long years which I spent +practically alone in the world, so far as congenial companionship went. +Solitude drove me back upon myself, and since all of us must have some +joy, natural or merely manufactured, in order to go on living, it +forced me to cultivate other interests, which, perhaps, had I been +happy, I should have neglected for brighter but more ephemeral joys. +So I am not frightened of my own society, and that, though a rather +dreary achievement, is by no means to be despised. It enables me to +wander about alone and yet be happy; it permits me to travel with no +one but my own company and the chance acquaintances I pick up _en +route_, and yet not be entirely depressed. It helped me to achieve +that philosophy which says: "If I may not have the ideal companion, +then let me walk with no one but myself"--and that is the philosophy of +a man who can never really feel lonely for a long time, even though he +may be quite alone. + + + + +_The Enthralling Out-of-reach_ + +Everybody _knows_ that they could improve human nature. I don't mean, +of course, that they could necessarily improve their own, nor that of +the lady who lives next door, nor that of Mr. Lloyd George, nor of Miss +Marie Lloyd, nor even of Lenin and Trotsky; but human nature as it is +found in all of us and as it prevents heaven on this earth lasting much +longer than five and twenty minutes! I know--or rather I think--that I +could improve it. And I should begin at that unhappy "kink" in all of +us which only realises those blessings which belong to other people, or +those which we ourselves have lost. Nobody really and truly knows what +Youth means until they have reached the age which only asks of men and +women to subside--gracefully, if possible, and silently as an act of +decency. We never love the people who love us, to quite the same +extent anyway, until, either they love us no more, or love somebody +else, or go out and die. We never realise the splendour of splendid +health until the doctor prescribes six months in a nursing home as the +only alternative to demise. We never appreciated butter until +profiteers and the war sent the price up to four-and-sixpence for a +pound. The extra five hundred a year which seems to stand in the way +of our complete happiness--when we receive it, we realise that our +happiness really required a thousand. Fame is a wonderful and +beautiful state, until we become famous and find out how dull it is and +what a real blessing it is to be a person of only the least importance. +Life, I can understand, is never so sweet as it is to those who, as it +were, have just been sentenced to be hanged. Our ideals are always +thrilling until one day we wake up to find them accomplished facts; and +the only real passion of our life is the woman who went off and married +somebody else. I exaggerate, perhaps, but scarcely too much, I +believe. For, as I said before, there is a certain "kink" in human +nature which casts a halo of delight over those things which we have +lost, or, by the biggest stretch of dreaming-fancy can we ever hope to +possess. I suppose it means that we could not possibly live up to the +happiness which we believe would be ours were we to possess the +blessings we yearn for with all our hearts. All the same, I wish that +human nature were as fond of the blessings it throws away unheeded, as +it would be could it only regain possession of them once it fully +realises they are lost. Half our troubles spring from our own +fault--though they were not really our own fault, because we did not +know what we were doing when we did those things which might have saved +us all our tears. That is where the tragedy of it all came in. We +never _realised_ . . . we never _knew_! But Fate pays not the +slightest heed to our ignorance. We just have to live out our mistakes +as best we may. And nobody really pities us; we only pity ourselves. + + + + +_The Things which are not Dreamed of in Our Philosophy_ + +The other day I received a most extraordinary spirit picture +anonymously through the post. I cannot describe this picture--it is +well-nigh indescribable. The effect is wonderful, though the means are +of the simplest. Apparently the artist had upset a bottle of ink over +a large piece of white cardboard, and then, with the aid of a sharp +penknife, cut his way across it in long narrow slashes until the effect +is that of rays of light which, seen from a distance, have the effect +of luminosity in a most extraordinary degree. In the corner there is +the figure of Christ on the Cross, to which this method has given the +most marvellous effect of light and shadow. Indeed, the whole picture +is almost uncanny in its effectiveness and in the simplicity of the +means to this end. You ask me if I believe it to be really and truly a +spirit picture? Well, honestly, I do not know. I realise the beauty +of the picture--everyone must realise this who sees it; but, whether +the artist who designed it and transmitted his idea through a human +hand be a spirit I should not like to declare, for the simple reason +that I understand so little of spiritualism--except that side of +spiritualism which _I do not believe_--that I should be foolish to be +dogmatic when all the time I realise that I am yet in ignorance. But +of the genuineness of the "medium" through whose hand the spirit +picture was transmitted I am certain. He thoroughly believed in the +phenomenon that a spirit from another world was using him to convey +messages to the inhabitants of this. You ask me why I believe in his +conviction--well, my answer would be so mundane that you might perhaps +laugh at my logic. But one at least I can give, and it is this; that, +in my experience of mediums and professional spiritualists, one always, +as it were, hears the rattle of the collection-box behind the +"messages" from another sphere--either that, or the person is so +eccentric that "mediumship" in his case has become merely another form +of mental affliction. Well, the artist who sent me this picture is, +except for this fixed idea that he is a medium between this world and +the next, as normal as you or I, and his belief not only is making him +poorer each day--the "spirit" firmly forbidding him either to sell or +exhibit his pictures--but is gently, yet inevitably, leading him +straight towards the workhouse. + + + + +_Faith_ + +A few days after the receipt of the picture I discovered the artist and +went to "beard him in his den." While I was talking with him, he +declared that he had just received a "message" from this spirit to draw +me a picture which, it was inferred, would convey some "recollection" +to me. Sitting at the other side of an ordinary desk, the artist +picked up one piece of chalk after another, making a series of circular +marks over the paper. This went on for nearly an hour-and-a-half. +Occasionally something like a definite design seemed to come out of all +this chaos in chalk, if I may so express it, only to be rubbed out +again immediately, the circular movements still continuing. Then at +last, a few vigorous strokes, and suddenly a definite picture came out, +a picture which was continued until it was finally complete. This +picture represented a tall arch, through which the artist had painted +the most beautiful effect of evening sky--the evening sky when sunset +is fading into blue-green and the first stars are twinkling. And +around this arch was chalked a kind of heavy festoon of drooping +ostrich feathers. The picture when finished was certainly very +beautiful, and I have it in my possession at the present moment. _But +it conveyed absolutely nothing to me_, and certainly brought back no +recollection to my memory of a previous life whatsoever. But the +"medium" so thoroughly believed in his "power to convey" that I felt +quite unhappy about having to confess my unfamiliarity. In fact, I +left the studio--if studio it could be called--convinced by the beauty +of the pictures, but still unconvinced that they were really pictures +painted by a spirit artist. The only belief I did come away with was +the belief that the "medium" thoroughly believed in himself and the +reality behind his belief. And, in a way, I envied him; yes, I envied +him, even though his faith may prove but illusory after all. For I +have reached the age when I realise that I am not at all sure that men +and women do really want _truth_, and that a faith which gives comfort +and happiness is, for the practical purpose of going through life +happily and dying in hope, a far more comforting philosophy. I, alas! +_cannot believe_ what I am not convinced is a scientifically proved +fact; but I am to be pitied far more than envied for my--temperamental +limitation--shall I call it? The man or woman who possesses a blind +faith in something above and beyond this world is the man and woman to +be envied, even though everybody cannot emulate their implicit trust. + + + + +_Spiritualism_ + +All the same, I do not think I shall ever dare to become a +spiritualist. If you can understand my meaning, so much, so very much +depends upon the truth and veracity of its tenets that I cannot go +blindly forward, as so many people seem to be able to do, because I +realise that disillusion would mean something so terrible that a kind +of instinctive faith in another life, without reason, without +scientific demonstration, seems far safer for the peace of mind. To +believe in spiritualism, and then to be deceived, would be so +unsettling, so devastating to the "soul," that, in my own self-defence, +I prefer to be sceptical unreasonably than to be equally unreasonably +believing. So many people, who have loved and lost, rush towards +spiritualism demanding no real evidence whatsoever, bringing to it a +kind of passionate yearning to find therein some kind of illusion that +their loved ones, who are dead, still live on waiting for reunion in +another world. Such a yearning is very human, very understandable, +very forgivable; but these people are the enemies of true spiritualism +as a new branch of scientific speculation. I would not rob them of the +glamour of their faith, since, as I have just written, I have reached +that time of life when I realise that humanity does not necessarily +want truth for the foundation of its happiness, but a whole-hearted +faith, a belief sufficiently sublime to make the common Everyday +significant in the march forward toward the Great Unknown. But I, +alas! am not one of those who can merely believe because without belief +my heart would be broken and my life would be drearier than the +loneliest autumn twilight. I find a greater comfort in uncertain hope +and a more uncertain faith. If I ever really and truly believed in +spiritualism and then found, as so many people have done, alas! that +the prophet of it was himself a fraud, I should be cut, as it were, +from all my spiritual bearings, to flounder hopeless and broken-hearted +mid the desolate wastes of agnosticism. I cannot give myself unless I +am convinced that the sacrifice is for something which _I must believe_ +in spite of all doubt; not entirely what I _want to believe_ because +belief is full of happiness and comfort. I am of those who demand +"all, or not at all." I cannot go on struggling to find security by +just holding on to one false straw after another. I prefer to hope and +to trust, and, although it is a dreary philosophy, I could not, if I +would, exchange it for something which is false, however wonderful and +beautiful. + + + + +_On Reality in People_ + +My one great grievance against people in the mass is that they are so +very seldom real. I don't mean to say, of course, that you can walk +through them like ghosts, or that, if they "gave you one straight from +the shoulder," you wouldn't get a black eye. But what I mean is, that +they are so very rarely their true selves; they so very rarely say what +they think--or indeed think anything at all! They are so very rarely +content to be merely human beings, and not some kind of walking-waxwork +figure with a gramophone record inside them speaking the opinions which +do not belong to them, but to some mysterious "authority" whom it is +the correct thing to quote. Have you ever watched the eyes of friends +talking together? I don't mean friends who are _real_ friends, friends +with whom every thought is a thought shared--but the kind of familiar +acquaintance who passes for a friend in polite society, and passes out +of one's life as little missed in reality as an arm-chair which has +gone to be repaired. In their eyes there is rarely any "answering +light"--just a cold, glassy kind of surface, which says nothing and is +as unsympathetic and as unfamiliar as a holland blind. You can tell by +their expression that, in spite of all their apparent air of friendly +familiarity, they are merely talking for talking's sake, merely being +friendly for the sake of friendship; that, if they were never to see +each other again, they would do so without one heartbreak. Perhaps I +am unsociable, perhaps I am a bit of a misanthrope; but those kind of +friends, those kind of people, bore me unutterably. I am only really +happy in the society of bosom friends, or in the society of interesting +strangers. The half-and-halves, the people who claim friendship +because circumstances happened to have thrown you together fairly +frequently--and one of us has a beautiful house and the other an +excellent cook--these people press upon my spirit like a +strait-waistcoat. I gabble the conventional small-talk of polite +sociability, and I thank God when they are gone! They are called +"friends," but we have absolutely nothing in common--not even a disease! + +So much polite conversation is merely "polite," and can by no stretch +of imagination be rightly called "conversation." It consists for the +most part in exaggerated complimentary remarks--which, it is hoped, +will please you--or in one person waiting impatiently while the other +person relates all he and his family have been doing until he, in his +turn, can seize a momentary pause for breath to begin the whole recent +history of his own affairs in detail. But neither of them is really at +all interested in the story of the other's doings--you can see that in +their eyes, in the kind of fixed smile of simulated interest with which +they listen, the while they furtively take note of the grey hair you +are trying to hide, the shirt button which will leave its moorings if +something isn't done for it before long, the stain on your waistcoat +denoting egg-for-breakfast and an early hurry--all the things, in fact, +which really interest them to an extent and are far more thrilling +anyway than the things you are telling them in so much thraldom on your +own part and with so much gusto. + +Some people are artificial through and through; it may be said of them +that they are only really real when they are having a tooth pulled. +But the majority of people only hide themselves behind a kind of crust +of artificiality; beneath that crust they were real live men and women. +And the war--thank God! (that is to say, if one ever can thank God for +the war)--cracked that crust until it fell away, and was trampled under +the feet of real men and women living real lives, honestly with +themselves and _vis-a-vis_ the world. That is one of the reasons why +the war has made social life a so much more vital and interesting +state. Of course, there are some people who still strive to revive the +social life of "masks," but they are the people whose crust of +artificiality was only cracked--or rather chipped--by the horror and +reality of war. War never really reached them, except through their +stomachs and their motor cars, or perhaps in the excuse it gave them +for flirting half-heartedly with some really useful human labour. They +never went "over the top" in spirit, and their point of view still +reeks of the point of view of the farthest back of the base. These +people will be more real when they are _dead_ than while they are +alive--if you can understand my meaning? But thank Heaven! their ranks +are thinned. They belong to the "back of beyond," to the "frumps," the +"washouts," and the "back numbers." + + + + +_Life_ + +Life is rather like a rocket; it shoots into the sky, flares, fades, +and falls to the ground in dust so unnoticeable that you can hardly +find its remnants, search how you may. Of course, I know that our +lives don't really shoot upwards towards the stars to illumine the +heavens by their own resplendent beams, but we usually think they're +going to, sometimes we think they do, and then, when our dreams settle +down to reality, we discover that our fate has been scarcely different +from the crowd, and that our life stands out about as unique as one +house is in a row of houses all built on the same pattern. But I +sometimes think that our dreams are our real life, and that what we do +is a matter of indifference to what we think and suffer and feel. Some +days, when you sit in a railway carriage on the underground railways +and gaze at the rows of stodgy, expressionless, flat kind of faces +which the majority of the travellers possess, you say to yourself, +"These people can have had no history; these people cannot have really +lived; they cannot have suffered and struggled and hoped and dreamed +and renounced, renounced so often with the heart frozen beyond tears." +And yet you know they must have done--perhaps they are living a whole +lifetime of mental agony even as you watch them, who can tell?--because +you have been "through the mill" too, you too have walked to Amaous, +sat desolate in the Garden of Gethsemane, seen all your fondest dreams +crucified on the Cross of Reality, and risen again, lonelier, sadder, +wiser maybe, but with a wisdom which is more desolate than the +wilderness. You have been through Hell, and no one has guessed, no one +has seen, no one has ever, ever known. And these people, so stodgy, so +expressionless, so dreary and conventional, must have been through it +too. For it seems to me that we must all go through it some time or +other, and the bigger, the braver your heart the greater the Hell; the +more sensitive, the more susceptible you are to the love which links +one human being with another, the greater your pain, the more desolate +your renunciation. And, as I said before, nobody guesses, nobody +believes, nobody ever, ever knows. + +So very, very few people can see beyond the outward and visible signs +of pain. They see the smile, the fretfulness--and yet they think the +smile means happiness and the fretfulness an ugly, tiresome thing. +They do not perceive that often the smile is as a cry to Heaven, and +that fretfulness is but the sign of a soul breaking itself against the +jagged rocks of hopelessness and doubt. I often listen to the people +speaking of blindness and the blind. They only see that the eyes are +gone, that the glory which is spring is for ever dead; they perceive +the hesitating walk, the outstretched groping hand which, to my mind, +is more pitiful than the story of the Cross, and inwardly they murmur, +"How awful!" and sometimes they turn away. But they have never seen +the real tragedy which lies behind the visible handicap. Only their +imagination is stirred by the outward and visible side of the tragedy; +never--or rather, very rarely--is it haunted by the realisation of the +despair which is struggling to find peace, some solution of the meaning +of it all, struggling to bring back some reasoned hope and gladness, +some tiny ray of light in the mental and physical darkness, without +which we none of us can believe, we none of us can live. Perhaps they +are wise to see so little of the real sorrow which dogs so many lives, +but they, nevertheless, are blind in their turn. They are wise, +because there is a whole wise philosophy of a sort in being deaf to the +song within the song, blind to the tears which no one sees, to the +trembling lip which is the aftermath of--oh, so many smiles. The +philosopher perceives just enough of the heart-beat of the world to +keep the human touch, but not enough to kill the outbursts of +unreasoned joy which make the picture of life so exhilarating and +jolly. And yet . . . and yet . . . oh yes, happiness _does_ lie in +remembering little, perceiving less, and in pinning your love and faith +in God--in human love, in human gratitude, in human unselfishness +scarcely at all. Happiness, I say, lies thus--but alas! not everybody +can or ever will be happy. They feel too greatly--and if in intense +feeling there is divine beauty, there is also incalculable pain. When +the "ingrate" is turned out of Heaven they do not send him to Hell, +they send him to Earth and give him imagination and a heart. + + + + +_Dreams and Reality_ + +So many people imagine that their love is returned, that their +innermost thoughts are appreciated and understood, when lips meet lips +in that kiss which brings oblivion--that kiss which even the lowliest +man and woman receive once in their lives as a benediction from Heaven. +So many people imagine that they have found the Ideal Friend when they +meet someone with an equal admiration for the poems of Robert Browning; +or the Russian Ballet, or one who places the music of Debussy above the +music of Wagner. But, I fear, they are often disappointed. For the +longer I live, the more convinced I become that Love and Friendship are +but "day dreams" of the "soul,"--that all we can ever possess in Life +is the second-best of both. Nobody in Love, or in the first throes of +a new friendship, will believe me, of course. Why should they? There +are moments in both love and friendship when the "dream" does seem to +become a blissful reality. But they pass--they pass . . . leaving us +once more lonely in the wilderness of the Everyday, wondering if, after +all, those splendid moments which are over were ever anything more than +merely the figments of our own imagination and had nothing whatever to +do with the love we believed was ours, the friendship which seemed to +come towards us with open arms--that the Dream and the Hope, and the +fulfilment of both, merely lived and died in our own hearts alone--in +our own hearts and nowhere . . . alas! nowhere else. I often think it +must be so. Our love is always the same; only the loved-one changes. +God alone is a permanent Ideal because He lives within us--we never +meet Him as a separate entity. Thus we can never become disillusioned. + + + + +_Love of God_ + +Yet, it seems to me sometimes that even our ideal of God changes with +the fleeting years. When we were young, and because He was thus +presented to us by our spiritual pastors and masters, we figured Him as +some tragically revengeful elderly gentleman, who appeared to show His +love for us by always being exceedingly vindictive. Then when Fate, as +it were, thrust us from the confines of our homes into the storm of +life alone, we came to think of the God-Ideal in blind anger. We cried +that He was dead, or deaf; that He was not a God of Love at all, but +cruel . . . more cruel than Mankind. Sometimes we denied that He had +ever existed at all; that all the Church told us about Him was so much +"fudge," and that Heaven and Hell, the punishment of Sin, the reward of +Virtue, were all part of the Great Human Hoax by which Man is cheated +and ensnared. "We will be hoaxed no more!" we cried, little realising +that this is invariably the Second Stage along the road by which +thinking men approaches God. + +The Third Stage, when it came, found us older, wiser, far less inclined +to cry "Damn" in the face of the Angels. We began to realise that +through pain we had become purified; through hardship we had become +kind; through suffering, and in the silence of our own thoughts we had +become wise; through our inner-loneliness--that inner-loneliness which +is part of the "cross" which each man carries with him through Life, we +had found the _blind necessity_ of God. + +And in this fashion he returns to us. He is not the same God as of old +(we listen to the pictures of this Old God as He is so often described +from the pulpit, in contemptuous amazement, tinged by disdain), but a +far greater God than He--greater, for the reason that we have become +greater too. We no longer seek to find Him in our hours of +happiness--the only hours when, long ago, we sought to feel His +presence. We _know_ that we shall only find Him in our hours of +loneliness, in our hours of desolation, in our hours of black despair. +Now at last we realise that God is not some Deity apart, but some +spirit within _us_, within every man and woman whose "vision" is turned +towards the stars. He is the "Dream" which is clearer to us than +reality, none the less clear because it is the "Dream" which never in +life comes true. He belongs to us and to the whole world. He is +everywhere, yet nowhere. He is the "soul" in Man, the silent message +in beauty, the miracle in all Nature. He is not a Divinity, living in +some far off bourne we call the sky. He is just that "spirit" in all +men's hearts which is the spirit of their self-sacrifice, of their +charity, of their loving kindness, of their honesty, their uprightness +and their truth. It is the "spirit" which, if men be Immortal, will +surely live on and on for ever. Nothing else is worthy immortality. + + + + +_The Will to Faith_ + +I wish that the great Shakespeare had not written that "immortal" line: + + "_The wish is father to the Thought._" + +It haunts you throughout your life. Like a flaming sign of +interrogation it burns upon the Altar of Faith Unquestioning, before +which, in your perplexity, Fate forces you--at least once in your +life--to bow the head. It makes us wonder if we should believe all the +evidences of Immortality we do--were Immortality really a state of +Punishment and not of Happiness unspeakable. It is so hard, so very +hard, to disentangle our own desires from our own beliefs; so easy to +confuse what we _ought to believe_ with what, beyond all else, _we want +to believe_. It sometimes makes one chary of believing anything--in +questions Human as well as Eternal. The "Personal Bias"--ever in our +heart of hearts can we at all times decide where it ends and +impartiality begins? Even our so-called impartiality is tinged by +it--or what we fondly believe to be our impartial Faith. Doubt strikes +at the root of Justice and of Love--not the doubt that is the +half-brother to Disbelief, but the doubt which wonders always and +always if we believe most easily what we _want to believe_, and if our +firmest conviction against such Belief is not, more than anything else, +yet one more manifestation of what we desire so earnestly _to doubt_. + +Sometimes I am in despair regarding the whole question of my own +individual Faith. + +I am firmly convinced that there _ought to be a God_ and a Life +Hereafter. But my faith in such facts is paralysed by the haunting +doubt that they may both be such stuff as dreams are made of, after all. + +On the whole, I believe the best way is not to think about them at +all--or as little as we may. The one question which really and truly +concerns us--and most certainly only concerns God, if there be a +God--in His relation to ourselves, is _this life_ and what we make of +it for ourselves and for other people. Don't ask yourself always and +for ever _if_ there be a God? _Act as if He existed_! So far as +possible, _play His part on earth_. Then all will surely be well with +your Immortal Soul in the Long Here After! + +And, if the reward of it all--if "reward" is what you seek--be but a +Sleep Eternal, do not weep. If you have done your best, you will have +left the world happier and better, and so more beautiful. To those +around you, to those who walked with you a little way along the Road of +Life, you will have brought Hope where before you came there was only +resignation and despair; you will have brought laughter to eyes long +dimmed by tears; you will have brought Love into lives so lonely and so +desolate until you came. God surely can ask of no man more than this. + +That, at least--is my Faith. That is also my "religion." Theology is +unimportant: FACTS, concerning the reality of God and a Life +Hereafter--matter little or nothing at all. + +What is all-important is that _here on Earth_--in the world of men and +women around us--there are many less happy than we; many infinitely +lonelier, poorer, more desolate and depressed. To these--even the +lowliest among us can give comfort, bring into their darkness some +little ray of "light"--however small. + +Let the "Christian" Churches quarrel as they may. The uproar of their +differences in Faith, each seeking to be justified, is stilled before +the Great Reality of those really and truly in Human NEED. Let us do +all the good we may--nor ask the reason why, nor seek a heavenly +reward. At every step we take along the Road of Life--there is someone +we can help, someone we can succour, someone we can forgive. A truce +to violent controversy around and around the Trivial. True religion is +an _Act_--even more than a Belief, infinitely more than mere articles +of Faith. By the greatness of our sacrifice, by the unselfishness of +our Love; by the way we have tried to live up to "the best" within us; +by our earnest wish at all times, and with all men--to "play the +game"--surely by these things alone shall we be judged? + + + + +FINIS. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Over the Fireside with Silent Friends, by +Richard King + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVER THE FIRESIDE *** + +***** This file should be named 25111.txt or 25111.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/1/1/25111/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +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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