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diff --git a/3140-h/3140-h.htm b/3140-h/3140-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..33f16f3 --- /dev/null +++ b/3140-h/3140-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6320 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Idle Ideas in 1905, by Jerome K. Jerome</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Idle Ideas in 1905, by Jerome K. Jerome + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Idle Ideas in 1905 + + +Author: Jerome K. Jerome + + + +Release Date: April 21, 2013 [eBook #3140] +[This file was first posted on December 30, 2000] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDLE IDEAS IN 1905*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1905 Hurst and Blackett edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>IDLE IDEAS<br /> +in 1905</h1> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">BY</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">JEROME K. JEROME</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">AUTHOR +OF</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">“Three Men in a +Boat,”<br /> +“Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow,”<br /> +etc.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">LONDON</span><br /> +HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">182, HIGH HOLBORN, W.C.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">CHAP.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Are we as interesting as we think we +are</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Should women be beautiful</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page16">16</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">When is the best time to be +merry</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IV.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Do we lie a-bed too late</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page46">46</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">V.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Should married men play +golf</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page60">60</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VI.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Are early marriages a +mistake</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page74">74</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Do writers write too much</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page89">89</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VIII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Should soldiers be polite</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page105">105</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IX.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Ought stories to be true</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page122">122</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">X.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Creatures that one day shall be +men</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page141">141</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XI.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">How to be happy though +little</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page158">158</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Should we say what we think, or think +what we say</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page173">173</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XIII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Is the American husband made entirely +of stained glass</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page186">186</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XIV.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Does the young man know everything +worth knowing</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page199">199</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XV.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">How many charms hath music, would you +say</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page213">213</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XVI.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The white man’s burden! +Need it be so heavy</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page225">225</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XVII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Why didn’t he marry the +girl</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page238">238</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XVIII.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">What Mrs. Wilkins thought about +it</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page251">251</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XIX.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Shall we be ruined by Chinese cheap +labour</span>?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page264">264</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XX.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">How to solve the servant +problem</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page278">278</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XXI.</p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Why we hate the foreigner</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page292">292</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>ARE WE +AS INTERESTING AS WE THINK WE ARE?</h2> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Charmed</span>. Very hot +weather we’ve been having of late—I mean cold. +Let me see, I did not quite catch your name just now. Thank +you so much. Yes, it is a bit close.” And a +silence falls, neither of us being able to think what next to +say.</p> +<p>What has happened is this: My host has met me in the doorway, +and shaken me heartily by the hand.</p> +<p>“So glad you were able to come,” he has +said. “Some friends of mine here, very anxious to +meet you.” He has bustled me across the room. +“Delightful people. You’ll like them—have +read all your books.”</p> +<p>He has brought me up to a stately lady, and has presented +me. We have exchanged the customary commonplaces, and she, +I feel, is waiting for me to say something clever, original and +tactful. And I don’t know whether she is Presbyterian +or Mormon; a Protectionist or a Free Trader; whether she is +engaged to be married or has lately been divorced!</p> +<p>A friend of mine adopts the sensible plan of always providing +you with a short history of the person to whom he is about to +lead you.</p> +<p>“I want to introduce you to a Mrs. Jones,” he +whispers. “Clever woman. Wrote a book two years +ago. Forget the name of it. Something about +twins. Keep away from sausages. Father ran a pork +shop in the Borough. Husband on the Stock Exchange. +Keep off coke. Unpleasantness about a company. +You’ll get on best by sticking to the book. Lot in it +about platonic friendship. Don’t seem to be looking +too closely at her. Has a slight squint she tries to +hide.”</p> +<p>By this time we have reached the lady, and he introduces me as +a friend of his who is simply dying to know her.</p> +<p>“Wants to talk about your book,” he +explains. “Disagrees with you entirely on the subject +of platonic friendship. Sure you’ll be able to +convince him.”</p> +<p>It saves us both a deal of trouble. I start at once on +platonic friendship, and ask her questions about twins, avoiding +sausages and coke. She thinks me an unusually interesting +man, and I am less bored than otherwise I might be.</p> +<p>I have sometimes thought it would be a serviceable device if, +in Society, we all of us wore a neat card—pinned, say, upon +our back—setting forth such information as was necessary; +our name legibly written, and how to be pronounced; our age (not +necessarily in good faith, but for purposes of +conversation. Once I seriously hurt a German lady by +demanding of her information about the Franco-German war. +She looked to me as if she could not object to being taken for +forty. It turned out she was thirty-seven. Had I not +been an Englishman I might have had to fight a duel); our +religious and political beliefs; together with a list of the +subjects we were most at home upon; and a few facts concerning +our career—sufficient to save the stranger from, what is +vulgarly termed “putting his foot in it.” +Before making jokes about “Dumping,” or discussing +the question of Chinese Cheap Labour, one would glance behind and +note whether one’s companion was ticketed +“Whole-hogger,” or “Pro-Boer.” +Guests desirous of agreeable partners—an “agreeable +person,” according to the late Lord Beaconsfield’s +definition, being “a person who agrees with +you”—could make their own selection.</p> +<p>“Excuse me. Would you mind turning round a +minute? Ah, ‘Wagnerian Crank!’ I am +afraid we should not get on together. I prefer the Italian +school.”</p> +<p>Or, “How delightful. I see you don’t believe +in vaccination. May I take you into supper?”</p> +<p>Those, on the other hand, fond of argument would choose a +suitable opponent. A master of ceremonies might be provided +who would stand in the centre of the room and call for partners: +“Lady with strong views in favour of female franchise +wishes to meet gentleman holding the opinions of St. Paul. +With view to argument.”</p> +<p>An American lady, a year or two ago, wrote me a letter that +did me real good: she appreciated my work with so much +understanding, criticised it with such sympathetic +interest. She added that, when in England the summer +before, she had been on the point of accepting an invitation to +meet me; but at the last moment she had changed her mind; she +felt so sure—she put it pleasantly, but this is what it +came to—that in my own proper person I should fall short of +her expectations. For my own sake I felt sorry she had +cried off; it would have been worth something to have met so +sensible a woman. An author introduced to people who have +read—or who say that they have read—his books, feels +always like a man taken for the first time to be shown to his +future wife’s relations. They are very +pleasant. They try to put him at his ease. But he +knows instinctively they are disappointed with him. I +remember, when a very young man, attending a party at which a +famous American humorist was the chief guest. I was +standing close behind a lady who was talking to her husband.</p> +<p>“He doesn’t look a bit funny,” said the +lady.</p> +<p>“Great Scott!” answered her husband. +“How did you expect him to look? Did you think he +would have a red nose and a patch over one eye?”</p> +<p>“Oh, well, he might look funnier than that, +anyhow,” retorted the lady, highly dissatisfied. +“It isn’t worth coming for.”</p> +<p>We all know the story of the hostess who, leaning across the +table during the dessert, requested of the funny man that he +would kindly say something amusing soon, because the dear +children were waiting to go to bed. Children, I suppose, +have no use for funny people who don’t choose to be +funny. I once invited a friend down to my house for a +Saturday to Monday. He is an entertaining man, and before +he came I dilated on his powers of humour—somewhat +foolishly perhaps—in the presence of a certain youthful +person who resides with me, and who listens when she +oughtn’t to, and never when she ought. He happened +not to be in a humorous mood that evening. My young +relation, after dinner, climbed upon my knee. For quite +five minutes she sat silent. Then she whispered:</p> +<p>“Has he said anything funny?”</p> +<p>“Hush. No, not yet; don’t be +silly.”</p> +<p>Five minutes later: “Was that funny?”</p> +<p>“No, of course not.”</p> +<p>“Why not?”</p> +<p>“Because—can’t you hear? We are +talking about Old Age Pensions.”</p> +<p>“What’s that?”</p> +<p>“Oh, it’s—oh, never mind now. It +isn’t a subject on which one can be funny.”</p> +<p>“Then what’s he want to talk about it +for?”</p> +<p>She waited for another quarter of an hour. Then, +evidently bored, and much to my relief, suggested herself that +she might as well go to bed. She ran to me the next morning +in the garden with an air of triumph.</p> +<p>“He said something so funny last night,” she told +me.</p> +<p>“Oh, what was it?” I inquired. It seemed to +me I must have missed it.</p> +<p>“Well, I can’t exactly ’member it,” +she explained, “not just at the moment. But it was so +funny. I dreamed it, you know.”</p> +<p>For folks not Lions, but closely related to Lions, +introductions must be trying ordeals. You tell them that +for years you have been yearning to meet them. You assure +them, in a voice trembling with emotion, that this is indeed a +privilege. You go on to add that when a boy—</p> +<p>At this point they have to interrupt you to explain that they +are not the Mr. So-and-So, but only his cousin or his +grandfather; and all you can think of to say is: “Oh, +I’m so sorry.”</p> +<p>I had a nephew who was once the amateur long-distance bicycle +champion. I have him still, but he is stouter and has come +down to a motor car. In sporting circles I was always +introduced as “Shorland’s Uncle.” +Close-cropped young men would gaze at me with rapture; and then +inquire: “And do you do anything yourself, Mr. +Jerome?”</p> +<p>But my case was not so bad as that of a friend of mine, a +doctor. He married a leading actress, and was known ever +afterwards as “Miss B—’s husband.”</p> +<p>At public dinners, where one takes one’s seat for the +evening next to someone that one possibly has never met before, +and is never likely to meet again, conversation is difficult and +dangerous. I remember talking to a lady at a Vagabond Club +dinner. She asked me during the <i>entree</i>—with a +light laugh, as I afterwards recalled—what I thought, +candidly, of the last book of a certain celebrated +authoress. I told her, and a coldness sprang up between +us. She happened to be the certain celebrated authoress; +she had changed her place at the last moment so as to avoid +sitting next to another lady novelist, whom she hated.</p> +<p>One has to shift oneself, sometimes, on these occasions. +A newspaper man came up to me last Ninth of November at the +Mansion House.</p> +<p>“Would you mind changing seats with me?” he +asked. “It’s a bit awkward. They’ve +put me next to my first wife.”</p> +<p>I had a troubled evening myself once long ago. I +accompanied a young widow lady to a musical At Home, given by a +lady who had more acquaintances than she knew. We met the +butler at the top of the stairs. My friend spoke first:</p> +<p>“Say Mrs. Dash and—”</p> +<p>The butler did not wait for more—he was a youngish +man—but shouted out:</p> +<p>“Mr. and Mrs. Dash.”</p> +<p>“My dear! how very quiet you have kept!” cried our +hostess delighted. “Do let me congratulate +you.”</p> +<p>The crush was too great and our hostess too distracted at the +moment for any explanations. We were swept away, and both +of us spent the remainder of the evening feebly protesting our +singleness.</p> +<p>If it had happened on the stage it would have taken us the +whole play to get out of it. Stage people are not allowed +to put things right when mistakes are made with their +identity. If the light comedian is expecting a plumber, the +first man that comes into the drawing-room has got to be a +plumber. He is not allowed to point out that he never was a +plumber; that he doesn’t look like a plumber; that no one +not an idiot would mistake him for a plumber. He has got to +be shut up in the bath-room and have water poured over him, just +as if he were a plumber—a stage plumber, that is. Not +till right away at the end of the last act is he permitted to +remark that he happens to be the new curate.</p> +<p>I sat out a play once at which most people laughed. It +made me sad. A dear old lady entered towards the end of the +first act. We knew she was the aunt. Nobody can +possibly mistake the stage aunt—except the people on the +stage. They, of course, mistook her for a circus rider, and +shut her up in a cupboard. It is what cupboards seem to be +reserved for on the stage. Nothing is ever put in them +excepting the hero’s relations. When she wasn’t +in the cupboard she was in a clothes basket, or tied up in a +curtain. All she need have done was to hold on to something +while remarking to the hero:</p> +<p>“If you’ll stop shouting and jumping about for +just ten seconds, and give me a chance to observe that I am your +maiden aunt from Devonshire, all this tomfoolery can be +avoided.”</p> +<p>That would have ended it. As a matter of fact that did +end it five minutes past eleven. It hadn’t occurred +to her to say it before.</p> +<p>In real life I never knew but of one case where a man suffered +in silence unpleasantness he could have ended with a word; and +that was the case of the late Corney Grain. He had been +engaged to give his entertainment at a country house. The +lady was a <i>nouvelle riche</i> of snobbish instincts. She +left instructions that Corney Grain when he arrived was to dine +with the servants. The butler, who knew better, apologised; +but Corney was a man not easily disconcerted. He dined +well, and after dinner rose and addressed the assembled +company.</p> +<p>“Well, now, my good friends,” said Corney, +“if we have all finished, and if you are all agreeable, I +shall be pleased to present to you my little show.”</p> +<p>The servants cheered. The piano was dispensed +with. Corney contrived to amuse his audience very well for +half-an-hour without it. At ten o’clock came down a +message: Would Mr. Corney Grain come up into the +drawing-room. Corney went. The company in the +drawing-room were waiting, seated.</p> +<p>“We are ready, Mr. Grain,” remarked the +hostess.</p> +<p>“Ready for what?” demanded Corney.</p> +<p>“For your entertainment,” answered the +hostess.</p> +<p>“But I have given it already,” explained Corney; +“and my engagement was for one performance only.”</p> +<p>“Given it! Where? When?”</p> +<p>“An hour ago, downstairs.”</p> +<p>“But this is nonsense,” exclaimed the hostess.</p> +<p>“It seemed to me somewhat unusual,” Corney +replied; “but it has always been my privilege to dine with +the company I am asked to entertain. I took it you had +arranged a little treat for the servants.”</p> +<p>And Corney left to catch his train.</p> +<p>Another entertainer told me the following story, although a +joke against himself. He and Corney Grain were sharing a +cottage on the river. A man called early one morning to +discuss affairs, and was talking to Corney in the parlour, which +was on the ground floor. The window was open. The +other entertainer—the man who told me the story—was +dressing in the room above. Thinking he recognised the +voice of the visitor below, he leant out of his bedroom window to +hear better. He leant too far, and dived head foremost into +a bed of flowers, his bare legs—and only his bare +legs—showing through the open window of the parlour.</p> +<p>“Good gracious!” exclaimed the visitor, turning at +the moment and seeing a pair of wriggling legs above the window +sill; “who’s that?”</p> +<p>Corney fixed his eyeglass and strolled to the window.</p> +<p>“Oh, it’s only What’s-his-name,” he +explained. “Wonderful spirits. Can be funny in +the morning.”</p> +<h2><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>SHOULD +WOMEN BE BEAUTIFUL?</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Pretty</span> women are going to have a +hard time of it later on. Hitherto, they have had things +far too much their own way. In the future there are going +to be no pretty girls, for the simple reason there will be no +plain girls against which to contrast them. Of late I have +done some systematic reading of ladies’ papers. The +plain girl submits to a course of “treatment.” +In eighteen months she bursts upon Society an acknowledged +beauty. And it is all done by kindness. One girl +writes:</p> +<p>“Only a little while ago I used to look at myself in the +glass and cry. Now I look at myself and laugh.”</p> +<p>The letter is accompanied by two photographs of the young +lady. I should have cried myself had I seen her as she was +at first. She was a stumpy, flat-headed, squat-nosed, +cross-eyed thing. She did not even look good. One +virtue she appears to have had, however. It was +faith. She believed what the label said, she did what the +label told her. She is now a tall, ravishing young person, +her only trouble being, I should say, to know what to do with her +hair—it reaches to her knees and must be a nuisance to +her. She would do better to give some of it away. +Taking this young lady as a text, it means that the girl who +declines to be a dream of loveliness does so out of +obstinacy. What the raw material may be does not appear to +matter. Provided no feature is absolutely missing, the +result is one and the same.</p> +<p>Arrived at years of discretion, the maiden proceeds to choose +the style of beauty she prefers. Will she be a Juno, a +Venus, or a Helen? Will she have a Grecian nose, or one +tip-tilted like the petal of a rose? Let her try the +tip-tilted style first. The professor has an idea it is +going to be fashionable. If afterwards she does not like +it, there will be time to try the Grecian. It is difficult +to decide these points without experiment.</p> +<p>Would the lady like a high or a low forehead? Some +ladies like to look intelligent. It is purely a matter of +taste. With the Grecian nose, the low broad forehead +perhaps goes better. It is more according to +precedent. On the other hand, the high brainy forehead +would be more original. It is for the lady herself to +select.</p> +<p>We come to the question of eyes. The lady fancies a +delicate blue, not too pronounced a colour—one of those +useful shades that go with almost everything. At the same +time there should be depth and passion. The professor +understands exactly the sort of eye the lady means. But it +will be expensive. There is a cheap quality; the professor +does not recommend it. True that it passes muster by +gaslight, but the sunlight shows it up. It lacks +tenderness, and at the price you can hardly expect it to contain +much hidden meaning. The professor advises the melting, +Oh-George-take-me-in-your-arms-and-still-my-foolish-fears +brand. It costs a little more, but it pays for itself in +the end.</p> +<p>Perhaps it will be best, now the eye has been fixed upon, to +discuss the question of the hair. The professor opens his +book of patterns. Maybe the lady is of a wilful +disposition. She loves to run laughing through the woods +during exceptionally rainy weather; or to gallop across the downs +without a hat, her fair ringlets streaming in the wind, the old +family coachman panting and expostulating in the rear. If +one may trust the popular novel, extremely satisfactory husbands +have often been secured in this way. You naturally look at +a girl who is walking through a wood, laughing heartily +apparently for no other reason than because it is +raining—who rides at stretch gallop without a hat. If +you have nothing else to do, you follow her. It is always +on the cards that such a girl may do something really amusing +before she gets home. Thus things begin.</p> +<p>To a girl of this kind, naturally curly hair is +essential. It must be the sort of hair that looks better +when it is soaking wet. The bottle of stuff that makes this +particular hair to grow may be considered dear, if you think +merely of the price. But that is not the way to look at +it. “What is it going to do for me?” That +is what the girl has got to ask herself. It does not do to +spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar, as the saying +is. If you are going to be a dashing, wilful beauty, you +must have the hair for it, or the whole scheme falls to the +ground.</p> +<p>Eyebrows and eyelashes, the professor assumes, the lady would +like to match the hair. Too much eccentricity the professor +does not agree with. Nature, after all, is the best guide; +neatness combined with taste, that is the ideal to be aimed +at. The eyebrows should be almost straight, the professor +thinks; the eyelashes long and silky, with just the suspicion of +a curl. The professor would also suggest a little less +cheekbone. Cheekbones are being worn low this season.</p> +<p>Will the lady have a dimpled chin, or does she fancy the +square-cut jaw? Maybe the square-cut jaw and the firm, +sweet mouth are more suitable for the married woman. They +go well enough with the baby and the tea-urn, and the strong, +proud man in the background. For the unmarried girl the +dimpled chin and the rosebud mouth are, perhaps, on the whole +safer. Some gentlemen are so nervous of that firm, square +jaw. For the present, at all events, let us keep to the +rosebud and the dimple.</p> +<p>Complexion! Well, there is only one complexion worth +considering—a creamy white, relieved by delicate peach +pink. It goes with everything, and is always +effective. Rich olives, striking pallors—yes, you +hear of these things doing well. The professor’s +experience, however, is that for all-round work you will never +improve upon the plain white and pink. It is less liable to +get out of order, and is the easiest at all times to renew.</p> +<p>For the figure, the professor recommends something lithe and +supple. Five foot four is a good height, but that is a +point that should be discussed first with the dressmaker. +For trains, five foot six is, perhaps, preferable. But for +the sporting girl, who has to wear short frocks, that height +would, of course, be impossible.</p> +<p>The bust and the waist are also points on which the dressmaker +should be consulted. Nothing should be done in a +hurry. What is the fashion going to be for the next two or +three seasons? There are styles demanding that beginning at +the neck you should curve out, like a pouter pigeon. There +is apparently no difficulty whatever in obtaining this +result. But if crinolines, for instance, are likely to come +in again! The lady has only to imagine it for herself: the +effect might be grotesque, suggestive of a walking +hour-glass. So, too, with the waist. For some +fashions it is better to have it just a foot from the neck. +At other times it is more useful lower down. The lady will +kindly think over these details and let the professor know. +While one is about it, one may as well make a sound job.</p> +<p>It is all so simple, and, when you come to think of it, really +not expensive. Age, apparently, makes no difference. +A woman is as old as she looks. In future, I take it, there +will be no ladies over five-and-twenty. Wrinkles! Why +any lady should still persist in wearing them is a mystery to +me. With a moderate amount of care any middle-class woman +could save enough out of the housekeeping money in a month to get +rid of every one of them. Grey hair! Well, of course, +if you cling to grey hair, there is no more to be said. But +to ladies who would just as soon have rich wavy-brown or a +delicate shade of gold, I would point out that there are one +hundred and forty-seven inexpensive lotions on the market, any +one of which, rubbed gently into the head with a tooth-brush (not +too hard) just before going to bed will, to use a colloquialism, +do the trick.</p> +<p>Are you too stout, or are you too thin? All you have to +do is to say which, and enclose stamps. But do not make a +mistake and send for the wrong recipe. If you are already +too thin, you might in consequence suddenly disappear before you +found out your mistake. One very stout lady I knew worked +at herself for eighteen months and got stouter every day. +This discouraged her so much that she gave up trying. No +doubt she had made a muddle and had sent for the wrong bottle, +but she would not listen to further advice. She said she +was tired of the whole thing.</p> +<p>In future years there will be no need for a young man to look +about him for a wife; he will take the nearest girl, tell her his +ideal, and, if she really care for him, she will go to the shop +and have herself fixed up to his pattern. In certain +Eastern countries, I believe, something of this kind is +done. A gentleman desirous of adding to his family sends +round the neighbourhood the weight and size of his favourite +wife, hinting that if another can be found of the same +proportions, there is room for her. Fathers walk round +among their daughters, choose the most likely specimen, and have +her fattened up. That is their brutal Eastern way. +Out West we shall be more delicate. Match-making mothers +will probably revive the old confession book. Eligible +bachelors will be invited to fill in a page: “Your +favourite height in women,” “Your favourite +measurement round the waist,” “Do you like brunettes +or blondes?”</p> +<p>The choice will be left to the girls.</p> +<p>“I do think Henry William just too sweet for +words,” the maiden of the future will murmur to +herself. Gently, coyly, she will draw from him his ideal of +what a woman should be. In from six months to a year she +will burst upon him, the perfect She; height, size, weight, right +to a T. He will clasp her in his arms.</p> +<p>“At last,” he will cry, “I have found her, +the woman of my dreams.”</p> +<p>And if he does not change his mind, and the bottles do not +begin to lose their effect, there will be every chance that they +will be happy ever afterwards.</p> +<p>Might not Science go even further? Why rest satisfied +with making a world of merely beautiful women? Cannot +Science, while she is about it, make them all good at the same +time. I do not apologise for the suggestion. I used +to think all women beautiful and good. It is their own +papers that have disillusioned me. I used to look at this +lady or at that—shyly, when nobody seemed to be noticing +me—and think how fair she was, how stately. Now I +only wonder who is her chemist.</p> +<p>They used to tell me, when I was a little boy, that girls were +made of sugar and spice. I know better now. I have +read the recipes in the Answers to Correspondents.</p> +<p>When I was quite a young man I used to sit in dark corners and +listen, with swelling heart, while people at the piano told me +where little girl babies got their wonderful eyes from, of the +things they did to them in heaven that gave them dimples. +Ah me! I wish now I had never come across those +ladies’ papers. I know the stuff that causes those +bewitching eyes. I know the shop where they make those +dimples; I have passed it and looked in. I thought they +were produced by angels’ kisses, but there was not an angel +about the place, that I could see. Perhaps I have also been +deceived as regards their goodness. Maybe all women are not +so perfect as in the popular short story they appear to be. +That is why I suggest that Science should proceed still further, +and make them all as beautiful in mind as she is now able to make +them in body. May we not live to see in the advertisement +columns of the ladies’ paper of the future the portrait of +a young girl sulking in a corner—“Before taking the +lotion!” The same girl dancing among her little +brothers and sisters, shedding sunlight through the +home—“After the three first bottles!” May +we not have the Caudle Mixture: One tablespoonful at bed-time +guaranteed to make the lady murmur, “Good-night, dear; hope +you’ll sleep well,” and at once to fall asleep, her +lips parted in a smile? Maybe some specialist of the future +will advertise Mind Massage: “Warranted to remove from the +most obstinate subject all traces of hatred, envy, and +malice.”</p> +<p>And, when Science has done everything possible for women, +there might be no harm in her turning her attention to us +men. Her idea at present seems to be that we men are too +beautiful, physically and morally, to need improvement. +Personally, there are one or two points about which I should like +to consult her.</p> +<h2><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>WHEN +IS THE BEST TIME TO BE MERRY?</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> is so much I could do to +improve things generally in and about Europe, if only I had a +free hand. I should not propose any great fundamental +changes. These poor people have got used to their own ways; +it would be unwise to reform them all at once. But there +are many little odds and ends that I could do for them, so many +of their mistakes I could correct for them. They do not +know this. If they only knew there was a man living in +their midst willing to take them in hand and arrange things for +them, how glad they would be. But the story is always the +same. One reads it in the advertisements of the matrimonial +column:</p> +<p>“A lady, young, said to be good-looking”—she +herself is not sure on the point; she feels that possibly she may +be prejudiced; she puts before you merely the current gossip of +the neighbourhood; people say she is beautiful; they may be +right, they may be wrong: it is not for her to +decide—“well-educated, of affectionate disposition, +possessed of means, desires to meet gentleman with a view to +matrimony.”</p> +<p>Immediately underneath one reads of a gentleman of +twenty-eight, “tall, fair, considered +agreeable.” Really the modesty of the matrimonial +advertiser teaches to us ordinary mortals quite a beautiful +lesson. I know instinctively that were anybody to ask me +suddenly:</p> +<p>“Do you call yourself an agreeable man?” I should +answer promptly:</p> +<p>“An agreeable man! Of course I’m an +agreeable man. What silly questions you do +ask!” If he persisted in arguing the matter, +saying:</p> +<p>“But there are people who do not consider you an +agreeable man.” I should get angry with him.</p> +<p>“Oh, they think that, do they?” I should +say. “Well, you tell them from me, with my +compliments, that they are a set of blithering idiots. Not +agreeable! You show me the man who says I’m not +agreeable. I’ll soon let him know whether I’m +agreeable or not.”</p> +<p>These young men seeking a wife are silent on the subject of +their own virtues. Such are for others to discover. +The matrimonial advertiser confines himself to a simple statement +of fact: “he is considered agreeable.” He is +domestically inclined, and in receipt of a good income. He +is desirous of meeting a lady of serious disposition, with view +to matrimony. If possessed of means—well, it is a +trifle hardly worth considering one way or the other. He +does not insist upon it; on the other hand he does not exclude +ladies of means; the main idea is matrimony.</p> +<p>It is sad to reflect upon a young lady, said to be +good-looking (let us say good-looking and be done with it: a +neighbourhood does not rise up and declare a girl good-looking if +she is not good-looking, that is only her modest way of putting +it), let us say a young lady, good-looking, well-educated, of +affectionate disposition—it is undeniably sad to reflect +that such an one, matrimonially inclined, should be compelled to +have recourse to the columns of a matrimonial journal. What +are the young men in the neighbourhood thinking of? What +more do they want? Is it Venus come to life again with ten +thousand a year that they are waiting for! It makes me +angry with my own sex reading these advertisements. And +when one thinks of the girls that do get married!</p> +<p>But life is a mystery. The fact remains: here is the +ideal wife seeking in vain for a husband. And here, +immediately underneath—I will not say the ideal husband, he +may have faults; none of us are perfect, but as men go a decided +acquisition to any domestic hearth, an agreeable gentleman, fond +of home life, none of your gad-abouts—calls aloud to the +four winds for a wife—any sort of a wife, provided she be +of a serious disposition. In his despair, he has grown +indifferent to all other considerations. “Is there in +this world,” he has said to himself, “one unmarried +woman, willing to marry me, an agreeable man, in receipt of a +good income.” Possibly enough this twain have passed +one another in the street, have sat side by side in the same +tram-car, never guessing, each one, that the other was the very +article of which they were in want to make life beautiful.</p> +<p>Mistresses in search of a servant, not so much with the idea +of getting work out of her, rather with the object of making her +happy, advertise on one page. On the opposite page, +domestic treasures—disciples of Carlyle, apparently, with a +passionate love of work for its own sake—are seeking +situations, not so much with the desire of gain as with the hope +of finding openings where they may enjoy the luxury of feeling +they are leading useful lives. These philanthropic +mistresses, these toil-loving hand-maidens, have lived side by +side in the same town for years, never knowing one another.</p> +<p>So it is with these poor European peoples. They pass me +in the street. They do not guess that I am ready and +willing to take them under my care, to teach them common sense +with a smattering of intelligence—to be, as one might say, +a father to them. They look at me. There is nothing +about me to tell them that I know what is good for them better +than they do themselves. In the fairy tales the wise man +wore a conical hat and a long robe with twiddly things all round +the edge. You knew he was a clever man. It avoided +the necessity of explanation. Unfortunately, the fashion +has gone out. We wise men have to wear just ordinary +clothes. Nobody knows we are wise men. Even when we +tell them so, they don’t believe it. This it is that +makes our task the more difficult.</p> +<p>One of the first things I should take in hand, were European +affairs handed over to my control, would be the rearrangement of +the Carnival. As matters are, the Carnival takes place all +over Europe in February. At Nice, in Spain, or in Italy, it +may be occasionally possible to feel you want to dance about the +streets in thin costume during February. But in more +northern countries during Carnival time I have seen only one +sensible masker; he was a man who had got himself up as a +diver. It was in Antwerp. The rain was pouring down +in torrents; a cheery, boisterous John Bull sort of an east wind +was blustering through the streets at the rate of fifteen miles +an hour. Pierrots, with frozen hands, were blowing blue +noses. An elderly Cupid had borrowed an umbrella from a +café and was waiting for a tram. A very little devil +was crying with the cold, and wiping his eyes with the end of his +own tail. Every doorway was crowded with shivering +maskers. The diver alone walked erect, the water streaming +from him.</p> +<p>February is not the month for open air masquerading. The +“confetti,” which has come to be nothing but coloured +paper cut into small discs, is a sodden mass. When a lump +of it strikes you in the eye, your instinct is not to laugh +gaily, but to find out the man who threw it and to hit him +back. This is not the true spirit of Carnival. The +marvel is that, in spite of the almost invariably adverse +weather, these Carnivals still continue. In Belgium, where +Romanism still remains the dominant religion, Carnival maintains +itself stronger than elsewhere in Northern Europe.</p> +<p>At one small town, Binche, near the French border, it holds +uninterrupted sway for three days and two nights, during which +time the whole of the population, swelled by visitors from twenty +miles round, shouts, romps, eats and drinks and dances. +After which the visitors are packed like sardines into railway +trains. They pin their tickets to their coats and promptly +go to sleep. At every station the railway officials stumble +up and down the trains with lanterns. The last feeble +effort of the more wakeful reveller, before he adds himself to +the heap of snoring humanity on the floor of the railway +carriage, is to change the tickets of a couple of his unconscious +companions. In this way gentlemen for the east are dragged +out by the legs at junctions, and packed into trains going west; +while southern fathers are shot out in the chill dawn at lonely +northern stations, to find themselves greeted with enthusiasm by +other people’s families.</p> +<p>At Binche, they say—I have not counted them +myself—that thirty thousand maskers can be seen dancing at +the same time. When they are not dancing they are throwing +oranges at one another. The houses board up their +windows. The restaurants take down their mirrors and hide +away the glasses. If I went masquerading at Binche I should +go as a man in armour, period Henry the Seventh.</p> +<p>“Doesn’t it hurt,” I asked a lady who had +been there, “having oranges thrown at you? Which sort +do they use, speaking generally, those fine juicy +ones—Javas I think you call them—or the little hard +brand with skins like a nutmeg-grater? And if both sorts +are used indiscriminately, which do you personally +prefer?”</p> +<p>“The smart people,” she answered, “they are +the same everywhere—they must be extravagant—they use +the Java orange. If it hits you in the back I prefer the +Java orange. It is more messy than the other, but it does +not leave you with that curious sensation of having been +temporarily stunned. Most people, of course, make use of +the small hard orange. If you duck in time, and so catch it +on the top of your head, it does not hurt so much as you would +think. If, however, it hits you on a tender +place—well, myself, I always find that a little sal +volatile, with old cognac—half and half, you +understand—is about the best thing. But it only +happens once a year,” she added.</p> +<p>Nearly every town gives prizes for the best group of +maskers. In some cases the first prize amounts to as much +as two hundred pounds. The butchers, the bakers, the +candlestick makers, join together and compete. They arrive +in wagons, each group with its band. Free trade is +encouraged. Each neighbouring town and village +“dumps” its load of picturesque merry-makers.</p> +<p>It is in these smaller towns that the spirit of King Carnival +finds happiest expression. Almost every third inhabitant +takes part in the fun. In Brussels and the larger towns the +thing appears ridiculous. A few hundred maskers force their +way with difficulty through thousands of dull-clad spectators, +looking like a Spanish river in the summer time, a feeble stream, +dribbling through acres of muddy bank. At Charleroi, the +centre of the Belgian Black Country, the chief feature of the +Carnival is the dancing of the children. A space is +specially roped off for them.</p> +<p>If by chance the sun is kind enough to shine, the sight is a +pretty one. How they love the dressing up and the acting, +these small mites! One young hussy—she could hardly +have been more than ten—was gotten up as a haughty young +lady. Maybe some elder sister had served as a model. +She wore a tremendous wig of flaxen hair, a hat that I guarantee +would have made its mark even at Ascot on the Cup Day, a skirt +that trailed two yards behind her, a pair of what had once been +white kid gloves, and a blue silk parasol. Dignity! I +have seen the offended barmaid, I have met the chorus +girl—not by appointment, please don’t misunderstand +me, merely as a spectator—up the river on Sunday. But +never have I witnessed in any human being so much hauteur to the +pound <i>avoir-dupois</i> as was carried through the streets of +Charleroi by that small brat. Companions of other days, +mere vulgar boys and girls, claimed acquaintance with her. +She passed them with a stare of such utter disdain that it sent +them tumbling over one another backwards. By the time they +had recovered themselves sufficiently to think of an old tin +kettle lying handy in the gutter she had turned the corner.</p> +<p>Two miserably clad urchins, unable to scrape together the few +<i>sous</i> necessary for the hire of a rag or two, had +nevertheless determined not to be altogether out of it. +They had managed to borrow a couple of white blouses—not +what you would understand by a white blouse, dear Madame, a +dainty thing of frills and laces, but the coarse white sack the +street sweeper wears over his clothes. They had also +borrowed a couple of brooms. Ridiculous little objects they +looked, the tiny head of each showing above the great white +shroud as gravely they walked, the one behind the other, sweeping +the mud into the gutter. They also were of the Carnival, +playing at being scavengers.</p> +<p>Another quaint sight I witnessed. The +“serpentin” is a feature of the Belgian +Carnival. It is a strip of coloured paper, some dozen yards +long, perhaps. You fling it as you would a lassoo, +entangling the head of some passer-by. Naturally, the +object most aimed at by the Belgian youth is the Belgian +maiden. And, naturally also, the maiden who finds herself +most entangled is the maiden who—to use again the language +of the matrimonial advertiser—“is considered +good-looking.” The serpentin about her head is the +“feather in her cap” of the Belgian maiden on +Carnival Day. Coming suddenly round the corner I almost ran +into a girl. Her back was towards me. It was a quiet +street. She had half a dozen of these serpentins. +Hurriedly, with trembling hands, she was twisting them round and +round her own head. I looked at her as I passed. She +flushed scarlet. Poor little snub-nosed pasty-faced +woman! I wish she had not seen me. I could have +bought sixpenny-worth, followed her, and tormented her with them; +while she would have pretended indignation—sought, +discreetly, to escape from me.</p> +<p>Down South, where the blood flows quicker, King Carnival is, +indeed, a jolly old soul. In Munich he reigns for six +weeks, the end coming with a mad two days revel in the +streets. During the whole of the period, folks in ordinary, +every-day costume are regarded as curiosities; people wonder what +they are up to. From the Grafin to the Dienstmädchen, +from the Herr Professor to the “Piccolo,” as they +term the small artist that answers to our page boy, the business +of Munich is dancing, somewhere, somehow, in a fancy +costume. Every theatre clears away the stage, every +café crowds its chairs and tables into corners, the very +streets are cleared for dancing. Munich goes mad.</p> +<p>Munich is always a little mad. The maddest ball I ever +danced at was in Munich. I went there with a Harvard +University professor. He had been told what these balls +were like. Ever seeking knowledge of all things, he +determined to take the matter up for himself and examine +it. The writer also must ever be learning. I agreed +to accompany him. We had not intended to dance. Our +idea was that we could be indulgent spectators, regarding from +some coign of vantage the antics of the foolish crowd. The +professor was clad as became a professor. Myself, I wore a +simply-cut frock-coat, with trousering in French grey. The +doorkeeper explained to us that this was a costume ball; he was +sorry, but gentlemen could only be admitted in evening dress or +in masquerade.</p> +<p>It was half past one in the morning. We had sat up late +on purpose; we had gone without our dinner; we had walked two +miles. The professor suggested pinning up the tails of his +clerically-cut coat and turning in his waistcoat. The +doorkeeper feared it would not be quite the same thing. +Besides, my French grey trousers refused to adapt +themselves. The doorkeeper proposed our hiring a +costume—a little speculation of his own; gentlemen found it +simpler sometimes, especially married gentlemen, to hire a +costume in this manner, changing back into sober garments before +returning home. It reduced the volume of necessary +explanation.</p> +<p>“Have you anything, my good man,” said the +professor, “anything that would effect a complete +disguise?”</p> +<p>The doorkeeper had the very thing—a Chinese arrangement, +with combined mask and wig. It fitted neatly over the head, +and was provided with a simple but ingenious piece of mechanism +by means of which much could be done with the pigtail. +Myself the doorkeeper hid from view under the cowl of a Carmelite +monk.</p> +<p>“I do hope nobody recognises us,” whispered my +friend the professor as we entered.</p> +<p>I can only hope sincerely that they did not. I do not +wish to talk about myself. That would be egotism. But +the mystery of the professor troubles me to this day. A +grave, earnest gentleman, the father of a family, I saw him with +my own eyes put that ridiculous pasteboard mask over his +head. Later on—a good deal later on—I found +myself walking again with him through silent star-lit +streets. Where he had been in the interval, and who then +was the strange creature under the Chinaman’s mask, will +always remain to me an unsolved problem.</p> +<h2><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>DO WE +LIE A-BED TOO LATE?</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was in Paris, many years ago, +that I fell by chance into this habit of early rising. My +night—by reasons that I need not enter into—had been +a troubled one. Tired of the hot bed that gave no sleep, I +rose and dressed myself, crept down the creaking stairs, +experiencing the sensations of a burglar new to his profession, +unbolted the great door of the hotel, and passed out into an +unknown, silent city, bathed in a mysterious soft light. +Since then, this strange sweet city of the dawn has never ceased +to call to me. It may be in London, in Paris again, in +Brussels, Berlin, Vienna, that I have gone to sleep, but if +perchance I wake before the returning tide of human life has +dimmed its glories with the mists and vapours of the noisy day, I +know that beyond my window blind the fairy city, as I saw it +first so many years ago—this city that knows no tears, no +sorrow, through which there creeps no evil thing; this city of +quiet vistas, fading into hope; this city of far-off voices +whispering peace; this city of the dawn that still is +young—invites me to talk with it awhile before the waking +hours drive it before them, and with a sigh it passes whence it +came.</p> +<p>It is the great city’s one hour of purity, of +dignity. The very rag-picker, groping with her filthy hands +among the ashes, instead of an object of contempt, moves from +door to door an accusing Figure, her thin soiled garments, her +bent body, her scarred face, hideous with the wounds of poverty, +an eloquent indictment of smug Injustice, sleeping behind its +deaf shutters. Yet even into her dim brain has sunk the +peace that fills for this brief hour the city. This, too, +shall have its end, my sister! Men and women were not born +to live on the husks that fill the pails outside the rich +man’s door. Courage a little while longer, you and +yours. Your rheumy eyes once were bright, your thin locks +once soft and wavy, your poor bent back once straight; and maybe, +as they tell you in their gilded churches, this bulging sack +shall be lifted from your weary shoulders, your misshapen limbs +be straight again. You pass not altogether unheeded through +these empty streets. Not all the eyes of the universe are +sleeping.</p> +<p>The little seamstress, hurrying to her early work! A +little later she will be one of the foolish crowd, joining in the +foolish laughter, in the coarse jests of the work-room: but as +yet the hot day has not claimed her. The work-room is far +beyond, the home of mean cares and sordid struggles far +behind. To her, also, in this moment are the sweet thoughts +of womanhood. She puts down her bag, rests herself upon a +seat. If all the day were dawn, this city of the morning +always with us! A neighbouring clock chimes forth the +hour. She starts up from her dream and hurries on—to +the noisy work-room.</p> +<p>A pair of lovers cross the park, holding each other’s +hands. They will return later in the day, but there will be +another expression in their eyes, another meaning in the pressure +of their hands. Now the purity of the morning is with +them.</p> +<p>Some fat, middle-aged clerk comes puffing into view: his +ridiculous little figure very podgy. He stops to take off +his hat and mop his bald head with his handkerchief: even to him +the morning lends romance. His fleshy face changes almost +as one looks at him. One sees again the lad with his vague +hopes, his absurd ambitions.</p> +<p>There is a statue of Aphrodite in one of the smaller Paris +parks. Twice in the same week, without particularly meaning +it, I found myself early in the morning standing in front of this +statue gazing listlessly at it, as one does when in dreamy mood; +and on both occasions, turning to go, I encountered the same man, +also gazing at it with, apparently, listless eyes. He was +an uninteresting looking man—possibly he thought the same +of me. From his dress he might have been a well-to-do +tradesman, a minor Government official, doctor, or lawyer. +Quite ten years later I paid my third visit to the same statue at +about the same hour. This time he was there before +me. I was hidden from him by some bushes. He glanced +round but did not see me; and then he did a curious thing. +Placing his hands on the top of the pedestal, which may have been +some seven feet in height, he drew himself up, and kissed very +gently, almost reverentially, the foot of the statue, begrimed +though it was with the city’s dirt. Had he been some +long-haired student of the Latin Quarter one would not have been +so astonished. But he was such a very commonplace, quite +respectable looking man. Afterwards he drew a pipe from his +pocket, carefully filled and lighted it, took his umbrella from +the seat where it had been lying, and walked away.</p> +<p>Had it been their meeting-place long ago? Had he been +wont to tell her, gazing at her with lover’s eyes, how like +she was to the statue? The French sculptor has not to +consider Mrs. Grundy. Maybe, the lady, raising her eyes, +had been confused; perhaps for a moment angry—some little +milliner or governess, one supposes. In France the <i>jeune +fille</i> of good family does not meet her lover +unattended. What had happened? Or was it but the +vagrant fancy of a middle-aged bourgeois seeking in imagination +the romance that reality so rarely gives us, weaving his love +dream round his changeless statue?</p> +<p>In one of Ibsen’s bitter comedies the lovers agree to +part while they are still young, never to see each other in the +flesh again. Into the future each will bear away the image +of the other, godlike, radiant with the glory of youth and love; +each will cherish the memory of a loved one who shall be +beautiful always. That their parting may not appear such +wild nonsense as at first it strikes us, Ibsen shows us other +lovers who have married in the orthodox fashion. She was +all that a mistress should be. They speak of her as they +first knew her fifteen years ago, when every man was at her +feet. He then was a young student, burning with fine +ideals, with enthusiasm for all the humanities.</p> +<p>They enter.</p> +<p>What did you expect? Fifteen years have +passed—fifteen years of struggle with the grim +realities. He is fat and bald. Eleven children have +to be provided for. High ideals will not even pay the +bootmaker. To exist you have to fight for mean ends with +mean weapons. And the sweet girl heroine! Now the +worried mother of eleven brats! One rings down the curtain +amid Satanic laughter.</p> +<p>That is why, for one reason among so many, I love this mystic +morning light. It has a strange power of revealing the +beauty that is hidden from us by the coarser beams of the full +day. These worn men and women, grown so foolish looking, so +unromantic; these artisans and petty clerks plodding to their +monotonous day’s work; these dull-eyed women of the people +on their way to market to haggle over <i>sous</i>, to argue and +contend over paltry handfuls of food. In this magic morning +light the disguising body becomes transparent. They have +grown beautiful, not ugly, with the years of toil and hardship; +these lives, lived so patiently, are consecrated to the service +of the world. Joy, hope, pleasure—they have done with +all such, life for them is over. Yet they labour, +ceaselessly, uncomplainingly. It is for the children.</p> +<p>One morning, near Brussels, I encountered a cart of faggots, +drawn by a hound so lean that stroking him might have hurt a +dainty hand. I was shocked—angry, till I noticed his +fellow beast of burden pushing the cart from behind. Such a +scarecrow of an old woman! There was little to choose +between them. I walked with them a little way. She +lived near Waterloo. All day she gathered wood in the great +forest, and starting at three o’clock each morning, the two +lean creatures between them dragged the cart nine miles to +Brussels, returning when they had sold their load. With +luck she might reckon on a couple of francs. I asked her if +she could not find something else to do.</p> +<p>Yes, it was possible, but for the little one, her +grandchild. Folks will not employ old women burdened with +grandchildren.</p> +<p>You fair, dainty ladies, who would never know it was morning +if somebody did not enter to pull up the blind and tell you +so! You do well not to venture out in this magic morning +light. You would look so plain—almost ugly, by the +side of these beautiful women.</p> +<p>It is curious the attraction the Church has always possessed +for the marketing classes. Christ drove them from the +Temple, but still, in every continental city, they cluster round +its outer walls. It makes a charming picture on a sunny +morning, the great cathedral with its massive shadow forming the +background; splashed about its feet, like a parterre of gay +flowers around the trunk of some old tree, the women, young girls +in their many coloured costumes, sitting before their piled-up +baskets of green vegetables, of shining fruits.</p> +<p>In Brussels the chief market is held on the Grande +Place. The great gilded houses have looked down upon much +the same scene every morning these four hundred years. In +summer time it commences about half-past four; by five +o’clock it is a roaring hive, the great city round about +still sleeping.</p> +<p>Here comes the thrifty housewife of the poor, to whom the +difference of a tenth of a penny in the price of a cabbage is +all-important, and the much harassed keeper of the petty +<i>pension</i>. There are houses in Brussels where they +will feed you, light you, sleep you, wait on you, for two francs +a day. Withered old ladies, ancient governesses, who will +teach you for forty centimes an hour, gather round these ricketty +tables, wolf up the thin soup, grumble at the watery coffee, help +themselves with unladylike greediness to the potato pie. It +must need careful housewifery to keep these poor creatures on two +francs a day and make a profit for yourself. So +“Madame,” the much-grumbled-at, who has gone to bed +about twelve, rises a little before five, makes her way down with +her basket. Thus a few <i>sous</i> may be saved upon the +day’s economies.</p> +<p>Sometimes it is a mere child who is the little +housekeeper. One thinks that perhaps this early training in +the art of haggling may not be good for her. Already there +is a hard expression in the childish eyes, mean lines about the +little mouth. The finer qualities of humanity are expensive +luxuries, not to be afforded by the poor.</p> +<p>They overwork their patient dogs, and underfeed them. +During the two hours’ market the poor beasts, still +fastened to their little “chariots,” rest in the open +space about the neighbouring Bourse. They snatch at what +you throw them; they do not even thank you with a wag of the +tail. Gratitude! Politeness! What mean +you? We have not heard of such. We only work. +Some of them amid all the din lie sleeping between their +shafts. Some are licking one another’s sores. +One would they were better treated; alas! their owners, likewise, +are overworked and underfed, housed in kennels no better. +But if the majority in every society were not overworked and +underfed and meanly housed, why, then the minority could not be +underworked and overfed and housed luxuriously. But this is +talk to which no respectable reader can be expected to +listen.</p> +<p>They are one babel of bargaining, these markets. The +purchaser selects a cauliflower. Fortunately, cauliflowers +have no feelings, or probably it would burst into tears at the +expression with which it is regarded. It is impossible that +any lady should desire such a cauliflower. Still, out of +mere curiosity, she would know the price—that is, if the +owner of the cauliflower is not too much ashamed of it to name a +price.</p> +<p>The owner of the cauliflower suggests six <i>sous</i>. +The thing is too ridiculous for argument. The purchaser +breaks into a laugh.</p> +<p>The owner of the cauliflower is stung. She points out +the beauties of that cauliflower. Apparently it is the +cauliflower out of all her stock she loves the best; a better +cauliflower never lived; if there were more cauliflowers in the +world like this particular cauliflower things might be +different. She gives a sketch of the cauliflower’s +career, from its youth upwards. Hard enough it will be for +her when the hour for parting from it comes. If the other +lady has not sufficient knowledge of cauliflowers to appreciate +it, will she kindly not paw it about, but put it down and go +away, and never let the owner of the cauliflower see her +again.</p> +<p>The other lady, more as a friend than as a purchaser, points +out the cauliflower’s defects. She wishes well to the +owner of the cauliflower, and would like to teach her something +about her business. A lady who thinks such a cauliflower +worth six <i>sous</i> can never hope to succeed as a cauliflower +vendor. Has she really taken the trouble to examine the +cauliflower for herself, or has love made her blind to its +shortcomings?</p> +<p>The owner of the cauliflower is too indignant to reply. +She snatches it away, appears to be comforting it, replaces it in +the basket. The other lady is grieved at human obstinacy +and stupidity in general. If the owner of the cauliflower +had had any sense she would have asked four <i>sous</i>. +Eventually business is done at five.</p> +<p>It is the custom everywhere abroad—asking the price of a +thing is simply opening conversation. A lady told me that, +the first day she began housekeeping in Florence, she handed over +to a poulterer for a chicken the price he had demanded—with +protestations that he was losing on the transaction, but wanted, +for family reasons, apparently, to get rid of the chicken. +He stood for half a minute staring at her, and then, being an +honest sort of man, threw in a pigeon.</p> +<p>Foreign housekeepers starting business in London appear hurt +when our tradesmen decline to accept half-a-crown for articles +marked three-and-six.</p> +<p>“Then why mark it only three-and-sixpence?” is the +foreign housekeeper’s argument.</p> +<h2><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>SHOULD +MARRIED MEN PLAY GOLF?</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">That</span> we Englishmen attach too much +importance to sport goes without saying—or, rather, it has +been said so often as to have become a commonplace. One of +these days some reforming English novelist will write a book, +showing the evil effects of over-indulgence in sport: the +neglected business, the ruined home, the slow but sure sapping of +the brain—what there may have been of it in the +beginning—leading to semi-imbecility and yearly increasing +obesity.</p> +<p>A young couple, I once heard of, went for their honeymoon to +Scotland. The poor girl did not know he was a golfer (he +had wooed and won her during a period of idleness enforced by a +sprained shoulder), or maybe she would have avoided +Scotland. The idea they started with was that of a +tour. The second day the man went out for a stroll by +himself. At dinner-time he observed, with a far-away look +in his eyes, that it seemed a pretty spot they had struck, and +suggested their staying there another day. The next morning +after breakfast he borrowed a club from the hotel porter, and +remarked that he would take a walk while she finished doing her +hair. He said it amused him, swinging a club while he +walked. He returned in time for lunch and seemed moody all +the afternoon. He said the air suited him, and urged that +they should linger yet another day.</p> +<p>She was young and inexperienced, and thought, maybe, it was +liver. She had heard much about liver from her +father. The next morning he borrowed more clubs, and went +out, this time before breakfast, returning to a late and not over +sociable dinner. That was the end of their honeymoon so far +as she was concerned. He meant well, but the thing had gone +too far. The vice had entered into his blood, and the smell +of the links drove out all other considerations.</p> +<p>We are most of us familiar, I take it, with the story of the +golfing parson, who could not keep from swearing when the balls +went wrong.</p> +<p>“Golf and the ministry don’t seem to go +together,” his friend told him. “Take my advice +before it’s too late, and give it up, Tammas.”</p> +<p>A few months later Tammas met his friend again.</p> +<p>“You were right, Jamie,” cried the parson +cheerily, “they didna run well in harness; golf and the +meenistry, I hae followed your advice: I hae gi’en it +oop.”</p> +<p>“Then what are ye doing with that sack of clubs?” +inquired Jamie.</p> +<p>“What am I doing with them?” repeated the puzzled +Tammas. “Why I am going to play golf with +them.” A light broke upon him. “Great +Heavens, man!” he continued, “ye didna’ think +’twas the golf I’d gi’en oop?”</p> +<p>The Englishman does not understand play. He makes a +life-long labour of his sport, and to it sacrifices mind and +body. The health resorts of Europe—to paraphrase a +famous saying that nobody appears to have said—draw half +their profits from the playing fields of Eton and +elsewhere. In Swiss and German kurhausen enormously fat men +bear down upon you and explain to you that once they were the +champion sprinters or the high-jump representatives of their +university—men who now hold on to the bannisters and groan +as they haul themselves upstairs. Consumptive men, between +paroxysms of coughing, tell you of the goals they scored when +they were half-backs or forwards of extraordinary ability. +Ex-light-weight amateur pugilists, with the figure now of an +American roll-top desk, butt you into a corner of the +billiard-room, and, surprised they cannot get as near you as they +would desire, whisper to you the secret of avoiding the undercut +by the swiftness of the backward leap. Broken-down tennis +players, one-legged skaters, dropsical gentlemen-riders, are to +be met with hobbling on crutches along every highway of the +Engadine.</p> +<p>They are pitiable objects. Never having learnt to read +anything but the sporting papers, books are of no use to +them. They never wasted much of their youth on thought, +and, apparently, have lost the knack of it. They +don’t care for art, and Nature only suggests to them the +things they can no longer do. The snow-clad mountain +reminds them that once they were daring tobogannists; the +undulating common makes them sad because they can no longer +handle a golf-club; by the riverside they sit down and tell you +of the salmon they caught before they caught rheumatic fever; +birds only make them long for guns; music raises visions of the +local cricket-match of long ago, enlivened by the local band; a +picturesque estaminet, with little tables spread out under the +vines, recalls bitter memories of ping-pong. One is sorry +for them, but their conversation is not exhilarating. The +man who has other interests in life beyond sport is apt to find +their reminiscences monotonous; while to one another they do not +care to talk. One gathers that they do not altogether +believe one another.</p> +<p>The foreigner is taking kindly to our sports; one hopes he +will be forewarned by our example and not overdo the thing. +At present, one is bound to admit, he shows no sign of taking +sport too seriously. Football is gaining favour more and +more throughout Europe. But yet the Frenchman has not got +it out of his head that the <i>coup</i> to practise is kicking +the ball high into the air and catching it upon his head. +He would rather catch the ball upon his head than score a +goal. If he can manœuvre the ball away into a corner, +kick it up into the air twice running, and each time catch it on +his head, he does not seem to care what happens after that. +Anybody can have the ball; he has had his game and is happy.</p> +<p>They talk of introducing cricket into Belgium; I shall +certainly try to be present at the opening game. I am +afraid that, until he learns from experience, the Belgian fielder +will stop cricket balls with his head. That the head is the +proper thing with which to play ball appears to be in his +blood. My head is round, he argues, and hard, just like the +ball itself; what part of the human frame more fit and proper +with which to meet and stop a ball.</p> +<p>Golf has not yet caught on, but tennis is firmly established +from St. Petersburg to Bordeaux. The German, with the +thoroughness characteristic of him, is working hard. +University professors, stout majors, rising early in the morning, +hire boys and practise back-handers and half-volleys. But +to the Frenchman, as yet, it is a game. He plays it in a +happy, merry fashion, that is shocking to English eyes.</p> +<p>Your partner’s service rather astonishes you. An +occasional yard or so beyond the line happens to anyone, but this +man’s object appears to be to break windows. You feel +you really must remonstrate, when the joyous laughter and +tumultuous applause of the spectators explain the puzzle to +you. He has not been trying to serve; he has been trying to +hit a man in the next court who is stooping down to tie up his +shoe-lace. With his last ball he has succeeded. He +has hit the man in the small of the back, and has bowled him +over. The unanimous opinion of the surrounding critics is +that the ball could not possibly have been better placed. A +Doherty has never won greater applause from the crowd. Even +the man who has been hit appears pleased; it shows what a +Frenchman can do when he does take up a game.</p> +<p>But French honour demands revenge. He forgets his shoe, +he forgets his game. He gathers together all the balls that +he can find; his balls, your balls, anybody’s balls that +happen to be handy. And then commences the return +match. At this point it is best to crouch down under +shelter of the net. Most of the players round about adopt +this plan; the more timid make for the club-house, and, finding +themselves there, order coffee and light up cigarettes. +After a while both players appear to be satisfied. The +other players then gather round to claim their balls. This +makes a good game by itself. The object is to get as many +balls as you can, your own and other people’s—for +preference other people’s—and run off with them round +the courts, followed by whooping claimants.</p> +<p>In the course of half-an-hour or so, when everybody is dead +beat, the game—the original game—is resumed. +You demand the score; your partner promptly says it is +“forty-fifteen.” Both your opponents rush up to +the net, and apparently there is going to be a duel. It is +only a friendly altercation; they very much doubt its being +“forty-fifteen.” “Fifteen-forty” +they could believe; they suggest it as a compromise. The +discussion is concluded by calling it deuce. As it is rare +for a game to proceed without some such incident occurring in the +middle of it, the score generally is deuce. This avoids +heart-burning; nobody wins a set and nobody loses. The one +game generally suffices for the afternoon.</p> +<p>To the earnest player, it is also confusing to miss your +partner occasionally—to turn round and find that he is +talking to a man. Nobody but yourself takes the slightest +objection to his absence. The other side appear to regard +it as a good opportunity to score. Five minutes later he +resumes the game. His friend comes with him, also the dog +of his friend. The dog is welcomed with enthusiasm; all +balls are returned to the dog. Until the dog is tired you +do not get a look in. But all this will no doubt soon be +changed. There are some excellent French and Belgian +players; from them their compatriots will gradually learn higher +ideals. The Frenchman is young in the game. As the +right conception of the game grows upon him, he will also learn +to keep the balls lower.</p> +<p>I suppose it is the continental sky. It is so blue, so +beautiful; it naturally attracts one. Anyhow, the fact +remains that most tennis players on the Continent, whether +English or foreign, have a tendency to aim the ball direct at +Heaven. At an English club in Switzerland there existed in +my days a young Englishman who was really a wonderful +player. To get the ball past him was almost an +impossibility. It was his return that was weak. He +only had one stroke; the ball went a hundred feet or so into the +air and descended in his opponent’s court. The other +man would stand watching it, a little speck in the Heavens, +growing gradually bigger and bigger as it neared the earth. +Newcomers would chatter to him, thinking he had detected a +balloon or an eagle. He would wave them aside, explain to +them that he would talk to them later, after the arrival of the +ball. It would fall with a thud at his feet, rise another +twenty yards or so and again descend. When it was at the +proper height he would hit it back over the net, and the next +moment it would be mounting the sky again. At tournaments I +have seen that young man, with tears in his eyes, pleading to be +given an umpire. Every umpire had fled. They hid +behind trees, borrowed silk hats and umbrellas and pretended they +were visitors—any device, however mean, to avoid the task +of umpiring for that young man. Provided his opponent did +not go to sleep or get cramp, one game might last all day. +Anyone could return his balls; but, as I have said, to get a ball +past him was almost an impossibility. He invariably won; +the other man, after an hour or so, would get mad and try to +lose. It was his only chance of dinner.</p> +<p>It is a pretty sight, generally speaking, a tennis ground +abroad. The women pay more attention to their costumes than +do our lady players. The men are usually in spotless +white. The ground is often charmingly situated, the +club-house picturesque; there is always laughter and +merriment. The play may not be so good to watch, but the +picture is delightful. I accompanied a man a little while +ago to his club on the outskirts of Brussels. The ground +was bordered by a wood on one side, and surrounded on the other +three by <i>petites fermes</i>—allotments, as we should +call them in England, worked by the peasants themselves.</p> +<p>It was a glorious spring afternoon. The courts were +crowded. The red earth and the green grass formed a +background against which the women, in their new Parisian +toilets, under their bright parasols, stood out like wondrous +bouquets of moving flowers. The whole atmosphere was a +delightful mingling of idle gaiety, flirtation, and graceful +sensuousness. A modern Watteau would have seized upon the +scene with avidity.</p> +<p>Just beyond—separated by the almost invisible wire +fencing—a group of peasants were working in the +field. An old woman and a young girl, with ropes about +their shoulders, were drawing a harrow, guided by a withered old +scarecrow of a man. They paused for a moment at the wire +fencing, and looked through. It was an odd contrast; the +two worlds divided by that wire fencing—so slight, almost +invisible. The girl swept the sweat from her face with her +hand; the woman pushed back her grey locks underneath the +handkerchief knotted about her head; the old man straightened +himself with some difficulty. So they stood, for perhaps a +minute, gazing with quiet, passionless faces through that slight +fencing, that a push from their work-hardened hands might have +levelled.</p> +<p>Was there any thought, I wonder, passing through their +brains? The young girl—she was a handsome creature in +spite of her disfiguring garments. The woman—it was a +wonderfully fine face: clear, calm eyes, deep-set under a square +broad brow. The withered old scarecrow—ever sowing +the seed in the spring of the fruit that others shall eat.</p> +<p>The old man bent again over the guiding ropes: gave the +word. The team moved forward up the hill. It is +Anatole France, I think, who says: Society is based upon the +patience of the poor.</p> +<h2><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>ARE +EARLY MARRIAGES A MISTAKE?</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">am</span> chary nowadays of offering +counsel in connection with subjects concerning which I am not and +cannot be an authority. Long ago I once took upon myself to +write a paper about babies. It did not aim to be a textbook +on the subject. It did not even claim to exhaust the +topic. I was willing that others, coming after me, should +continue the argument—that is if, upon reflection, they +were still of opinion there was anything more to be said. I +was pleased with the article. I went out of my way to +obtain an early copy of the magazine in which it appeared, on +purpose to show it to a lady friend of mine. She was the +possessor of one or two babies of her own, specimens in no way +remarkable, though she herself, as was natural enough, did her +best to boom them. I thought it might be helpful to her: +the views and observations, not of a rival fancier, who would be +prejudiced, but of an intelligent amateur. I put the +magazine into her hands, opened at the proper place.</p> +<p>“Read it through carefully and quietly,” I said; +“don’t let anything distract you. Have a pencil +and a bit of paper ready at your side, and note down any points +upon which you would like further information. If there is +anything you think I have missed out let me know. It may be +that here and there you will be disagreeing with me. If so, +do not hesitate to mention it, I shall not be angry. If a +demand arises I shall very likely issue an enlarged and improved +edition of this paper in the form of a pamphlet, in which case +hints and suggestions that to you may appear almost impertinent +will be of distinct help to me.”</p> +<p>“I haven’t got a pencil,” she said; +“what’s it all about?”</p> +<p>“It’s about babies,” I explained, and I lent +her a pencil.</p> +<p>That is another thing I have learnt. Never lend a pencil +to a woman if you ever want to see it again. She has three +answers to your request for its return. The first, that she +gave it back to you and that you put it in your pocket, and that +it’s there now, and that if it isn’t it ought to +be. The second, that you never lent it to her. The +third, that she wishes people would not lend her pencils and then +clamour for them back, just when she has something else far more +important to think about.</p> +<p>“What do you know about babies?” she demanded.</p> +<p>“If you will read the paper,” I replied, +“you will see for yourself. It’s all +there.”</p> +<p>She flicked over the pages contemptuously.</p> +<p>“There doesn’t seem much of it?” she +retorted.</p> +<p>“It is condensed,” I pointed out to her.</p> +<p>“I am glad it is short. All right, I’ll read +it,” she agreed.</p> +<p>I thought my presence might disturb her, so went out into the +garden. I wanted her to get the full benefit of it. I +crept back now and again to peep through the open window. +She did not seem to be making many notes. But I heard her +making little noises to herself. When I saw she had reached +the last page, I re-entered the room.</p> +<p>“Well?” I said.</p> +<p>“Is it meant to be funny,” she demanded, “or +is it intended to be taken seriously?”</p> +<p>“There may be flashes of humour here and +there—”</p> +<p>She did not wait for me to finish.</p> +<p>“Because if it’s meant to be funny,” she +said, “I don’t think it is at all funny. And if +it is intended to be serious, there’s one thing very clear, +and that is that you are not a mother.”</p> +<p>With the unerring instinct of the born critic she had divined +my one weak point. Other objections raised against me I +could have met. But that one stinging reproach was +unanswerable. It has made me, as I have explained, chary of +tendering advice on matters outside my own department of +life. Otherwise, every year, about Valentine’s day, +there is much that I should like to say to my good friends the +birds. I want to put it to them seriously. Is not the +month of February just a little too early? Of course, their +answer would be the same as in the case of my motherly +friend.</p> +<p>“Oh, what do you know about it? you are not a +bird.”</p> +<p>I know I am not a bird, but that is the very reason why they +should listen to me. I bring a fresh mind to bear upon the +subject. I am not tied down by bird convention. +February, my dear friends—in these northern climes of ours +at all events—is much too early. You have to build in +a high wind, and nothing, believe me, tries a lady’s temper +more than being blown about. Nature is nature, and +womenfolk, my dear sirs, are the same all the world over, whether +they be birds or whether they be human. I am an older +person than most of you, and I speak with the weight of +experience.</p> +<p>If I were going to build a house with my wife, I should not +choose a season of the year when the bricks and planks and things +were liable to be torn out of her hand, her skirts blown over her +head, and she left clinging for dear life to a scaffolding +pole. I know the feminine biped and, you take it from me, +that is not her notion of a honeymoon. In April or May, the +sun shining, the air balmy—when, after carrying up to her a +load or two of bricks, and a hod or two of mortar, we could knock +off work for a few minutes without fear of the whole house being +swept away into the next street—could sit side by side on +the top of a wall, our legs dangling down, and peck and morsel +together; after which I could whistle a bit to her—then +housebuilding might be a pleasure.</p> +<p>The swallows are wisest; June is their idea, and a very good +idea, too. In a mountain village in the Tyrol, early one +summer, I had the opportunity of watching very closely the +building of a swallow’s nest. After coffee, the first +morning, I stepped out from the great, cool, dark passage of the +wirtschaft into the blazing sunlight, and, for no particular +reason, pulled-to the massive door behind me. While filling +my pipe, a swallow almost brushed by me, then wheeled round +again, and took up a position on the fence only a few yards from +me. He was carrying what to him was an exceptionally large +and heavy brick. He put it down beside him on the fence, +and called out something which I could not understand. I +did not move. He got quite excited and said some +more. It was undoubtable he was addressing me—nobody +else was by. I judged from his tone that he was getting +cross with me. At this point my travelling companion, his +toilet unfinished, put his head out of the window just above +me.</p> +<p>“Such an odd thing,” he called down to me. +“I never noticed it last night. A pair of swallows +are building a nest here in the hall. You’ve got to +be careful you don’t mistake it for a hat-peg. The +old lady says they have built there regularly for the last three +years.”</p> +<p>Then it came to me what it was the gentleman had been saying +to me: “I say, sir, you with the bit of wood in your mouth, +you have been and shut the door and I can’t get +in.”</p> +<p>Now, with the key in my possession, it was so clear and +understandable, I really forgot for the moment he was only a +bird.</p> +<p>“I beg your pardon,” I replied, “I had no +idea. Such an extraordinary place to build a +nest.”</p> +<p>I opened the door for him, and, taking up his brick again, he +entered, and I followed him in. There was a deal of +talk.</p> +<p>“He shut the door,” I heard him say, “Chap +there, sucking the bit of wood. Thought I was never going +to get in.”</p> +<p>“I know,” was the answer; “it has been so +dark in here, if you’ll believe me, I’ve hardly been +able to see what I’ve been doing.”</p> +<p>“Fine brick, isn’t it? Where will you have +it?”</p> +<p>Observing me sitting there, they lowered their voices. +Evidently she wanted him to put the brick down and leave her to +think. She was not quite sure where she would have +it. He, on the other hand, was sure he had found the right +place for it. He pointed it out to her and explained his +views. Other birds quarrel a good deal during nest +building, but swallows are the gentlest of little people. +She let him put it where he wanted to, and he kissed her and ran +out. She cocked her eye after him, watched till he was out +of sight, then deftly and quickly slipped it out and fixed it the +other side of the door.</p> +<p>“Poor dears” (I could see it in the toss of her +head); “they will think they know best; it is just as well +not to argue with them.”</p> +<p>Every summer I suffer much from indignation. I love to +watch the swallows building. They build beneath the eaves +outside my study window. Such cheerful little chatter-boxes +they are. Long after sunset, when all the other birds are +sleeping, the swallows still are chattering softly. It +sounds as if they were telling one another some pretty story, and +often I am sure there must be humour in it, for every now and +then one hears a little twittering laugh. I delight in +having them there, so close to me. The fancy comes to me +that one day, when my brain has grown more cunning, I, too, +listening in the twilight, shall hear the stories that they +tell.</p> +<p>One or two phrases already I have come to understand: +“Once upon a time”—“Long, long +ago”—“In a strange, far-off land.” +I hear these words so constantly, I am sure I have them +right. I call it “Swallow Street,” this row of +six or seven nests. Two or three, like villas in their own +grounds, stand alone, and others are semi-detached. It +makes me angry that the sparrows will come and steal them. +The sparrows will hang about deliberately waiting for a pair of +swallows to finish their nest, and then, with a brutal laugh that +makes my blood boil, drive the swallows away and take possession +of it. And the swallows are so wonderfully patient.</p> +<p>“Never mind, old girl,” says Tommy Swallow, after +the first big cry is over, to Jenny Swallow, “let’s +try again.”</p> +<p>And half an hour later, full of fresh plans, they are choosing +another likely site, chattering cheerfully once more. I +watched the building of a particular nest for nearly a fortnight +one year; and when, after two or three days’ absence, I +returned and found a pair of sparrows comfortably encsonced +therein, I just felt mad. I saw Mrs. Sparrow looking +out. Maybe my anger was working upon my imagination, but it +seemed to me that she nodded to me:</p> +<p>“Nice little house, ain’t it? What I call +well built.”</p> +<p>Mr. Sparrow then flew up with a gaudy feather, dyed blue, +which belonged to me. I recognised it. It had come +out of the brush with which the girl breaks the china ornaments +in our drawing-room. At any other time I should have been +glad to see him flying off with the whole thing, handle +included. But now I felt the theft of that one feather as +an added injury. Mrs. Sparrow chirped with delight at sight +of the gaudy monstrosity. Having got the house cheap, they +were going to spend their small amount of energy upon internal +decoration. That was their idea clearly, a “Liberty +interior.” She looked more like a Cockney sparrow +than a country one—had been born and bred in Regent Street, +no doubt.</p> +<p>“There is not much justice in this world,” said I +to myself; “but there’s going to be some introduced +into this business—that is, if I can find a +ladder.”</p> +<p>I did find a ladder, and fortunately it was long enough. +Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow were out when I arrived, possibly on the +hunt for cheap photo frames and Japanese fans. I did not +want to make a mess. I removed the house neatly into a +dust-pan, and wiped the street clear of every trace of it. +I had just put back the ladder when Mrs. Sparrow returned with a +piece of pink cotton-wool in her mouth. That was her idea +of a colour scheme: apple-blossom pink and Reckitt’s blue +side by side. She dropped her wool and sat on the +waterspout, and tried to understand things.</p> +<p>“Number one, number two, number four; where the +blazes”—sparrows are essentially common, and the +women are as bad as the men—“is number +three?”</p> +<p>Mr. Sparrow came up from behind, over the roof. He was +carrying a piece of yellow-fluff, part of a lamp-shade, as far as +I could judge.</p> +<p>“Move yourself,” he said, “what’s the +sense of sitting there in the rain?”</p> +<p>“I went out just for a moment,” replied Mrs. +Sparrow; “I could not have been gone, no, not a couple of +minutes. When I came back—”</p> +<p>“Oh, get indoors,” said Mr. Sparrow, “talk +about it there.”</p> +<p>“It’s what I’m telling you,” continued +Mrs. Sparrow, “if you would only listen. There +isn’t any door, there isn’t any +house—”</p> +<p>“Isn’t any—” Mr. Sparrow, holding on +to the rim of the spout, turned himself topsy-turvy and surveyed +the street. From where I was standing behind the laurel +bushes I could see nothing but his back.</p> +<p>He stood up again, looking angry and flushed.</p> +<p>“What have you done with the house? Can’t I +turn my back a minute—”</p> +<p>“I ain’t done nothing with it. As I keep on +telling you, I had only just gone—”</p> +<p>“Oh, bother where you had gone. Where’s the +darned house gone? that’s what I want to know.”</p> +<p>They looked at one another. If ever astonishment was +expressed in the attitude of a bird it was told by the tails of +those two sparrows. They whispered wickedly together. +The idea occurred to them that by force or cunning they might +perhaps obtain possession of one of the other nests. But +all the other nests were occupied, and even gentle Jenny Swallow, +once in her own home with the children round about her, is not to +be trifled with. Mr. Sparrow called at number two, put his +head in at the door, and then returned to the waterspout.</p> +<p>“Lady says we don’t live there,” he +explained to Mrs. Sparrow. There was silence for a +while.</p> +<p>“Not what I call a classy street,” commented Mrs. +Sparrow.</p> +<p>“If it were not for that terrible tired feeling of +mine,” said Mr. Sparrow, “blame if I wouldn’t +build a house of my own.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Sparrow, “—I have +heard it said that a little bit of work, now and then, does you +good.”</p> +<p>“All sorts of wild ideas about in the air +nowadays,” said Mr. Sparrow, “it don’t do to +listen to everybody.”</p> +<p>“And it don’t do to sit still and do nothing +neither,” snapped Mrs. Sparrow. “I don’t +want to have to forget I’m a lady, but—well, any man +who was a man would see things for himself.”</p> +<p>“Why did I every marry?” retorted Mr. Sparrow.</p> +<p>They flew away together, quarrelling.</p> +<h2><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>DO +WRITERS WRITE TOO MUCH?</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">On</span> a newspaper placard, the other +day, I saw announced a new novel by a celebrated author. I +bought a copy of the paper, and turned eagerly to the last +page. I was disappointed to find that I had missed the +first six chapters. The story had commenced the previous +Saturday; this was Friday. I say I was disappointed and so +I was, at first. But my disappointment did not last +long. The bright and intelligent sub-editor, according to +the custom now in vogue, had provided me with a short synopsis of +those first six chapters, so that without the trouble of reading +them I knew what they were all about.</p> +<p>“The first instalment,” I learned, +“introduces the reader to a brilliant and distinguished +company, assembled in the drawing-room of Lady Mary’s +maisonette in Park Street. Much smart talk is indulged +in.”</p> +<p>I know that “smart talk” so well. Had I not +been lucky enough to miss that first chapter I should have had to +listen to it once again. Possibly, here and there, it might +have been new to me, but it would have read, I know, so very like +the old. A dear, sweet white-haired lady of my acquaintance +is never surprised at anything that happens.</p> +<p>“Something very much of the same kind occurred,” +she will remember, “one winter when we were staying in +Brighton. Only on that occasion the man’s name, I +think, was Robinson.”</p> +<p>We do not live new stories—nor write them either. +The man’s name in the old story was Robinson, we alter it +to Jones. It happened, in the old forgotten tale, at +Brighton, in the winter time; we change it to Eastbourne, in the +spring. It is new and original—to those who have not +heard “something very like it” once before.</p> +<p>“Much smart talk is indulged in,” so the +sub-editor has explained. There is absolutely no need to +ask for more than that. There is a Duchess who says +improper things. Once she used to shock me. But I +know her now. She is really a nice woman; she doesn’t +mean them. And when the heroine is in trouble, towards the +middle of the book, she is just as amusing on the side of +virtue. Then there is a younger lady whose speciality is +proverbs. Apparently whenever she hears a proverb she +writes it down and studies it with the idea of seeing into how +many different forms it can be twisted. It looks clever; as +a matter of fact, it is extremely easy.</p> +<p><i>Be virtuous and you will be happy</i>.</p> +<p>She jots down all the possible variations: <i>Be virtuous and +you will be unhappy</i>.</p> +<p>“Too simple that one,” she tells herself. +<i>Be virtuous and your friends will be happy if you are +not</i>.</p> +<p>“Better, but not wicked enough. Let us think +again. <i>Be happy and people will jump to the conclusion +that you are virtuous</i>.</p> +<p>“That’s good, I’ll try that one at +to-morrow’s party.”</p> +<p>She is a painstaking lady. One feels that, better +advised, she might have been of use in the world.</p> +<p>There is likewise a disgraceful old Peer who tells naughty +stories, but who is good at heart; and one person so very rude +that the wonder is who invited him.</p> +<p>Occasionally a slangy girl is included, and a clergyman, who +takes the heroine aside and talks sense to her, flavoured with +epigram. All these people chatter a mixture of Lord +Chesterfield and Oliver Wendell Holmes, of Heine, Voltaire, +Madame de Stael, and the late lamented H. J. Byron. +“How they do it beats me,” as I once overheard at a +music hall a stout lady confess to her friend while witnessing +the performance of a clever troup, styling themselves “The +Boneless Wonders of the Universe.”</p> +<p>The synopsis added that: “Ursula Bart, a charming and +unsophisticated young American girl possessed of an elusive +expression makes her first acquaintance with London +society.”</p> +<p>Here you have a week’s unnecessary work on the part of +the author boiled down to its essentials. She was +young. One hardly expects an elderly heroine. The +“young” might have been dispensed with, especially +seeing it is told us that she was a girl. But maybe this is +carping. There are young girls and old girls. Perhaps +it is as well to have it in black and white; she was young. +She was an American young girl. There is but one American +young girl in English fiction. We know by heart the +unconventional things that she will do, the startlingly original +things that she will say, the fresh illuminating thoughts that +will come to her as, clad in a loose robe of some soft clinging +stuff, she sits before the fire, in the solitude of her own +room.</p> +<p>To complete her she had an “elusive +expression.” The days when we used to catalogue the +heroine’s “points” are past. Formerly it +was possible. A man wrote perhaps some half-a-dozen novels +during the whole course of his career. He could have a dark +girl for the first, a light girl for the second, sketch a merry +little wench for the third, and draw you something stately for +the fourth. For the remaining two he could go abroad. +Nowadays, when a man turns out a novel and six short stories once +a year, description has to be dispensed with. It is not the +writer’s fault. There is not sufficient variety in +the sex. We used to introduce her thus:</p> +<p>“Imagine to yourself, dear reader, an exquisite and +gracious creature of five feet three. Her golden hair of +that peculiar shade”—here would follow directions +enabling the reader to work it out for himself. He was to +pour some particular wine into some particular sort of glass, and +wave it about before some particular sort of a light. Or he +was to get up at five o’clock on a March morning and go +into a wood. In this way he could satisfy himself as to the +particular shade of gold the heroine’s hair might happen to +be. If he were a careless or lazy reader he could save +himself time and trouble by taking the author’s word for +it. Many of them did.</p> +<p>“Her eyes!” They were invariably deep and +liquid. They had to be pretty deep to hold all the odds and +ends that were hidden in them; sunlight and shadow, mischief, +unsuspected possibilities, assorted emotions, strange wild +yearnings. Anything we didn’t know where else to put +we said was hidden in her eyes.</p> +<p>“Her nose!” You could have made it for +yourself out of a pen’orth of putty after reading our +description of it.</p> +<p>“Her forehead!” It was always “low and +broad.” I don’t know why it was always +low. Maybe because the intellectual heroine was not then +popular. For the matter of that I doubt if she be really +popular now. The brainless doll, one fears, will continue +for many years to come to be man’s ideal woman—and +woman’s ideal of herself for precisely the same period, one +may be sure.</p> +<p>“Her chin!” A less degree of variety was +permissible in her chin. It had to be at an angle +suggestive of piquancy, and it had to contain at least the +suspicion of a dimple.</p> +<p>To properly understand her complexion you were expected to +provide yourself with a collection of assorted fruits and +flowers. There are seasons in the year when it must have +been difficult for the conscientious reader to have made sure of +her complexion. Possibly it was for this purpose that wax +flowers and fruit, carefully kept from the dust under glass +cases, were common objects in former times upon the tables of the +cultured.</p> +<p>Nowadays we content ourselves—and our readers also, I am +inclined to think—with dashing her off in a few bold +strokes. We say that whenever she entered a room there came +to one dreams of an old world garden, the sound of far-off +bells. Or that her presence brought with it the scent of +hollyhocks and thyme. As a matter of fact I don’t +think hollyhocks do smell. It is a small point; about such +we do not trouble ourselves. In the case of the homely type +of girl I don’t see why we should not borrow Mr. +Pickwick’s expression, and define her by saying that in +some subtle way she always contrived to suggest an odour of chops +and tomato sauce.</p> +<p>If we desire to be exact we mention, as this particular author +seems to have done, that she had an “elusive +expression,” or a penetrating fragrance. Or we say +that she moved, the centre of an indefinable nuance.</p> +<p>But it is not policy to bind oneself too closely to +detail. A wise friend of mine, who knows his business, +describes his hero invariably in the vaguest terms. He will +not even tell you whether the man is tall or short, clean shaven +or bearded.</p> +<p>“Make the fellow nice,” is his advice. +“Let every woman reader picture him to herself as her +particular man. Then everything he says and does becomes of +importance to her. She is careful not to miss a +word.”</p> +<p>For the same reason he sees to it that his heroine has a bit +of every girl in her. Generally speaking, she is a cross +between Romola and Dora Copperfield. His novels command +enormous sales. The women say he draws a man to the life, +but does not seem to know much about women. The men like +his women, but think his men stupid.</p> +<p>Of another famous author no woman of my acquaintance is able +to speak too highly. They tell me his knowledge of their +sex is simply marvellous, his insight, his understanding of them +almost uncanny. Thinking it might prove useful, I made an +exhaustive study of his books. I noticed that his women +were without exception brilliant charming creatures possessed of +the wit of a Lady Wortlay Montagu, combined with the wisdom of a +George Eliot. They were not all of them good women, but all +of them were clever and all of them were fascinating. I +came to the conclusion that his lady critics were correct: he did +understand women. But to return to our synopsis.</p> +<p>The second chapter, it appeared, transported us to Yorkshire +where: “Basil Longleat, a typical young Englishman, lately +home from college, resides with his widowed mother and two +sisters. They are a delightful family.”</p> +<p>What a world of trouble to both writer and to reader is here +saved. “A typical young Englishman!” The +author probably wrote five pages, elaborating. The five +words of the sub-editor present him to me more vividly. I +see him positively glistening from the effects of soap and +water. I see his clear blue eye; his fair crisp locks, the +natural curliness of which annoys him personally, though alluring +to everybody else; his frank winning smile. He is +“lately home from college.” That tells me that +he is a first-class cricketer; a first-class oar; that as a +half-back he is incomparable; that he swims like Captain Webb; is +in the first rank of tennis players; that his half-volley at +ping-pong has never been stopped. It doesn’t tell me +much about his brain power. The description of him as a +“typical young Englishman” suggests more information +on this particular point. One assumes that the American +girl with the elusive expression is going to have sufficient for +both.</p> +<p>“They are a delightful family.” The +sub-editor does not say so, but I imagine the two sisters are +likewise typical young Englishwomen. They ride and shoot +and cook and make their own dresses, have common sense and love a +joke.</p> +<p>The third chapter is “taken up with the humours of a +local cricket match.”</p> +<p>Thank you, Mr. Sub-editor. I feel I owe you +gratitude.</p> +<p>In the fourth, Ursula Bart (I was beginning to get anxious +about her) turns up again. She is staying at the useful +Lady Mary’s place in Yorkshire. She meets Basil by +accident one morning while riding alone. That is the +advantage of having an American girl for your heroine. Like +the British army: it goes anywhere and does anything.</p> +<p>In chapter five Basil and Ursula meet again; this time at a +picnic. The sub-editor does not wish to repeat himself, +otherwise he possibly would have summed up chapter five by saying +it was “taken up with the humours of the usual +picnic.”</p> +<p>In chapter six something happens:</p> +<p>“Basil, returning home in the twilight, comes across +Ursula Bart, in a lonely point of the moor, talking earnestly to +a rough-looking stranger. His approach over the soft turf +being unnoticed, he cannot help overhearing Ursula’s +parting words to the forbidding-looking stranger: ‘I must +see you again! To-morrow night at half-past nine! In +the gateway of the ruined abbey!’ Who is he? +And why must Ursula see him again at such an hour, in such a +spot?”</p> +<p>So here, at cost of reading twenty lines, I am landed, so to +speak, at the beginning of the seventh chapter. Why +don’t I set to work to read it? The sub-editor has +spoiled me.</p> +<p>“You read it,” I want to say to him. +“Tell me to-morrow morning what it is all about. Who +was this bounder? Why should Ursula want to see him +again? Why choose a draughty place? Why half-past +nine o’clock at night, which must have been an awkward time +for both of them—likely to lead to talk? Why should I +wade though this seventh chapter of three columns and a +half? It’s your work. What are you paid +for?”</p> +<p>My fear is lest this sort of thing shall lead to a demand on +the part of the public for condensed novels. What busy man +is going to spend a week of evenings reading a book when a nice +kind sub-editor is prepared in five minutes to tell him what it +is all about!</p> +<p>Then there will come a day—I feel it—when the +business-like Editor will say to himself: “What in thunder +is the sense of my paying one man to write a story of sixty +thousand words and another man to read it and tell it again in +sixteen hundred!”</p> +<p>We shall be expected to write our novels in chapters not +exceeding twenty words. Our short stories will be reduced +to the formula: “Little boy. Pair of skates. +Broken ice, Heaven’s gates.” Formerly an +author, commissioned to supply a child’s tragedy of this +genre for a Christmas number, would have spun it out into five +thousand words. Personally, I should have commenced the +previous spring—given the reader the summer and autumn to +get accustomed to the boy. He would have been a good boy; +the sort of boy that makes a bee-line for the thinnest ice. +He would have lived in a cottage. I could have spread that +cottage over two pages; the things that grew in the garden, the +view from the front door. You would have known that boy +before I had done with him—felt you had known him all your +life. His quaint sayings, his childish thoughts, his great +longings would have been impressed upon you. The father +might have had a dash of humour in him, the mother’s early +girlhood would have lent itself to pretty writing. For the +ice we would have had a mysterious lake in the wood, said to be +haunted. The boy would have loved o’ twilights to +stand upon its margin. He would have heard strange voices +calling to him. You would have felt the thing was +coming.</p> +<p>So much might have been done. When I think of that plot +wasted in nine words it makes me positively angry.</p> +<p>And what is to become of us writers if this is to be the new +fashion in literature? We are paid by the length of our +manuscript at rates from half-a-crown a thousand words, and +upwards. In the case of fellows like Doyle and Kipling I am +told it runs into pounds. How are we to live on novels the +serial rights of which to most of us will work out at four and +nine-pence.</p> +<p>It can’t be done. It is no good telling me you can +see no reason why we should live. That is no answer. +I’m talking plain business.</p> +<p>And what about book-rights? Who is going to buy novels +of three pages? They will have to be printed as leaflets +and sold at a penny a dozen. Marie Corelli and Hall +Caine—if all I hear about them is true—will possibly +make their ten or twelve shillings a week. But what about +the rest of us? This thing is worrying me.</p> +<h2><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +105</span>SHOULD SOLDIERS BE POLITE?</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">My</span> desire was once to pass a +peaceful and pleasant winter in Brussels, attending to my work, +improving my mind. Brussels is a bright and cheerful town, +and I think I could have succeeded had it not been for the +Belgian Army. The Belgian Army would follow me about and +worry me. Judging of it from my own experience, I should +say it was a good army. Napoleon laid it down as an axiom +that your enemy never ought to be permitted to get away from +you—never ought to be allowed to feel, even for a moment, +that he had shaken you off. What tactics the Belgian Army +might adopt under other conditions I am unable to say, but +against me personally that was the plan of campaign it determined +upon and carried out with a success that was astonishing, even to +myself.</p> +<p>I found it utterly impossible to escape from the Belgian +Army. I made a point of choosing the quietest and most +unlikely streets, I chose all hours—early in the morning, +in the afternoon, late in the evening. There were moments +of wild exaltation when I imagined I had given it the slip. +I could not see it anywhere, I could not hear it.</p> +<p>“Now,” said I to myself, “now for five +minutes’ peace and quiet.”</p> +<p>I had been doing it injustice: it had been working round +me. Approaching the next corner, I would hear the tattoo of +its drum. Before I had gone another quarter of a mile it +would be in full pursuit of me. I would jump upon a tram, +and travel for miles. Then, thinking I had shaken it off, I +would alight and proceed upon my walk. Five minutes later +another detachment would be upon my heels. I would slink +home, the Belgian Army pursuing me with its exultant +tattoo. Vanquished, shamed, my insular pride for ever +vanished, I would creep up into my room and close the door. +The victorious Belgian Army would then march back to +barracks.</p> +<p>If only it had followed me with a band: I like a band. I +can loaf against a post, listening to a band with anyone. I +should not have minded so much had it come after me with a +band. But the Belgian Army, apparently, doesn’t run +to a band. It has nothing but this drum. It has not +even a real drum—not what I call a drum. It is a +little boy’s drum, the sort of thing I used to play myself +at one time, until people took it away from me, and threatened +that if they heard it once again that day they would break it +over my own head. It is cowardly going up and down, playing +a drum of this sort, when there is nobody to stop you. The +man would not dare to do it if his mother was about. He +does not even play it. He walks along tapping it with a +little stick. There’s no tune, there’s no sense +in it. He does not even keep time. I used to think at +first, hearing it in the distance, that it was the work of some +young gamin who ought to be at school, or making himself useful +taking the baby out in the perambulator: and I would draw back +into dark doorways, determined, as he came by, to dart out and +pull his ear for him. To my astonishment—for the +first week—I learnt it was the Belgian Army, getting itself +accustomed, one supposes, to the horrors of war. It had the +effect of making me a peace-at-any-price man.</p> +<p>They tell me these armies are necessary to preserve the +tranquility of Europe. For myself, I should be willing to +run the risk of an occasional row. Cannot someone tell them +they are out of date, with their bits of feathers and their odds +and ends of ironmongery—grown men that cannot be sent out +for a walk unless accompanied by a couple of nursemen, blowing a +tin whistle and tapping a drum out of a toy shop to keep them in +order and prevent their running about: one might think they were +chickens. A herd of soldiers with their pots and pans and +parcels, and all their deadly things tied on to them, prancing +about in time to a tune, makes me think always of the White +Knight that Alice met in Wonderland. I take it that for +practical purposes—to fight for your country, or to fight +for somebody else’s country, which is, generally speaking, +more popular—the thing essential is that a certain +proportion of the populace should be able to shoot straight with +a gun. How standing in a line and turning out your toes is +going to assist you, under modern conditions of warfare, is one +of the many things my intellect is incapable of grasping.</p> +<p>In mediæval days, when men fought hand to hand, there +must have been advantage in combined and precise movement. +When armies were mere iron machines, the simple endeavour of each +being to push the other off the earth, then the striking +simultaneously with a thousand arms was part of the game. +Now, when we shoot from behind cover with smokeless powder, brain +not brute force—individual sense not combined solidity is +surely the result to be aimed at. Cannot somebody, as I +have suggested, explain to the military man that the proper place +for the drill sergeant nowadays is under a glass case in some +museum of antiquities?</p> +<p>I lived once near the Hyde Park barracks, and saw much of the +drill sergeant’s method. Generally speaking, he is a +stout man with the walk of an egotistical pigeon. His voice +is one of the most extraordinary things in nature: if you can +distinguish it from the bark of a dog, you are clever. They +tell me that the privates, after a little practice, +can—which gives one a higher opinion of their intelligence +than otherwise one might form. But myself I doubt even this +statement. I was the owner of a fine retriever dog about +the time of which I am speaking, and sometimes he and I would +amuse ourselves by watching Mr. Sergeant exercising his +squad. One morning he had been shouting out the usual +“Whough, whough, whough!” for about ten minutes, and +all had hitherto gone well. Suddenly, and evidently to his +intense astonishment, the squad turned their backs upon him and +commenced to walk towards the Serpentine.</p> +<p>“Halt!” yelled the sergeant, the instant his +amazed indignation permitted him to speak, which fortunately +happened in time to save the detachment from a watery grave.</p> +<p>The squad halted.</p> +<p>“Who the thunder, and the blazes, and other things told +you to do that?”</p> +<p>The squad looked bewildered, but said nothing, and were +brought back to the place where they were before. A minute +later precisely the same thing occurred again. I really +thought the sergeant would burst. I was preparing to hasten +to the barracks for medical aid. But the paroxysm +passed. Calling upon the combined forces of heaven and hell +to sustain him in his trouble, he requested his squad, as man to +man, to inform him of the reason why to all appearance they were +dispensing with his services and drilling themselves.</p> +<p>At this moment “Columbus” barked again, and the +explanation came to him.</p> +<p>“Please go away, sir,” he requested me. +“How can I exercise my men with that dog of yours +interfering every five minutes?”</p> +<p>It was not only on that occasion. It happened at other +times. The dog seemed to understand and take a pleasure in +it. Sometimes meeting a soldier, walking with his +sweetheart, Columbus, from behind my legs, would bark +suddenly. Immediately the man would let go the girl and +proceed, involuntarily, to perform military tricks.</p> +<p>The War Office authorities accused me of having trained the +dog. I had not trained him: that was his natural +voice. I suggested to the War Office authorities that +instead of quarrelling with my dog for talking his own language, +they should train their sergeants to use English.</p> +<p>They would not see it. Unpleasantness was in the air, +and, living where I did at the time, I thought it best to part +with Columbus. I could see what the War Office was driving +at, and I did not desire that responsibility for the inefficiency +of the British Army should be laid at my door.</p> +<p>Some twenty years ago we, in London, were passing through a +riotous period, and a call was made to law-abiding citizens to +enrol themselves as special constables. I was young, and +the hope of trouble appealed to me more than it does now. +In company with some five or six hundred other more or less +respectable citizens, I found myself one Sunday morning in the +drill yard of the Albany Barracks. It was the opinion of +the authorities that we could guard our homes and protect our +wives and children better if first of all we learned to roll our +“eyes right” or left at the given word of command, +and to walk with our thumbs stuck out. Accordingly a drill +sergeant was appointed to instruct us on these points. He +came out of the canteen, wiping his mouth and flicking his leg, +according to rule, with the regulation cane. But, as he +approached us, his expression changed. We were stout, +pompous-looking gentlemen, the majority of us, in frock coats and +silk hats. The sergeant was a man with a sense of the +fitness of things. The idea of shouting and swearing at us +fell from him: and that gone there seemed to be no happy medium +left to him. The stiffness departed from his back. He +met us with a defferential attitude, and spoke to us in the +language of social intercourse.</p> +<p>“Good morning, gentlemen,” said the sergeant.</p> +<p>“Good morning,” we replied: and there was a +pause.</p> +<p>The sergeant fidgetted upon his feet. We waited.</p> +<p>“Well, now, gentlemen,” said the sergeant, with a +pleasant smile, “what do you say to falling in?”</p> +<p>We agreed to fall in. He showed us how to do it. +He cast a critical eye along the back of our rear line.</p> +<p>“A little further forward, number three, if you +don’t mind, sir,” he suggested.</p> +<p>Number three, who was an important-looking gentleman, stepped +forward.</p> +<p>The sergeant cast his critical eye along the front of the +first line.</p> +<p>“A little further back, if you don’t mind, +sir,” he suggested, addressing the third gentleman from the +end.</p> +<p>“Can’t,” explained the third gentleman, +“much as I can do to keep where I am.”</p> +<p>The sergeant cast his critical eye between the lines.</p> +<p>“Ah,” said the sergeant, “a little +full-chested, some of us. We will make the distance another +foot, if you please, gentlemen.”</p> +<p>In pleasant manner, like to this, the drill proceeded.</p> +<p>“Now then, gentlemen, shall we try a little walk? +Quick march! Thank you, gentlemen. Sorry to trouble +you, but it may be necessary to run—forward I mean, of +course.. So if you really do not mind, we will now do the +double quick. Halt! And if next time you can keep a +little more in line—it has a more imposing appearance, if +you understand me. The breathing comes with +practice.”</p> +<p>If the thing must be done at all, why should it not be done in +this way? Why should not the sergeant address the new +recruits politely:</p> +<p>“Now then, you young chaps, are you all ready? +Don’t hurry yourselves: no need to make hard work of what +should be a pleasure to all of us. That’s right, +that’s very good indeed—considering you are only +novices. But there is still something to be desired in your +attitude, Private Bully-boy. You will excuse my being +personal, but are you knock-kneed naturally? Or could you, +with an effort, do you think, contrive to give yourself less the +appearance of a marionette whose strings have become loose? +Thank you, that is better. These little things appear +trivial, I know, but, after all, we may as well try and look our +best—</p> +<p>“Don’t you like your boots, Private +Montmorency? Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought from +the way you were bending down and looking at them that perhaps +their appearance was dissatisfying to you. My mistake.</p> +<p>“Are you suffering from indigestion, my poor +fellow? Shall I get you a little brandy? It +isn’t indigestion. Then what’s the matter with +it? Why are you trying to hide it? It’s nothing +to be ashamed of. We’ve all got one. Let it +come forward man. Let’s see it.”</p> +<p>Having succeeded, with a few such kindly words, in getting his +line into order, he would proceed to recommend healthy +exercise.</p> +<p>“Shoulder arms! Good, gentlemen, very good for a +beginning. Yet still, if I may be critical, not +perfect. There is more in this thing than you might +imagine, gentlemen. May I point out to Private Henry +Thompson that a musket carried across the shoulder at right +angles is apt to inconvenience the gentleman behind. Even +from the point of view of his own comfort, I feel sure that +Private Thompson would do better to follow the usual custom in +this matter.</p> +<p>“I would also suggest to Private St. Leonard that we are +not here to practice the art of balancing a heavy musket on the +outstretched palm of the hand. Private St. Leonard’s +performance with the musket is decidedly clever. But it is +not war.</p> +<p>“Believe me, gentlemen, this thing has been carefully +worked out, and no improvement is likely to result from +individual effort. Let our idea be uniformity. It is +monotonous, but it is safe. Now, then, gentlemen, once +again.”</p> +<p>The drill yard would be converted into a source of innocent +delight to thousands. “Officer and gentleman” +would become a phrase of meaning. I present the idea, for +what it may be worth, with my compliments, to Pall Mall.</p> +<p>The fault of the military man is that he studies too much, +reads too much history, is over reflective. If, instead, he +would look about him more he would notice that things are +changing. Someone has told the British military man that +Waterloo was won upon the playing fields of Eton. So he +goes to Eton and plays. One of these days he will be called +upon to fight another Waterloo: and afterwards—when it is +too late—they will explain to him that it was won not upon +the play field but in the class room.</p> +<p>From the mound on the old Waterloo plain one can form a notion +of what battles, under former conditions, must have been. +The other battlefields of Europe are rapidly disappearing: useful +Dutch cabbages, as Carlyle would have pointed out with +justifiable satisfaction, hiding the theatre of man’s +childish folly. You find, generally speaking, cobblers +happily employed in cobbling shoes, women gossipping cheerfully +over the washtub on the spot where a hundred years ago, according +to the guide-book, a thousand men dressed in blue and a thousand +men dressed in red rushed together like quarrelsome fox-terriers, +and worried each other to death.</p> +<p>But the field of Waterloo is little changed. The guide, +whose grandfather was present at the battle—quite an +extraordinary number of grandfathers must have fought at +Waterloo: there must have been whole regiments composed of +grandfathers—can point out to you the ground across which +every charge was delivered, can show you every ridge, still +existing, behind which the infantry crouched. The whole +business was began and finished within a space little larger than +a square mile. One can understand the advantage then to be +derived from the perfect moving of the military machine; the uses +of the echelon, the purposes of the linked battalion, the +manipulation of centre, left wing and right wing. Then it +may have been worth while—if war be ever worth the +while—which grown men of sense are beginning to +doubt—to waste two years of a soldier’s training, +teaching him the goose-step. In the twentieth century, +teaching soldiers the evolutions of the Thirty Years’ War +is about as sensible as it would be loading our iron-clads with +canvas.</p> +<p>I followed once a company of Volunteers across Blackfriars +Bridge on their way from Southwark to the Temple. At the +bottom of Ludgate Hill the commanding officer, a young but +conscientious gentleman, ordered “Left wheel!” +At once the vanguard turned down a narrow alley—I forget +its name—which would have led the troop into the purlieus +of Whitefriars, where, in all probability, they would have been +lost for ever. The whole company had to be halted, +right-about-faced, and retired a hundred yards. Then the +order “Quick march!” was given. The vanguard +shot across Ludgate Circus, and were making for the Meat +Market.</p> +<p>At this point that young commanding officer gave up being a +military man and talked sense.</p> +<p>“Not that way,” he shouted: “up Fleet Street +and through Middle Temple Lane.”</p> +<p>Then without further trouble the army of the future went upon +its way.</p> +<h2><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span>OUGHT STORIES TO BE TRUE?</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> was once upon a time a +charming young lady, possessed of much taste, who was asked by +her anxious parent, the years passing and family expenditure not +decreasing, which of the numerous and eligible young men then +paying court to her she liked the best. She replied, that +was her difficulty; she could not make up her mind which she +liked the best. They were all so nice. She could not +possibly select one to the exclusion of all the others. +What she would have liked would have been to marry the lot; but +that, she presumed, was impracticable.</p> +<p>I feel I resemble that young lady, not so much in charm and +beauty as in indecision of mind, when the question is that of my +favourite author or my favourite book. It is as if one were +asked one’s favourite food. There are times when one +fancies an egg with one’s tea. On other occasions one +dreams of a kipper. To-day one clamours for lobsters. +To-morrow one feels one never wishes to see a lobster +again. One determines to settle down, for a time, to a diet +of bread and milk and rice pudding. Asked suddenly to say +whether I preferred ices to soup, or beef-steak to caviare, I +should be completely nonplussed.</p> +<p>There may be readers who care for only one literary +diet. I am a person of gross appetites, requiring many +authors to satisfy me. There are moods when the savage +strength of the Bronte sisters is companionable to me. One +rejoices in the unrelieved gloom of “Wuthering +Heights,” as in the lowering skies of a stormy +autumn. Perhaps part of the marvel of the book comes from +the knowledge that the authoress was a slight, delicate young +girl. One wonders what her future work would have been, had +she lived to gain a wider experience of life; or was it well for +her fame that nature took the pen so soon from her hand? +Her suppressed vehemence may have been better suited to those +tangled Yorkshire byways than to the more open, cultivated fields +of life.</p> +<p>There is not much similarity between the two books, yet when +recalling Emily Bronte my thoughts always run on to Olive +Schreiner. Here, again, was a young girl with the voice of +a strong man. Olive Schreiner, more fortunate, has lived; +but I doubt if she will ever write a book that will remind us of +her first. “The Story of an African Farm” is +not a work to be repeated. We have advanced in literature +of late. I can well remember the storm of indignation with +which the “African Farm” was received by Mrs. Grundy +and her then numerous, but now happily diminishing, school. +It was a book that was to be kept from the hands of every young +man and woman. But the hands of the young men and women +stretched out and grasped it, to their help. It is a +curious idea, this of Mrs. Grundy’s, that the young man and +woman must never think—that all literature that does +anything more than echo the conventions must be hidden away.</p> +<p>Then there are times when I love to gallop through history on +Sir Walter’s broomstick. At other hours it is +pleasant to sit in converse with wise George Eliot. From +her garden terrace I look down on Loamshire and its commonplace +people; while in her quiet, deep voice she tells me of the hidden +hearts that beat and throb beneath these velveteen jackets and +lace falls.</p> +<p>Who can help loving Thackeray, wittiest, gentlest of men, in +spite of the faint suspicion of snobbishness that clings to +him? There is something pathetic in the good man’s +horror of this snobbishness, to which he himself was a +victim. May it not have been an affectation, born +unconsciously of self-consciousness? His heroes and +heroines must needs be all fine folk, fit company for lady and +gentlemen readers. To him the livery was too often the +man. Under his stuffed calves even <i>Jeames de la +Pluche</i> himself stood upon the legs of a man, but Thackeray +could never see deeper than the silk stockings. Thackeray +lived and died in Clubland. One feels that the world was +bounded for him by Temple Bar on the east and Park Lane on the +west; but what there was good in Clubland he showed us, and for +the sake of the great gentlemen and sweet ladies that his kindly +eyes found in that narrow region, not too overpeopled with great +gentlemen and sweet women, let us honour him.</p> +<p>“Tom Jones,” “Peregrine Pickle,” and +“Tristram Shandy” are books a man is the better for +reading, if he read them wisely. They teach him that +literature, to be a living force, must deal with all sides of +life, and that little help comes to us from that silly pretence +of ours that we are perfect in all things, leading perfect lives, +that only the villain of the story ever deviates from the path of +rectitude.</p> +<p>This is a point that needs to be considered by both the makers +and the buyers of stories. If literature is to be regarded +solely as the amusement of an idle hour, then the less +relationship it has to life the better. Looking into a +truthful mirror of nature we are compelled to think; and when +thought comes in at the window self-satisfaction goes out by the +door. Should a novel or play call us to ponder upon the +problems of existence, or lure us from the dusty high road of the +world, for a while, into the pleasant meadows of dreamland? +If only the latter, then let our heroes and our heroines be not +what men and women are, but what they should be. Let +Angelina be always spotless and Edwin always true. Let +virtue ever triumph over villainy in the last chapter; and let us +assume that the marriage service answers all the questions of the +Sphinx.</p> +<p>Very pleasant are these fairy tales where the prince is always +brave and handsome; where the princess is always the best and +most beautiful princess that ever lived; where one knows the +wicked people at a glance by their ugliness and ill-temper, +mistakes being thus rendered impossible; where the good fairies +are, by nature, more powerful than the bad; where gloomy paths +lead ever to fair palaces; where the dragon is ever vanquished; +and where well-behaved husbands and wives can rely upon living +happily ever afterwards. “The world is too much with +us, late and soon.” It is wise to slip away from it +at times to fairyland. But, alas, we cannot live in +fairyland, and knowledge of its geography is of little help to us +on our return to the rugged country of reality.</p> +<p>Are not both branches of literature needful? By all +means let us dream, on midsummer nights, of fond lovers led +through devious paths to happiness by Puck; of virtuous +dukes—one finds such in fairyland; of fate subdued by faith +and gentleness. But may we not also, in our more serious +humours, find satisfaction in thinking with Hamlet or +Coriolanus? May not both Dickens and Zola have their booths +in Vanity Fair? If literature is to be a help to us, as +well as a pastime, it must deal with the ugly as well as with the +beautiful; it must show us ourselves, not as we wish to appear, +but as we know ourselves to be. Man has been described as a +animal with aspirations reaching up to Heaven and instincts +rooted—elsewhere. Is literature to flatter him, or +reveal him to himself?</p> +<p>Of living writers it is not safe, I suppose, to speak except, +perhaps, of those who have been with us so long that we have come +to forget they are not of the past. Has justice ever been +done to Ouida’s undoubted genius by our shallow school of +criticism, always very clever in discovering faults as obvious as +pimples on a fine face? Her guardsmen “toy” +with their food. Her horses win the Derby three years +running. Her wicked women throw guinea peaches from the +windows of the Star and Garter into the Thames at Richmond. +The distance being about three hundred and fifty yards, it is a +good throw. Well, well, books are not made worth reading by +the absence of absurdities. Ouida possesses strength, +tenderness, truth, passion; and these be qualities in a writer +capable of carrying many more faults than Ouida is burdened +with. But that is the method of our little criticism. +It views an artist as Gulliver saw the Brobdingnag ladies. +It is too small to see them in their entirety: a mole or a wart +absorbs all its vision.</p> +<p>Why was not George Gissing more widely read? If +faithfulness to life were the key to literary success, +Gissing’s sales would have been counted by the million +instead of by the hundred.</p> +<p>Have Mark Twain’s literary qualities, apart altogether +from his humour, been recognised in literary circles as they +ought to have been? “Huck Finn” would be a great work +were there not a laugh in it from cover to cover. Among the +Indians and some other savage tribes the fact that a member of +the community has lost one of his senses makes greatly to his +advantage; he is then regarded as a superior person. So +among a school of Anglo-Saxon readers, it is necessary to a man, +if he would gain literary credit, that he should lack the sense +of humour. One or two curious modern examples occur to me +of literary success secured chiefly by this failing.</p> +<p>All these authors are my favourites; but such catholic taste +is held nowadays to be no taste. One is told that if one +loves Shakespeare, one must of necessity hate Ibsen; that one +cannot appreciate Wagner and tolerate Beethoven; that if we admit +any merit in Dore, we are incapable of understanding +Whistler. How can I say which is my favourite novel? +I can only ask myself which lives clearest in my memory, which is +the book I run to more often than to another in that pleasant +half hour before the dinner-bell, when, with all apologies to +good Mr. Smiles, it is useless to think of work.</p> +<p>I find, on examination, that my “David +Copperfield” is more dilapidated than any other novel upon +my shelves. As I turn its dog-eared pages, reading the +familiar headlines “Mr. Micawber in difficulties,” +“Mr. Micawber in prison,” “I fall in love with +Dora,” “Mr. Barkis goes out with the tide,” +“My child wife,” “Traddles in a nest of +roses”—pages of my own life recur to me; so many of +my sorrows, so many of my joys are woven in my mind with this +chapter or the other. That day—how well I remember it +when I read of “David’s” wooing, but +Dora’s death I was careful to skip. Poor, pretty +little Mrs. Copperfield at the gate, holding up her baby in her +arms, is always associated in my memory with a child’s cry, +long listened for. I found the book, face downwards on a +chair, weeks afterwards, not moved from where I had hastily laid +it.</p> +<p>Old friends, all of you, how many times have I not slipped +away from my worries into your pleasant company! Peggotty, +you dear soul, the sight of your kind eyes is so good to +me. Our mutual friend, Mr. Charles Dickens, is prone, we +know, just ever so slightly to gush. Good fellow that he +is, he can see no flaw in those he loves, but you, dear lady, if +you will permit me to call you by a name much abused, he has +drawn in true colours. I know you well, with your big +heart, your quick temper, your homely, human ways of +thought. You yourself will never guess your worth—how +much the world is better for such as you! You think of +yourself as of a commonplace person, useful only for the making +of pastry, the darning of stockings, and if a man—not a +young man, with only dim half-opened eyes, but a man whom life +had made keen to see the beauty that lies hidden beneath plain +faces—were to kneel and kiss your red, coarse hand, you +would be much astonished. But he would be a wise man, +Peggotty, knowing what things a man should take carelessly, and +for what things he should thank God, who has fashioned fairness +in many forms.</p> +<p>Mr. Wilkins Micawber, and you, most excellent of faithful +wives, Mrs. Emma Micawber, to you I also raise my hat. How +often has the example of your philosophy saved me, when I, +likewise, have suffered under the temporary pressure of pecuniary +liabilities; when the sun of my prosperity, too, has sunk beneath +the dark horizon of the world—in short, when I, also, have +found myself in a tight corner. I have asked myself what +would the Micawbers have done in my place. And I have +answered myself. They would have sat down to a dish of +lamb’s fry, cooked and breaded by the deft hands of Emma, +followed by a brew of punch, concocted by the beaming Wilkins, +and have forgotten all their troubles, for the time being. +Whereupon, seeing first that sufficient small change was in my +pocket, I have entered the nearest restaurant, and have treated +myself to a repast of such sumptuousness as the aforesaid small +change would command, emerging from that restaurant stronger and +more fit for battle. And lo! the sun of my prosperity has +peeped at me from over the clouds with a sly wink, as if to say +“Cheer up; I am only round the corner.”</p> +<p>Cheery, elastic Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, how would half the +world face their fate but by the help of a kindly, shallow nature +such as yours? I love to think that your sorrows can be +drowned in nothing more harmful than a bowl of punch. +Here’s to you, Emma, and to you, Wilkins, and to the +twins!</p> +<p>May you and such childlike folk trip lightly over the stones +upon your path! May something ever turn up for you, my +dears! May the rain of life ever fall as April showers upon +your simple bald head, Micawber!</p> +<p>And you, sweet Dora, let me confess I love you, though +sensible friends deem you foolish. Ah, silly Dora, +fashioned by wise Mother Nature who knows that weakness and +helplessness are as a talisman calling forth strength and +tenderness in man, trouble yourself not unduly about the oysters +and the underdone mutton, little woman. Good plain cooks at +twenty pounds a year will see to these things for us. Your +work is to teach us gentleness and kindness. Lay your +foolish curls just here, child. It is from such as you we +learn wisdom. Foolish wise folk sneer at you. Foolish +wise folk would pull up the laughing lilies, the needless roses +from the garden, would plant in their places only useful, +wholesome cabbage. But the gardener, knowing better, plants +the silly, short-lived flowers, foolish wise folk asking for what +purpose.</p> +<p>Gallant Traddles, of the strong heart and the unruly hair; +Sophy, dearest of girls; Betsy Trotwood, with your gentlemanly +manners and your woman’s heart, you have come to me in +shabby rooms, making the dismal place seem bright. In dark +hours your kindly faces have looked out at me from the shadows, +your kindly voices have cheered me.</p> +<p>Little Em’ly and Agnes, it may be my bad taste, but I +cannot share my friend Dickens’ enthusiasm for them. +Dickens’ good women are all too good for human +nature’s daily food. Esther Summerson, Florence +Dombey, Little Nell—you have no faults to love you by.</p> +<p>Scott’s women were likewise mere illuminated +texts. Scott only drew one live heroine—Catherine +Seton. His other women were merely the prizes the hero had +to win in the end, like the sucking pig or the leg of mutton for +which the yokel climbs the greasy pole. That Dickens could +draw a woman to some likeness he proved by Bella Wilfer, and +Estella in “Great Expectations.” But real women +have never been popular in fiction. Men readers prefer the +false, and women readers object to the truth.</p> +<p>From an artistic point of view, “David +Copperfield” is undoubtedly Dickens’ best work. +Its humour is less boisterous; its pathos less highly +coloured.</p> +<p>One of Leech’s pictures represents a cab-man calmly +sleeping in the gutter.</p> +<p>“Oh, poor dear, he’s ill,” says a +tender-hearted lady in the crowd. “Ill!” +retorts a male bystander indignantly, “Ill! +’E’s ’ad too much of what I ain’t +’ad enough of.”</p> +<p>Dickens suffered from too little of what some of us have too +much of—criticism. His work met with too little +resistance to call forth his powers. Too often his pathos +sinks to bathos, and this not from want of skill, but from want +of care. It is difficult to believe that the popular writer +who allowed his sentimentality—or rather the public’s +sentimentality—to run away with him in such scenes as the +death of Paul Dombey and Little Nell was the artist who painted +the death of Sidney Carton and of Barkis, the willing. The +death of Barkis, next to the passing of Colonel Newcome, is, to +my thinking, one of the most perfect pieces of pathos in English +literature. No very deep emotion is concerned. He is +a commonplace old man, clinging foolishly to a commonplace +box. His simple wife and the old boatmen stand by, waiting +calmly for the end. There is no straining after +effect. One feels death enter, dignifying all things; and +touched by that hand, foolish old Barkis grows great.</p> +<p>In Uriah Heap and Mrs. Gummidge, Dickens draws types rather +than characters. Pecksniff, Podsnap, Dolly Varden, Mr. +Bumble, Mrs. Gamp, Mark Tapley, Turveydrop, Mrs. +Jellyby—these are not characters; they are human +characteristics personified.</p> +<p>We have to go back to Shakespeare to find a writer who, +through fiction, has so enriched the thought of the people. +Admit all Dickens’ faults twice over, we still have one of +the greatest writers of modern times. Such people as these +creations of Dickens never lived, says your little critic. +Nor was Prometheus, type of the spirit of man, nor was Niobe, +mother of all mothers, a truthful picture of the citizen one was +likely to meet often during a morning’s stroll through +Athens. Nor grew there ever a wood like to the Forest of +Arden, though every Rosalind and Orlando knows the path to glades +having much resemblance thereto.</p> +<p>Steerforth, upon whom Dickens evidently prided himself, I must +confess, never laid hold of me. He is a melodramatic young +man. The worst I could have wished him would have been that +he should marry Rose Dartle and live with his mother. It +would have served him right for being so attractive. Old +Peggotty and Ham are, of course, impossible. One must +accept them also as types. These Brothers Cheeryble, these +Kits, Joe Gargeries, Boffins, Garlands, John Peerybingles, we +will accept as types of the goodness that is in men—though +in real life the amount of virtue that Dickens often wastes upon +a single individual would by more economically minded nature, be +made to serve for fifty.</p> +<p>To sum up, “David Copperfield” is a plain tale, +simply told; and such are all books that live. +Eccentricities of style, artistic trickery, may please the critic +of a day, but literature is a story that interests us, boys and +girls, men and women. It is a sad book; and that, again, +gives it an added charm in these sad later days. Humanity +is nearing its old age, and we have come to love sadness, as the +friend who has been longest with us. In the young days of +our vigour we were merry. With Ulysses’ boatmen, we +took alike the sunshine and the thunder with frolic +welcome. The red blood flowed in our veins, and we laughed, +and our tales were of strength and hope. Now we sit like +old men, watching faces in the fire; and the stories that we love +are sad stories—like the stories we ourselves have +lived.</p> +<h2><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>CREATURES THAT ONE DAY SHALL BE MEN.</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">ought</span> to like Russia better than +I do, if only for the sake of the many good friends I am proud to +possess amongst the Russians. A large square photograph I +keep always on my mantel-piece; it helps me to maintain my head +at that degree of distention necessary for the performance of all +literary work. It presents in the centre a neatly-written +address in excellent English that I frankly confess I am never +tired of reading, around which are ranged some hundreds of names +I am quite unable to read, but which, in spite of their strange +lettering, I know to be the names of good Russian men and women +to whom, a year or two ago, occurred the kindly idea of sending +me as a Christmas card this message of encouragement. The +individual Russian is one of the most charming creatures +living. If he like you he does not hesitate to let you know +it; not only by every action possible, but, by what perhaps is +just as useful in this grey old world, by generous, impulsive +speech.</p> +<p>We Anglo-Saxons are apt to pride ourselves upon being +undemonstrative. Max Adeler tells the tale of a boy who was +sent out by his father to fetch wood. The boy took the +opportunity of disappearing and did not show his face again +beneath the paternal roof for over twenty years. Then one +evening, a smiling, well-dressed stranger entered to the old +couple, and announced himself as their long-lost child, returned +at last.</p> +<p>“Well, you haven’t hurried yourself,” +grumbled the old man, “and blarm me if now you +haven’t forgotten the wood.”</p> +<p>I was lunching with an Englishman in a London restaurant one +day. A man entered and took his seat at a table near +by. Glancing round, and meeting my friend’s eyes, he +smiled and nodded.</p> +<p>“Excuse me a minute,” said my friend, “I +must just speak to my brother—haven’t seen him for +over five years.”</p> +<p>He finished his soup and leisurely wiped his moustache before +strolling across and shaking hands. They talked for a +while. Then my friend returned to me.</p> +<p>“Never thought to see him again,” observed my +friend, “he was one of the garrison of that place in +Africa—what’s the name of it?—that the Mahdi +attacked. Only three of them escaped. Always was a +lucky beggar, Jim.”</p> +<p>“But wouldn’t you like to talk to him some +more?” I suggested; “I can see you any time about +this little business of ours.”</p> +<p>“Oh, that’s all right,” he answered, +“we have just fixed it up—shall be seeing him again +to-morrow.”</p> +<p>I thought of this scene one evening while dining with some +Russian friends in a St. Petersburg Hotel. One of the party +had not seen his second cousin, a mining engineer, for nearly +eighteen months. They sat opposite to one another, and a +dozen times at least during the course of the dinner one of them +would jump up from his chair, and run round to embrace the +other. They would throw their arms about one another, +kissing one another on both cheeks, and then sit down again, with +moist eyes. Their behaviour among their fellow countrymen +excited no astonishment whatever.</p> +<p>But the Russians’s anger is as quick and vehement as his +love. On another occasion I was supping with friends in one +of the chief restaurants on the Nevsky. Two gentlemen at an +adjoining table, who up till the previous moment had been engaged +in amicable conversation, suddenly sprang to their feet, and +“went for” one another. One man secured the +water-bottle, which he promptly broke over the other’s +head. His opponent chose for his weapon a heavy mahogany +chair, and leaping back for the purpose of securing a good swing, +lurched against my hostess.</p> +<p>“Do please be careful,” said the lady.</p> +<p>“A thousand pardons, madame,” returned the +stranger, from whom blood and water were streaming in equal +copiousness; and taking the utmost care to avoid interfering with +our comfort, he succeeded adroitly in flooring his antagonist by +a well-directed blow.</p> +<p>A policeman appeared upon the scene. He did not attempt +to interfere, but running out into the street communicated the +glad tidings to another policeman.</p> +<p>“This is going to cost them a pretty penny,” +observed my host, who was calmly continuing his supper; +“why couldn’t they wait?”</p> +<p>It did cost them a pretty penny. Some half a dozen +policemen were round about before as many minutes had elapsed, +and each one claimed his bribe. Then they wished both +combatants good-night, and trooped out evidently in great good +humour and the two gentlemen, with wet napkins round their heads, +sat down again, and laughter and amicable conversation flowed +freely as before.</p> +<p>They strike the stranger as a childlike people, but you are +possessed with a haunting sense of ugly traits beneath. The +workers—slaves it would be almost more correct to call +them—allow themselves to be exploited with the +uncomplaining patience of intelligent animals. Yet every +educated Russian you talk to on the subject knows that revolution +is coming.</p> +<p>But he talks to you about it with the door shut, for no man in +Russia can be sure that his own servants are not police +spies. I was discussing politics with a Russian official +one evening in his study when his old housekeeper entered the +room—a soft-eyed grey-haired woman who had been in his +service over eight years, and whose position in the household was +almost that of a friend. He stopped abruptly and changed +the conversation. So soon as the door was closed behind her +again, he explained himself.</p> +<p>“It is better to chat upon such matters when one is +quite alone,” he laughed.</p> +<p>“But surely you can trust her,” I said, “She +appears to be devoted to you all.”</p> +<p>“It is safer to trust no one,” he answered. +And then he continued from the point where we had been +interrupted.</p> +<p>“It is gathering,” he said; “there are times +when I almost smell blood in the air. I am an old man and +may escape it, but my children will have to suffer—suffer +as children must for the sins of their fathers. We have +made brute beasts of the people, and as brute beasts they will +come upon us, cruel, and undiscriminating; right and wrong +indifferently going down before them. But it has to +be. It is needed.”</p> +<p>It is a mistake to speak of the Russian classes opposing to +all progress a dead wall of selfishness. The history of +Russia will be the history of the French Revolution over again, +but with this difference: that the educated classes, the +thinkers, who are pushing forward the dumb masses are doing so +with their eyes open. There will be no Maribeau, no Danton +to be appalled at a people’s ingratitude. The men who +are to-day working for revolution in Russia number among their +ranks statesmen, soldiers, delicately-nurtured women, rich +landowners, prosperous tradesmen, students familiar with the +lessons of history. They have no misconceptions concerning +the blind Monster into which they are breathing life. He +will crush them, they know it; but with them he will crush the +injustice and stupidity they have grown to hate more than they +love themselves.</p> +<p>The Russian peasant, when he rises, will prove more terrible, +more pitiless than were the men of 1790. He is less +intelligent, more brutal. They sing a wild, sad song, these +Russian cattle, the while they work. They sing it in chorus +on the quays while hauling the cargo, they sing it in the +factory, they chant on the weary, endless steppes, reaping the +corn they may not eat. It is of the good time their masters +are having, of the feastings and the merrymakings, of the +laughter of the children, of the kisses of the lovers.</p> +<p>But the last line of every verse is the same. When you +ask a Russian to translate it for you he shrugs his +shoulders.</p> +<p>“Oh, it means,” he says, “that their time +will also come—some day.”</p> +<p>It is a pathetic, haunting refrain. They sing it in the +drawing-rooms of Moscow and St. Petersburg, and somehow the light +talk and laughter die away, and a hush, like a chill breath, +enters by the closed door and passes through. It is a +curious song, like the wailing of a tired wind, and one day it +will sweep over the land heralding terror.</p> +<p>A Scotsman I met in Russia told me that when he first came out +to act as manager of a large factory in St. Petersburg, belonging +to his Scottish employers, he unwittingly made a mistake the +first week when paying his workpeople. By a miscalculation +of the Russian money he paid the men, each one, nearly a rouble +short. He discovered his error before the following +Saturday, and then put the matter right. The men accepted +his explanation with perfect composure and without any comment +whatever. The thing astonished him.</p> +<p>“But you must have known I was paying you short,” +he said to one of them. “Why didn’t you tell me +of it?”</p> +<p>“Oh,” answered the man, “we thought you were +putting it in your own pocket and then if we had complained it +would have meant dismissal for us. No one would have taken +our word against yours.”</p> +<p>Corruption appears to be so general throughout the whole of +Russia that all classes have come to accept it as part of the +established order of things. A friend gave me a little dog +to bring away with me. It was a valuable animal, and I +wished to keep it with me. It is strictly forbidden to take +dogs into railway carriages. The list of the pains and +penalties for doing so frightened me considerably.</p> +<p>“Oh, that will be all right,” my friend assured +me; “have a few roubles loose in your pocket.”</p> +<p>I tipped the station master and I tipped the guard, and +started pleased with myself. But I had not anticipated what +was in store for me. The news that an Englishman with a dog +in a basket and roubles in his pocket was coming must have been +telegraphed all down the line. At almost every +stopping-place some enormous official, wearing generally a sword +and a helmet, boarded the train. At first these fellows +terrified me. I took them for field-marshals at least.</p> +<p>Visions of Siberia crossed my mind. Anxious and +trembling, I gave the first one a gold piece. He shook me +warmly by the hand—I thought he was going to kiss me. +If I had offered him my cheek I am sure he would have done +so. With the next one I felt less apprehensive. For a +couple of roubles he blessed me, so I gathered; and, commending +me to the care of the Almighty, departed. Before I had +reached the German frontier, I was giving away the equivalent of +English sixpences to men with the dress and carriage of +major-generals; and to see their faces brighten up and to receive +their heartfelt benediction was well worth the money.</p> +<p>But to the man without roubles in his pocket, Russian +officialdom is not so gracious. By the expenditure of a few +more coins I got my dog through the Customs without trouble, and +had leisure to look about me. A miserable object was being +badgered by half a dozen men in uniform, and he—his lean +face puckered up into a snarl—was returning them snappish +answers; the whole scene suggested some half-starved mongrel +being worried by school-boys. A slight informality had been +discovered in his passport, so a fellow traveller with whom I had +made friends informed me. He had no roubles in his pocket, +and in consequence they were sending him back to St. +Petersburg—some eighteen hours’ journey—in a +wagon that in England would not be employed for the transport of +oxen.</p> +<p>It seemed a good joke to Russian officialdom; they would drop +in every now and then, look at him as he sat crouched in a corner +of the waiting-room, and pass out again, laughing. The +snarl had died from his face; a dull, listless indifference had +taken its place—the look one sees on the face of a beaten +dog, after the beating is over, when it is lying very still, its +great eyes staring into nothingness, and one wonders whether it +is thinking.</p> +<p>The Russian worker reads no newspaper, has no club, yet all +things seem to be known to him. There is a prison on the +banks of the Neva, in St. Petersburg. They say such things +are done with now, but up till very recently there existed a +small cell therein, below the level of the ice, and prisoners +placed there would be found missing a day or two afterwards, +nothing ever again known of them, except, perhaps, to the fishes +of the Baltic. They talk of such like things among +themselves: the sleigh-drivers round their charcoal fire, the +field-workers going and coming in the grey dawn, the factory +workers, their whispers deadened by the rattle of the looms.</p> +<p>I was searching for a house in Brussels some winters ago, and +there was one I was sent to in a small street leading out of the +Avenue Louise. It was poorly furnished, but rich in +pictures, large and small. They covered the walls of every +room.</p> +<p>“These pictures,” explained to me the landlady, an +old, haggard-looking woman, “will not be left, I am taking +them with me to London. They are all the work of my +husband. He is arranging an exhibition.”</p> +<p>The friend who had sent me had told me the woman was a widow, +who had been living in Brussels eking out a precarious existence +as a lodging-house keeper for the last ten years.</p> +<p>“You have married again?” I questioned her.</p> +<p>The woman smiled.</p> +<p>“Not again. I was married eighteen years ago in +Russia. My husband was transported to Siberia a few days +after we were married, and I have never seen him +since.”</p> +<p>“I should have followed him,” she added, +“only every year we thought he was going to be set +free.”</p> +<p>“He is really free now?” I asked.</p> +<p>“Yes,” she answered. “They set him +free last week. He will join me in London. We shall +be able to finish our honeymoon.”</p> +<p>She smiled, revealing to me that once she had been a girl.</p> +<p>I read in the English papers of the exhibition in +London. It was said the artist showed much promise. +So possibly a career may at last be opening out for him.</p> +<p>Nature has made life hard to Russian rich and poor +alike. To the banks of the Neva, with its ague and +influenza-bestowing fogs and mists, one imagines that the Devil +himself must have guided Peter the Great.</p> +<p>“Show me in all my dominions the most hopelessly +unattractive site on which to build a city,” Peter must +have prayed; and the Devil having discovered the site on which +St. Petersburg now stands, must have returned to his master in +high good feather.</p> +<p>“I think, my dear Peter, I have found you something +really unique. It is a pestilent swamp to which a mighty +river brings bitter blasts and marrow-chilling fogs, while during +the brief summer time the wind will bring you sand. In this +way you will combine the disadvantages of the North Pole with +those of the desert of Sahara.”</p> +<p>In the winter time the Russians light their great stoves, and +doubly barricade their doors and windows; and in this atmosphere, +like to that of a greenhouse, many of their women will pass six +months, never venturing out of doors. Even the men only go +out at intervals. Every office, every shop is an +oven. Men of forty have white hair and parchment faces; and +the women are old at thirty. The farm labourers, during the +few summer months, work almost entirely without sleep. They +leave that for the winter, when they shut themselves up like +dormice in their hovels, their store of food and vodka buried +underneath the floor. For days together they sleep, then +wake and dig, then sleep again.</p> +<p>The Russian party lasts all night. In an adjoining room +are beds and couches; half a dozen guests are always +sleeping. An hour contents them, then they rejoin the +company, and other guests take their places. The Russian +eats when he feels so disposed; the table is always spread, the +guests come and go. Once a year there is a great feast in +Moscow. The Russian merchant and his friends sit down early +in the day, and a sort of thick, sweet pancake is served up +hot. The feast continues for many hours, and the ambition +of the Russian merchant is to eat more than his neighbour. +Fifty or sixty of these hot cakes a man will consume at a +sitting, and a dozen funerals in Moscow is often the result.</p> +<p>An uncivilised people, we call them in our lordly way, but +they are young. Russian history is not yet three hundred +years old. They will see us out, I am inclined to +think. Their energy, their intelligence—when these +show above the groundwork—are monstrous. I have known +a Russian learn Chinese within six months. English! they +learn it while you are talking to them. The children play +at chess and study the violin for their own amusement.</p> +<p>The world will be glad of Russia—when she has put her +house in order.</p> +<h2><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>HOW +TO BE HAPPY THOUGH LITTLE.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Folks</span> suffering from Jingoism, +Spreadeagleism, Chauvinism—all such like isms, to whatever +country they belong—would be well advised to take a tour in +Holland. It is the idea of the moment that size spells +happiness. The bigger the country the better one is for +living there. The happiest Frenchman cannot possibly be as +happy as the most wretched Britisher, for the reason that Britain +owns many more thousands of square miles than France +possesses. The Swiss peasant, compared with the Russian +serf, must, when he looks at the map of Europe and Asia, feel +himself to be a miserable creature. The reason that +everybody in America is happy and good is to be explained by the +fact that America has an area equal to that of the entire +moon. The American citizen who has backed the wrong horse, +missed his train and lost his bag, remembers this and feels +bucked up again.</p> +<p>According to this argument, fishes should be the happiest of +mortals, the sea consisting—at least, so says my atlas: I +have not measured it myself—of a hundred and forty-four +millions of square miles. But, maybe, the sea is also +divided in ways we wot not of. Possibly the sardine who +lives near the Brittainy coast is sad and discontented because +the Norwegian sardine is the proud inhabitant of a larger +sea. Perhaps that is why he has left the Brittainy +coast. Ashamed of being a Brittainy sardine, he has +emigrated to Norway, has become a naturalized Norwegian sardine, +and is himself again.</p> +<p>The happy Londoner on foggy days can warm himself with the +reflection that the sun never sets on the British Empire. +He does not often see the sun, but that is a mere detail. +He regards himself as the owner of the sun; the sun begins his +little day in the British Empire, ends his little day in the +British Empire: for all practical purposes the sun is part of the +British Empire. Foolish people in other countries sit +underneath it and feel warm, but that is only their +ignorance. They do not know it is a British possession; if +they did they would feel cold.</p> +<p>My views on this subject are, I know, heretical. I +cannot get it into my unpatriotic head that size is the only +thing worth worrying about. In England, when I venture to +express my out-of-date opinions, I am called a Little +Englander. It fretted me at first; I was becoming a mere +shadow. But by now I have got used to it. It would be +the same, I feel, wherever I went. In New York I should be +a Little American; in Constantinople a Little Turk. But I +wanted to talk about Holland. A holiday in Holland serves +as a corrective to exaggerated Imperialistic notions.</p> +<p>There are no poor in Holland. They may be an unhappy +people, knowing what a little country it is they live in; but, if +so, they hide the fact. To all seeming, the Dutch peasant, +smoking his great pipe, is as much a man as the Whitechapel +hawker or the moocher of the Paris boulevard. I saw a +beggar once in Holland—in the townlet of Enkhuisen. +Crowds were hurrying up from the side streets to have a look at +him; the idea at first seemed to be that he was doing it for a +bet. He turned out to be a Portuguese. They offered +him work in the docks—until he could get something better +to do—at wages equal in English money to about ten +shillings a day. I inquired about him on my way back, and +was told he had borrowed a couple of forms from the foreman and +had left by the evening train. It is not the country for +the loafer.</p> +<p>In Holland work is easily found; this takes away the charm of +looking for it. A farm labourer in Holland lives in a +brick-built house of six rooms, which generally belongs to him, +with an acre or so of ground, and only eats meat once a +day. The rest of his time he fills up on eggs and chicken +and cheese and beer. But you rarely hear him grumble. +His wife and daughter may be seen on Sundays wearing gold and +silver jewellery worth from fifty to one hundred pounds, and +there is generally enough old delft and pewter in the house to +start a local museum anywhere outside Holland. On high days +and holidays, of which in Holland there are plenty, the average +Dutch <i>vrouw</i> would be well worth running away with. +The Dutch peasant girl has no need of an illustrated journal once +a week to tell her what the fashion is; she has it in the +portrait of her mother, or of her grandmother, hanging over the +glittering chimney-piece.</p> +<p>When the Dutchwoman builds a dress she builds it to last; it +descends from mother to daughter, but it is made of sound +material in the beginning. A lady friend of mine thought +the Dutch costume would serve well for a fancy-dress ball, so set +about buying one, but abandoned the notion on learning what it +would cost her. A Dutch girl in her Sunday clothes must be +worth fifty pounds before you come to ornaments. In certain +provinces she wears a close-fitting helmet, made either of solid +silver or of solid gold. The Dutch gallant, before making +himself known, walks on tiptoe a little while behind the Loved +One, and looks at himself in her head-dress just to make sure +that his hat is on straight and his front curl just where it +ought to be.</p> +<p>In most other European countries national costume is dying +out. The slop-shop is year by year extending its hideous +trade. But the country of Rubens and Rembrandt, of Teniers +and Gerard Dow, remains still true to art. The picture +post-card does not exaggerate. The men in those wondrous +baggy knickerbockers, from the pockets of which you sometimes see +a couple of chicken’s heads protruding; in gaudy coloured +shirts, in worsted hose and mighty sabots, smoking their great +pipes—the women in their petticoats of many hues, in +gorgeously embroidered vest, in chemisette of dazzling white, +crowned with a halo of many frills, glittering in gold and +silver—are not the creatures of an artist’s +fancy. You meet them in their thousands on holiday +afternoons, walking gravely arm in arm, flirting with sober Dutch +stolidity.</p> +<p>On colder days the women wear bright-coloured capes made of +fine spun silk, from underneath the ample folds of which you +sometimes hear a little cry; and sometimes a little hooded head +peeps out, regards with preternatural thoughtfulness the toy-like +world without, then dives back into shelter. As for the +children—women in miniature, the single difference in dress +being the gay pinafore—you can only say of them that they +look like Dutch dolls. But such plump, contented, cheerful +little dolls! You remember the hollow-eyed, pale-faced +dolls you see swarming in the great, big and therefore should be +happy countries, and wish that mere land surface were of less +importance to our statesmen and our able editors, and the +happiness and well-being of the mere human items worth a little +more of their thought.</p> +<p>The Dutch peasant lives surrounded by canals, and reaches his +cottage across a drawbridge. I suppose it is in the blood +of the Dutch child not to tumble into a canal, and the Dutch +mother never appears to anticipate such possibility. One +can imagine the average English mother trying to bring up a +family in a house surrounded by canals. She would never +have a minute’s peace until the children were in bed. +But then the mere sight of a canal to the English child suggests +the delights of a sudden and unexpected bath. I put it to a +Dutchman once. Did the Dutch child by any chance ever fall +into a canal?</p> +<p>“Yes,” he replied, “cases have been +known.”</p> +<p>“Don’t you do anything for it?” I +enquired.</p> +<p>“Oh, yes,” he answered, “we haul them out +again.”</p> +<p>“But what I mean is,” I explained, +“don’t you do anything to prevent their falling +in—to save them from falling in again?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” he answered, “we spank +’em.”</p> +<p>There is always a wind in Holland; it comes from over the +sea. There is nothing to stay its progress. It leaps +the low dykes and sweeps with a shriek across the sad, soft +dunes, and thinks it is going to have a good time and play havoc +in the land. But the Dutchman laughs behind his great pipe +as it comes to him shouting and roaring. “Welcome, my +hearty, welcome,” he chuckles, “come blustering and +bragging; the bigger you are the better I like you.” +And when it is once in the land, behind the long, straight dykes, +behind the waving line of sandy dunes, he seizes hold of it, and +will not let it go till it has done its tale of work.</p> +<p>The wind is the Dutchman’s; servant before he lets it +loose again it has turned ten thousand mills, has pumped the +water and sawn the wood, has lighted the town and worked the +loom, and forged the iron, and driven the great, slow, silent +wherry, and played with the children in the garden. It is a +sober wind when it gets back to sea, worn and weary, leaving the +Dutchman laughing behind his everlasting pipe. There are +canals in Holland down which you pass as though a field of +wind-blown corn; a soft, low, rustling murmur ever in your +ears. It is the ceaseless whirl of the great mill +sails. Far out at sea the winds are as foolish savages, +fighting, shrieking, tearing—purposeless. Here, in +the street of mills, it is a civilized wind, crooning softly +while it labours.</p> +<p>What charms one in Holland is the neatness and cleanliness of +all about one. Maybe to the Dutchman there are +drawbacks. In a Dutch household life must be one long +spring-cleaning. No milk-pail is considered fit that cannot +just as well be used for a looking-glass. The great brass +pans, hanging under the pent house roof outside the cottage door, +flash like burnished gold. You could eat your dinner off +the red-tiled floor, but that the deal table, scrubbed to the +colour of cream cheese, is more convenient. By each +threshold stands a row of empty sabots, and woe-betide the +Dutchman who would dream of crossing it in anything but his +stockinged feet.</p> +<p>There is a fashion in sabots. Every spring they are +freshly painted. One district fancies an orange yellow, +another a red, a third white, suggesting purity and +innocence. Members of the Smart Set indulge in +ornamentation; a frieze in pink, a star upon the toe. +Walking in sabots is not as easy as it looks. Attempting to +run in sabots I do not recommend to the beginner.</p> +<p>“How do you run in sabots?” I asked a Dutchman +once. I had been experimenting, and had hurt myself.</p> +<p>“We don’t run,” answered the Dutchman.</p> +<p>And observation has proved to me he was right. The Dutch +boy, when he runs, puts them for preference on his hands, and +hits other Dutch boys over the head with them as he passes.</p> +<p>The roads in Holland, straight and level, and shaded all the +way with trees, look, from the railway-carriage window, as if +they would be good for cycling; but this is a delusion. I +crossed in the boat from Harwich once, with a well-known black +and white artist, and an equally well-known and highly respected +humorist. They had their bicycles with them, intending to +tour Holland. I met them a fortnight later in Delft, or, +rather, I met their remains. I was horrified at +first. I thought it was drink. They could not stand +still, they could not sit still, they trembled and shook in every +limb, their teeth chattered when they tried to talk. The +humorist hadn’t a joke left in him. The artist could +not have drawn his own salary; he would have dropped it on the +way to his pocket. The Dutch roads are paved their entire +length with cobbles—big, round cobbles, over which your +bicycle leaps and springs and plunges.</p> +<p>If you would see Holland outside the big towns a smattering of +Dutch is necessary. If you know German there is not much +difficulty. Dutch—I speak as an amateur—appears +to be very bad German mis-pronounced. Myself, I find my +German goes well in Holland, even better than in Germany. +The Anglo-Saxon should not attempt the Dutch G. It is +hopeless to think of succeeding, and the attempt has been known +to produce internal rupture. The Dutchman appears to keep +his G in his stomach, and to haul it up when wanted. +Myself, I find the ordinary G, preceded by a hiccough and +followed by a sob, the nearest I can get to it. But they +tell me it is not quite right, yet.</p> +<p>One needs to save up beforehand if one desires to spend any +length of time in Holland. One talks of dear old England, +but the dearest land in all the world is little Holland. +The florin there is equal to the franc in France and to the +shilling in England. They tell you that cigars are cheap in +Holland. A cheap Dutch cigar will last you a day. It +is not until you have forgotten the taste of it that you feel you +ever want to smoke again. I knew a man who reckoned that he +had saved hundreds of pounds by smoking Dutch cigars for a month +steadily. It was years before he again ventured on +tobacco.</p> +<p>Watching building operations in Holland brings home to you +forcibly, what previously you have regarded as a meaningless +formula—namely, that the country is built upon piles. +A dozen feet below the level of the street one sees the labourers +working in fishermen’s boots up to their knees in water, +driving the great wooden blocks into the mud. Many of the +older houses slope forward at such an angle that you almost fear +to pass beneath them. I should be as nervous as a kitten, +living in one of the upper storeys. But the Dutchman leans +out of a window that is hanging above the street six feet beyond +the perpendicular, and smokes contentedly.</p> +<p>They have a merry custom in Holland of keeping the railway +time twenty minutes ahead of the town time—or is it twenty +minutes behind? I never can remember when I’m there, +and I am not sure now. The Dutchman himself never +knows.</p> +<p>“You’ve plenty of time,” he says</p> +<p>“But the train goes at ten,” you say; “the +station is a mile away, and it is now half-past nine.”</p> +<p>“Yes, but that means ten-twenty,” he answers, +“you have nearly an hour.”</p> +<p>Five minutes later he taps you on the shoulder.</p> +<p>“My mistake, it’s twenty to ten. I was +thinking it was the other way about.”</p> +<p>Another argues with him that his first idea was right. +They work it out by scientific methods. Meanwhile you have +dived into a cab. The result is always the same: you are +either forty minutes too soon, or you have missed the train by +twenty minutes. A Dutch platform is always crowded with +women explaining volubly to their husbands either that there was +not any need to have hurried, or else that the thing would have +been to have started half an hour before they did, the man in +both cases being, of course, to blame. The men walk up and +down and swear.</p> +<p>The idea has been suggested that the railway time and the town +time should be made to conform. The argument against the +idea is that if it were carried out there would be nothing left +to put the Dutchman out and worry him.</p> +<h2><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +173</span>SHOULD WE SAY WHAT WE THINK, OR THINK WHAT WE SAY?</h2> +<p>A <span class="smcap">mad</span> friend of mine will have it +that the characteristic of the age is Make-Believe. He +argues that all social intercourse is founded on +make-believe. A servant enters to say that Mr. and Mrs. +Bore are in the drawing-room.</p> +<p>“Oh, damn!” says the man.</p> +<p>“Hush!” says the woman. “Shut the +door, Susan. How often am I to tell you never to leave the +door open?”</p> +<p>The man creeps upstairs on tiptoe and shuts himself in his +study. The woman does things before a looking-glass, waits +till she feels she is sufficiently mistress of herself not to +show her feelings, and then enters the drawing-room with +outstretched hands and the look of one welcoming an angel’s +visit. She says how delighted she is to see the +Bores—how good it was of them to come. Why did they +not bring more Bores with them? Where is naughty Bore +junior? Why does he never come to see her now? She +will have to be really angry with him. And sweet little +Flossie Bore? Too young to pay calls! Nonsense. +An “At Home” day is not worth having where all the +Bores are not.</p> +<p>The Bores, who had hoped that she was out—who have only +called because the etiquette book told them that they must call +at least four times in the season, explain how they have been +trying and trying to come.</p> +<p>“This afternoon,” recounts Mrs. Bore, “we +were determined to come. ‘John, dear,’ I said +this morning, ‘I shall go and see dear Mrs. Bounder this +afternoon, no matter what happens.’”</p> +<p>The idea conveyed is that the Prince of Wales, on calling at +the Bores, was told that he could not come in. He might +call again in the evening or come some other day.</p> +<p>That afternoon the Bores were going to enjoy themselves in +their own way; they were going to see Mrs. Bounder.</p> +<p>“And how is Mr. Bounder?” demands Mrs. Bore.</p> +<p>Mrs. Bounder remains mute for a moment, straining her +ears. She can hear him creeping past the door on his way +downstairs. She hears the front door softly opened and +closed-to. She wakes, as from a dream. She has been +thinking of the sorrow that will fall on Bounder when he returns +home later and learns what he has missed.</p> +<p>And thus it is, not only with the Bores and Bounders, but even +with us who are not Bores or Bounders. Society in all ranks +is founded on the make-believe that everybody is charming; that +we are delighted to see everybody; that everybody is delighted to +see us; that it is so good of everybody to come; that we are +desolate at the thought that they really must go now.</p> +<p>Which would we rather do—stop and finish our cigar or +hasten into the drawing-room to hear Miss Screecher sing? +Can you ask us? We tumble over each other in our +hurry. Miss Screecher would really rather not sing; but if +we insist—We do insist. Miss Screecher, with pretty +reluctance, consents. We are careful not to look at one +another. We sit with our eyes fixed on the ceiling. +Miss Screecher finishes, and rises.</p> +<p>“But it was so short,” we say, so soon as we can +be heard above the applause. Is Miss Screecher quite sure +that was the whole of it? Or has she been playing tricks +upon us, the naughty lady, defrauding us of a verse? Miss +Screecher assures us that the fault is the +composer’s. But she knows another. At this +hint, our faces lighten again with gladness. We clamour for +more.</p> +<p>Our host’s wine is always the most extraordinary we have +ever tasted. No, not another glass; we dare +not—doctor’s orders, very strict. Our +host’s cigar! We did not know they made such cigars +in this workaday world. No, we really could not smoke +another. Well, if he will be so pressing, may we put it in +our pocket? The truth is, we are not used to high +smoking. Our hostess’s coffee! Would she +confide to us her secret? The baby! We hardly trust +ourselves to speak. The usual baby—we have seen +it. As a rule, to be candid, we never could detect much +beauty in babies—have always held the usual gush about them +to be insincere. But this baby! We are almost on the +point of asking them where they got it. It is just the kind +we wanted for ourselves. Little Janet’s recitation: +“A Visit to the Dentist!” Hitherto the amateur +reciter has not appealed to us. But this is genius, +surely. She ought to be trained for the stage. Her +mother does not altogether approve of the stage. We plead +for the stage—that it may not be deprived of such +talent.</p> +<p>Every bride is beautiful. Every bride looks charming in +a simple costume of—for further particulars see local +papers. Every marriage is a cause for universal +rejoicing. With our wine-glass in our hand we picture the +ideal life we know to be in store for them. How can it be +otherwise? She, the daughter of her mother. +(Cheers.) He—well, we all know him. (More +cheers.) Also involuntary guffaw from ill-regulated young +man at end of table, promptly suppressed.</p> +<p>We carry our make-believe even into our religion. We sit +in church, and in voices swelling with pride, mention to the +Almighty, at stated intervals, that we are miserable +worms—that there is no good in us. This sort of +thing, we gather, is expected of us; it does us no harm, and is +supposed to please.</p> +<p>We make-believe that every woman is good, that every man is +honest—until they insist on forcing us, against our will, +to observe that they are not. Then we become very angry +with them, and explain to them that they, being sinners, are not +folk fit to mix with us perfect people. Our grief, when our +rich aunt dies, is hardly to be borne. Drapers make +fortunes, helping us to express feebly our desolation. Our +only consolation is that she has gone to a better world.</p> +<p>Everybody goes to a better world when they have got all they +can out of this one.</p> +<p>We stand around the open grave and tell each other so. +The clergyman is so assured of it that, to save time, they have +written out the formula for him and had it printed in a little +book. As a child it used to surprise me—this fact +that everybody went to heaven. Thinking of all the people +that had died, I pictured the place overcrowded. Almost I +felt sorry for the Devil, nobody ever coming his way, so to +speak. I saw him in imagination, a lonely old gentleman, +sitting at his gate day after day, hoping against hope, muttering +to himself maybe that it hardly seemed worth while, from his +point of view, keeping the show open. An old nurse whom I +once took into my confidence was sure, if I continued talking in +this sort of way, that he would get me anyhow. I must have +been an evil-hearted youngster. The thought of how he would +welcome me, the only human being that he had seen for years, had +a certain fascination for me; for once in my existence I should +be made a fuss about.</p> +<p>At every public meeting the chief speaker is always “a +jolly good fellow.” The man from Mars, reading our +newspapers, would be convinced that every Member of Parliament +was a jovial, kindly, high-hearted, generous-souled saint, with +just sufficient humanity in him to prevent the angels from +carrying him off bodily. Do not the entire audience, moved +by one common impulse, declare him three times running, and in +stentorian voice, to be this “jolly good +fellow”? So say all of them. We have always +listened with the most intense pleasure to the brilliant speech +of our friend who has just sat down. When you thought we +were yawning, we were drinking in his eloquence, +open-mouthed.</p> +<p>The higher one ascends in the social scale, the wider becomes +this necessary base of make-believe. When anything sad +happens to a very big person, the lesser people round about him +hardly care to go on living. Seeing that the world is +somewhat overstocked with persons of importance, and that +something or another generally is happening to them, one wonders +sometimes how it is the world continues to exist.</p> +<p>Once upon a time there occurred an illness to a certain good +and great man. I read in my daily paper that the whole +nation was plunged in grief. People dining in public +restaurants, on being told the news by the waiter, dropped their +heads upon the table and sobbed. Strangers, meeting in the +street, flung their arms about one another and cried like little +children. I was abroad at the time, but on the point of +returning home. I almost felt ashamed to go. I looked +at myself in the glass, and was shocked at my own appearance: it +was that of a man who had not been in trouble for weeks. I +felt that to burst upon this grief-stricken nation with a +countenance such as mine would be to add to their sorrow. +It was borne in upon me that I must have a shallow, egotistical +nature. I had had luck with a play in America, and for the +life of me I could not look grief-stricken. There were +moments when, if I was not keeping a watch over myself, I found +myself whistling.</p> +<p>Had it been possible I would have remained abroad till some +stroke of ill-fortune had rendered me more in tune with my +fellow-countrymen. But business was pressing. The +first man I talked to on Dover pier was a Customs House +official. You might have thought sorrow would have made him +indifferent to a mere matter of forty-eight cigars. Instead +of which, he appeared quite pleased when he found them. He +demanded three-and-fourpence, and chuckled when he got it. +On Dover platform a little girl laughed because a lady dropped a +handbox on a dog; but then children are always callous—or, +perhaps, she had not heard the news.</p> +<p>What astonished me most, however, was to find in the railway +carriage a respectable looking man reading a comic journal. +True, he did not laugh much: he had got decency enough for that; +but what was a grief-stricken citizen doing with a comic journal, +anyhow? Before I had been in London an hour I had come to +the conclusion that we English must be a people of wonderful +self-control. The day before, according to the newspapers, +the whole country was in serious danger of pining away and dying +of a broken heart. In one day the nation had pulled itself +together. “We have cried all day,” they had +said to themselves, “we have cried all night. It does +not seem to have done much good. Now let us once again take +up the burden of life.” Some of them—I noticed +it in the hotel dining-room that evening—were taking quite +kindly to their food again.</p> +<p>We make believe about quite serious things. In war, each +country’s soldiers are always the most courageous in the +world. The other country’s soldiers are always +treacherous and tricky; that is why they sometimes win. +Literature is the art of make-believe.</p> +<p>“Now all of you sit round and throw your pennies in the +cap,” says the author, “and I will pretend that there +lives in Bayswater a young lady named Angelina, who is the most +beautiful young lady that ever existed. And in Notting +Hill, we will pretend, there resides a young man named Edwin, who +is in love with Angelina.”</p> +<p>And then, there being sufficient pennies in the cap, the +author starts away, and pretends that Angelina thought this and +said that, and that Edwin did all sorts of wonderful +things. We know he is making it all up as he goes +along. We know he is making up just what he thinks will +please us. He, on the other hand, has to make-believe that +he is doing it because he cannot help it, he being an +artist. But we know well enough that, were we to stop +throwing the pennies into the cap, he would find out precious +soon that he could.</p> +<p>The theatrical manager bangs his drum.</p> +<p>“Walk up! walk up!” he cries, “we are going +to pretend that Mrs. Johnson is a princess, and old man Johnson +is going to pretend to be a pirate. Walk up, walk up, and +be in time!”</p> +<p>So Mrs. Johnson, pretending to be a princess, comes out of a +wobbly thing that we agree to pretend is a castle; and old man +Johnson, pretending to be a pirate, is pushed up and down on +another wobbly thing that we agree to pretend is the ocean. +Mrs. Johnson pretends to be in love with him, which we know she +is not. And Johnson pretends to be a very terrible person; +and Mrs. Johnson pretends, till eleven o’clock, to believe +it. And we pay prices, varying from a shilling to +half-a-sovereign, to sit for two hours and listen to them.</p> +<p>But as I explained at the beginning, my friend is a mad sort +of person.</p> +<h2><a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>IS +THE AMERICAN HUSBAND MADE ENTIRELY OF STAINED GLASS.</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">am</span> glad I am not an American +husband. At first sight this may appear a remark +uncomplimentary to the American wife. It is nothing of the +sort. It is the other way about. We, in Europe, have +plenty of opportunity of judging the American wife. In +America you hear of the American wife, you are told stories about +the American wife, you see her portrait in the illustrated +journals. By searching under the heading “Foreign +Intelligence,” you can find out what she is doing. +But here in Europe we know her, meet her face to face, talk to +her, flirt with her. She is charming, delightful. +That is why I say I am glad I am not an American husband. +If the American husband only knew how nice was the American wife, +he would sell his business and come over here, where now and then +he could see her.</p> +<p>Years ago, when I first began to travel about Europe, I argued +to myself that America must be a deadly place to live in. +How sad it is, I thought to myself, to meet thus, wherever one +goes, American widows by the thousand. In one narrow +by-street of Dresden I calculated fourteen American mothers, +possessing nine-and-twenty American children, and not a father +among them—not a single husband among the whole +fourteen. I pictured fourteen lonely graves, scattered over +the United States. I saw as in a vision those fourteen +head-stones of best material, hand-carved, recording the virtues +of those fourteen dead and buried husbands.</p> +<p>Odd, thought I to myself, decidedly odd. These American +husbands, they must be a delicate type of humanity. The +wonder is their mothers ever reared them. They marry fine +girls, the majority of them; two or three sweet children are born +to them, and after that there appears to be no further use for +them, as far as this world is concerned. Can nothing be +done to strengthen their constitutions? Would a tonic be of +any help to them? Not the customary tonic, I don’t +mean, the sort of tonic merely intended to make gouty old +gentlemen feel they want to buy a hoop, but the sort of tonic for +which it was claimed that three drops poured upon a ham sandwich +and the thing would begin to squeak.</p> +<p>It struck me as pathetic, the picture of these American widows +leaving their native land, coming over in shiploads to spend the +rest of their blighted lives in exile. The mere thought of +America, I took it, had for ever become to them +distasteful. The ground that once his feet had +pressed! The old familiar places once lighted by his +smile! Everything in America would remind them of +him. Snatching their babes to their heaving bosoms they +would leave the country where lay buried all the joy of their +lives, seek in the retirement of Paris, Florence or Vienna, +oblivion of the past.</p> +<p>Also, it struck me as beautiful, the noble resignation with +which they bore their grief, hiding their sorrow from the +indifferent stranger. Some widows make a fuss, go about for +weeks looking gloomy and depressed, making not the slightest +effort to be merry. These fourteen widows—I knew them +personally, all of them, I lived in the same street—what a +brave show of cheerfulness they put on! What a lesson to +the common or European widow, the humpy type of widow! One +could spend whole days in their company—I had done +it—commencing quite early in the morning with a sleighing +excursion, finishing up quite late in the evening with a little +supper party, followed by an impromptu dance; and never detect +from their outward manner that they were not thoroughly enjoying +themselves.</p> +<p>From the mothers I turned my admiring eyes towards the +children. This is the secret of American success, said I to +myself; this high-spirited courage, this Spartan contempt for +suffering. Look at them! the gallant little men and +women. Who would think that they had lost a father? +Why, I have seen a British child more upset at losing +sixpence.</p> +<p>Talking to a little girl one day, I enquired of her concerning +the health of her father. The next moment I could have +bitten my tongue out, remembering that there wasn’t such a +thing as a father—not an American father—in the whole +street. She did not burst into tears as they do in the +story-books. She said:</p> +<p>“He is quite well, thank you,” simply, +pathetically, just like that.</p> +<p>“I am sure of it,” I replied with fervour, +“well and happy as he deserves to be, and one day you will +find him again; you will go to him.”</p> +<p>“Ah, yes,” she answered, a shining light, it +seemed to me, upon her fair young face. “Momma says +she is getting just a bit tired of this one-horse sort of +place. She is quite looking forward to seeing him +again.”</p> +<p>It touched me very deeply: this weary woman, tired of her long +bereavement, actually looking forward to the fearsome passage +leading to where her loved one waited for her in a better +land.</p> +<p>For one bright breezy creature I grew to feel a real +regard. All the months that I had known her, seen her +almost daily, never once had I heard a single cry of pain escape +her lips, never once had I heard her cursing fate. Of the +many who called upon her in her charming flat, not one had ever, +to my knowledge, offered her consolation or condolence. It +seemed to me cruel, callous. The over-burdened heart, +finding no outlet for its imprisoned grief, finding no +sympathetic ear into which to pour its tale of woe, breaks, we +are told; anyhow, it isn’t good for it. I +decided—no one else seeming keen—that I would supply +that sympathetic ear. The very next time I found myself +alone with her I introduced the subject.</p> +<p>“You have been living here in Dresden a long time, have +you not?” I asked.</p> +<p>“About five years,” she answered, “on and +off.”</p> +<p>“And all alone,” I commented, with a sigh intended +to invite to confidence.</p> +<p>“Well, hardly alone,” she corrected me, while a +look of patient resignation added dignity to her piquant +features. “You see, there are the dear children +always round about me, during the holidays.”</p> +<p>“Besides,” she added, “the people here are +real kind to me; they hardly ever let me feel myself alone. +We make up little parties, you know, picnics and +excursions. And then, of course, there is the Opera and the +Symphony Concerts, and the subscription dances. The dear +old king has been doing a good deal this winter, too; and I must +say the Embassy folks have been most thoughtful, so far as I am +concerned. No, it would not be right for me to complain of +loneliness, not now that I have got to know a few people, as it +were.”</p> +<p>“But don’t you miss your husband?” I +suggested.</p> +<p>A cloud passed over her usually sunny face. “Oh, +please don’t talk of him,” she said, “it makes +me feel real sad, thinking about him.”</p> +<p>But having commenced, I was determined that my sympathy should +not be left to waste.</p> +<p>“What did he die of?” I asked.</p> +<p>She gave me a look the pathos of which I shall never +forget.</p> +<p>“Say, young man,” she cried, “are you trying +to break it to me gently? Because if so, I’d rather +you told me straight out. What did he die of?”</p> +<p>“Then isn’t he dead?” I asked, “I mean +so far as you know.”</p> +<p>“Never heard a word about his being dead till you +started the idea,” she retorted. “So far as I +know he’s alive and well.”</p> +<p>I said that I was sorry. I went on to explain that I did +not mean I was sorry to hear that in all probability he was alive +and well. What I meant was I was sorry I had introduced a +painful subject.</p> +<p>“What’s a painful subject?”</p> +<p>“Why, your husband,” I replied.</p> +<p>“But why should you call him a painful +subject?”</p> +<p>I had an idea she was getting angry with me. She did not +say so. I gathered it. But I had to explain myself +somehow.</p> +<p>“Well,” I answered, “I take it, you +didn’t get on well together, and I am sure it must have +been his fault.”</p> +<p>“Now look here,” she said, “don’t you +breathe a word against my husband or we shall quarrel. A +nicer, dearer fellow never lived.”</p> +<p>“Then what did you divorce him for?” I +asked. It was impertinent, it was unjustifiable. My +excuse is that the mystery surrounding the American husband had +been worrying me for months. Here had I stumbled upon the +opportunity of solving it. Instinctively I clung to my +advantage.</p> +<p>“There hasn’t been any divorce,” she +said. “There isn’t going to be any +divorce. You’ll make me cross in another +minute.”</p> +<p>But I was becoming reckless. “He is not +dead. You are not divorced from him. Where is +he?” I demanded with some heat.</p> +<p>“Where is he?” she replied, astonished. +“Where should he be? At home, of course.”</p> +<p>I looked around the luxuriously-furnished room with its air of +cosy comfort, of substantial restfulness.</p> +<p>“What home?” I asked.</p> +<p>“What home! Why, our home, in Detroit.”</p> +<p>“What is he doing there?” I had become so +much in earnest that my voice had assumed unconsciously an +authoritative tone. Presumably, it hypnotised her, for she +answered my questions as though she had been in the +witness-box.</p> +<p>“How do I know? How can I possibly tell you what +he is doing? What do people usually do at home?”</p> +<p>“Answer the questions, madam, don’t ask +them. What are you doing here? Quite truthfully, if +you please.” My eyes were fixed upon her.</p> +<p>“Enjoying myself. He likes me to enjoy +myself. Besides, I am educating the children.”</p> +<p>“You mean they are here at boarding-school while you are +gadding about. What is wrong with American education? +When did you see your husband last?”</p> +<p>“Last? Let me see. No, last Christmas I was +in Berlin. It must have been the Christmas before, I +think.”</p> +<p>“If he is the dear kind fellow you say he is, how is it +you haven’t seen him for two years?”</p> +<p>“Because, as I tell you, he is at home, in +Detroit. How can I see him when I am here in Dresden and he +is in Detroit? You do ask foolish questions. He means +to try and come over in the summer, if he can spare the time, and +then, of course—</p> +<p>“Answer my questions, please. I’ve spoken to +you once about it. Do you think you are performing your +duty as a wife, enjoying yourself in Dresden and Berlin while +your husband is working hard in Detroit?”</p> +<p>“He was quite willing for me to come. The American +husband is a good fellow who likes his wife to enjoy +herself.”</p> +<p>“I am not asking for your views on the American +husband. I am asking your views on the American +wife—on yourself. The American husband appears to be +a sort of stained-glass saint, and you American wives are +imposing upon him. It is doing you no good, and it +won’t go on for ever. There will come a day when the +American husband will wake up to the fact he is making a fool of +himself, and by over-indulgence, over-devotion, turning the +American woman into a heartless, selfish creature. What +sort of a home do you think it is in Detroit, with you and the +children over here? Tell me, is the American husband made +entirely of driven snow, with blood distilled from moonbeams, or +is he composed of the ordinary ingredients? Because, if the +latter, you take my advice and get back home. I take it +that in America, proper, there are millions of real homes where +the woman does her duty and plays the game. But also it is +quite clear there are thousands of homes in America, mere echoing +rooms, where the man walks by himself, his wife and children +scattered over Europe. It isn’t going to work, it +isn’t right that it should work.”</p> +<p>“You take the advice of a sincere friend. Pack +up—you and the children—and get home.”</p> +<p>I left. It was growing late. I felt it was time to +leave. Whether she took my counsel I cannot say. I +only know that there still remain in Europe a goodly number of +American wives to whom it is applicable.</p> +<h2><a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>DOES +THE YOUNG MAN KNOW EVERYTHING WORTH KNOWING?</h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">am</span> told that American professors +are “mourning the lack of ideals” at Columbia +University—possibly also at other universities scattered +through the United States. If it be any consolation to +these mourning American professors, I can assure them that they +do not mourn alone. I live not far from Oxford, and enjoy +the advantage of occasionally listening to the jeremiads of +English University professors. More than once a German +professor has done me the honour to employ me as an object on +which to sharpen his English. He also has mourned similar +lack of ideals at Heidelberg, at Bonn. Youth is youth all +the world over; it has its own ideals; they are not those of the +University professor. The explanation is tolerably +simple. Youth is young, and the University professor, +generally speaking, is middle-aged.</p> +<p>I can sympathise with the mourning professor. I, in my +time, have suffered like despair. I remember the day so +well; it was my twelfth birthday. I recall the unholy joy +with which I reflected that for the future my unfortunate parents +would be called upon to pay for me full railway fare; it marked a +decided step towards manhood. I was now in my teens. +That very afternoon there came to visit us a relative of +ours. She brought with her three small children: a girl, +aged six; a precious, golden-haired thing in a lace collar that +called itself a boy, aged five; and a third still smaller +creature, it might have been male, it might have been female; I +could not have told you at the time, I cannot tell you now. +This collection of atoms was handed over to me.</p> +<p>“Now, show yourself a man,” said my dear mother, +“remember you are in your teens. Take them out for a +walk and amuse them; and mind nothing happens to them.”</p> +<p>To the children themselves their own mother gave instructions +that they were to do everything that I told them, and not to tear +their clothes or make themselves untidy. These directions, +even to myself, at the time, appeared contradictory. But I +said nothing. And out into the wilds the four of us +departed.</p> +<p>I was an only child. My own infancy had passed from my +memory. To me, at twelve, the ideas of six were as +incomprehensible as are those of twenty to the University +professor of forty. I wanted to be a pirate. Round +the corner and across the road building operations were in +progress. Planks and poles lay ready to one’s +hand. Nature, in the neighbourhood, had placed conveniently +a shallow pond. It was Saturday afternoon. The +nearest public-house was a mile away. Immunity from +interference by the British workman was thus assured. It +occurred to me that by placing my three depressed looking +relatives on one raft, attacking them myself from another, taking +the eldest girl’s sixpence away from her, disabling their +raft, and leaving them to drift without a rudder, innocent +amusement would be provided for half an hour at least.</p> +<p>They did not want to play at pirates. At first sight of +the pond the thing that called itself a boy began to cry. +The six-year-old lady said she did not like the smell of +it. Not even after I had explained the game to them were +they any the more enthusiastic for it.</p> +<p>I proposed Red Indians. They could go to sleep in the +unfinished building upon a sack of lime, I would creep up through +the grass, set fire to the house, and dance round it, whooping +and waving my tomahawk, watching with fiendish delight the +frantic but futile efforts of the palefaces to escape their +doom.</p> +<p>It did not “catch on”—not even that. +The precious thing in the lace collar began to cry again. +The creature concerning whom I could not have told you whether it +was male or female made no attempt at argument, but started to +run; it seemed to have taken a dislike to this particular +field. It stumbled over a scaffolding pole, and then it +also began to cry. What could one do to amuse such +people? I left it to them to propose something. They +thought they would like to play at +“Mothers”—not in this field, but in some other +field.</p> +<p>The eldest girl would be mother. The other two would +represent her children. They had been taken suddenly +ill. “Waterworks,” as I had christened him, was +to hold his hands to his middle and groan. His face +brightened up at the suggestion. The nondescript had the +toothache. It took up its part without a moment’s +hesitation, and set to work to scream. I could be the +doctor and look at their tongues.</p> +<p>That was their “ideal” game. As I have said, +remembering that afternoon, I can sympathise with the University +professor mourning the absence of University ideals in +youth. Possibly at six my own ideal game may have been +“Mothers.” Looking back from the pile of +birthdays upon which I now stand, it occurs to me that very +probably it was. But from the perspective of twelve, the +reflection that there were beings in the world who could find +recreation in such fooling saddened me.</p> +<p>Eight years later, his father not being able to afford the +time, I conducted Master “Waterworks,” now a healthy, +uninteresting, gawky lad, to a school in Switzerland. It +was my first Continental trip. I should have enjoyed it +better had he not been with me. He thought Paris a +“beastly hole.” He did not share my admiration +for the Frenchwoman; he even thought her badly dressed.</p> +<p>“Why she’s so tied up, she can’t walk +straight,” was the only impression she left upon him.</p> +<p>We changed the subject; it irritated me to hear him +talk. The beautiful Juno-like creatures we came across +further on in Germany, he said were too fat. He wanted to +see them run. I found him utterly soulless.</p> +<p>To expect a boy to love learning and culture is like expecting +him to prefer old vintage claret to gooseberry wine. +Culture for the majority is an acquired taste. Speaking +personally, I am entirely in agreement with the University +professor. I find knowledge, prompting to observation and +leading to reflection, the most satisfactory luggage with which a +traveller through life can provide himself. I would that I +had more of it. To be able to enjoy a picture is of more +advantage than to be able to buy it.</p> +<p>All that the University professor can urge in favour of +idealism I am prepared to endorse. But then I am—let +us say, thirty-nine. At fourteen my candid opinion was that +he was talking “rot.” I looked at the old +gentleman himself—a narrow-chested, spectacled old +gentleman, who lived up a by street. He did not seem to +have much fun of any sort. It was not my ideal. He +told me things had been written in a language called Greek that I +should enjoy reading, but I had not even read all Captain +Marryat. There were tales by Sir Walter Scott and +“Jack Harkaway’s Schooldays!” I felt I +could wait a while. There was a chap called Aristophanes +who had written comedies, satirising the political institutions +of a country that had disappeared two thousand years ago. I +say, without shame, Drury Lane pantomime and Barnum’s +Circus called to me more strongly.</p> +<p>Wishing to give the old gentleman a chance, I dipped into +translations. Some of these old fellows were not as bad as +I had imagined them. A party named Homer had written some +really interesting stuff. Here and there, maybe, he was a +bit long-winded, but, taking him as a whole, there was +“go” in him. There was another of +them—Ovid was his name. He could tell a story, Ovid +could. He had imagination. He was almost as good as +“Robinson Crusoe.” I thought it would please my +professor, telling him that I was reading these, his favourite +authors.</p> +<p>“Reading them!” he cried, “but you +don’t know Greek or Latin.”</p> +<p>“But I know English,” I answered; “they have +all been translated into English. You never told me +that!”</p> +<p>It appeared it was not the same thing. There were subtle +delicacies of diction bound to escape even the best +translator. These subtle delicacies of diction I could +enjoy only by devoting the next seven or eight years of my life +to the study of Greek and Latin. It will grieve the +University professor to hear it, but the enjoyment of those +subtle delicacies of diction did not appear to me—I was +only fourteen at the time, please remember—to be worth the +time and trouble.</p> +<p>The boy is materially inclined—the mourning American +professor has discovered it. I did not want to be an +idealist living up a back street. I wanted to live in the +biggest house in the best street of the town. I wanted to +ride a horse, wear a fur coat, and have as much to eat and drink +as ever I liked. I wanted to marry the most beautiful woman +in the world, to have my name in the newspaper, and to know that +everybody was envying me.</p> +<p>Mourn over it, my dear professor, as you will—that is +the ideal of youth; and, so long as human nature remains what it +is, will continue to be so. It is a materialistic +ideal—a sordid ideal. Maybe it is necessary. +Maybe the world would not move much if the young men started +thinking too early. They want to be rich, so they fling +themselves frenziedly into the struggle. They build the +towns, and make the railway tracks, hew down the forests, dig the +ore out of the ground. There comes a day when it is borne +in upon them that trying to get rich is a poor sort of +game—that there is only one thing more tiresome than being +a millionaire, and that is trying to be a millionaire. But, +meanwhile, the world has got its work done.</p> +<p>The American professor fears that the artistic development of +America leaves much to be desired. I fear the artistic +development of most countries leaves much to be desired. +Why the Athenians themselves sandwiched their drama between +wrestling competitions and boxing bouts. The plays of +Sophocles, or Euripides, were given as “side +shows.” The chief items of the fair were the games +and races. Besides, America is still a young man. It +has been busy “getting on in the world.” It has +not yet quite finished. Yet there are signs that young +America is approaching the thirty-nines. He is finding a +little time, a little money to spare for art. One can +almost hear young America—not quite so young as he +was—saying to Mrs. Europe as he enters and closes the shop +door:</p> +<p>“Well, ma’am, here I am, and maybe you’ll be +glad to hear I’ve a little money to spend. Yes, +ma’am, I’ve fixed things all right across the water; +we shan’t starve. So now, ma’am, you and I can +have a chat concerning this art I’ve been hearing so much +about. Let’s have a look at it, ma’am, trot it +out, and don’t you be afraid of putting a fair price upon +it.”</p> +<p>I am inclined to think that Mrs. Europe has not hesitated to +put a good price upon the art she has sold to Uncle Sam. I +am afraid Mrs. Europe has occasionally “unloaded” on +Uncle Sam. I talked to a certain dealer one afternoon, now +many years ago, at the Uwantit Club.</p> +<p>“What is the next picture likely to be missing?” I +asked him in the course of general conversation.</p> +<p>“Thome little thing of Hoppner’th, if it mutht +be,” he replied with confidence.</p> +<p>“Hoppner,” I murmured, “I seem to have heard +the name.”</p> +<p>“Yeth; you’ll hear it a bit oftener during the +next eighteen month or tho. You take care you don’t +get tired of hearing it, thath all,” he laughed. +“Yeth,” he continued, thoughtfully, “Reynoldth +ith played out. Nothing much to be made of Gainthborough, +either. Dealing in that lot now, why, it’th like +keeping a potht offith. Hoppner’th the coming +man.”</p> +<p>“You’ve been buying Hoppners up cheap,” I +suggested.</p> +<p>“Between uth,” he answered, “yeth, I think +we’ve got them all. Maybe a few more. I +don’t think we’ve mithed any.”</p> +<p>“You will sell them for more than you gave for +them,” I hinted.</p> +<p>“You’re thmart,” he answered, regarding me +admiringly, “you thee through everything you do.”</p> +<p>“How do you work it?” I asked him. There is +a time in the day when he is confidential. “Here is +this man, Hoppner. I take it that you have bought him up at +an average of a hundred pounds a picture, and that at that price +most owners were fairly glad to sell. Few folks outside the +art schools have ever heard of him. I bet that at the +present moment there isn’t one art critic who could spell +his name without reference to a dictionary. In eighteen +months you will be selling him for anything from one thousand to +ten thousand pounds. How is it done?”</p> +<p>“How ith everything done that’th done well?” +he answered. “By earnetht effort.” He +hitched his chair nearer to me, “I get a chap—one of +your thort of chapth—he writ’th an article about +Hoppner. I get another to anthwer him. Before +I’ve done there’ll be a hundred articleth about +Hoppner—hith life, hith early thruggie, anecdo’th +about hith wife. Then a Hoppner will be thold at public +auchtion for a thouthand guineath.”</p> +<p>“But how can you be certain it will fetch a thousand +guineas?” I interrupted.</p> +<p>“I happen to know the man whoth going to buy +it.” He winked, and I understood.</p> +<p>“A fortnight later there will be a thale of +half-a-dothen, and the prithe will be gone up by that +time.”</p> +<p>“And after that?” I said.</p> +<p>“After that,” he replied, rising, “the +American millionaire! He’ll jutht be waiting on the +door-thtep for the thale-room to open.”</p> +<p>“If by any chance I come across a Hoppner?” I +said, laughing, as I turned to go.</p> +<p>“Don’t you hold on to it too long, that’th +all,” was his advice.</p> +<h2><a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 213</span>HOW +MANY CHARMS HATH MUSIC, WOULD YOU SAY?</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> argument of the late Herr +Wagner was that grand opera—the music drama, as he called +it—included, and therefore did away with the necessity +for—all other arts. Music in all its branches, of +course, it provides: so much I will concede to the late Herr +Wagner. There are times, I confess, when my musical +yearnings might shock the late Herr Wagner—times when I +feel unequal to following three distinct themes at one and the +same instant.</p> +<p>“Listen,” whispers the Wagnerian enthusiast to me, +“the cornet has now the Brunnhilda motive.” It +seems to me, in my then state of depravity, as if the cornet had +even more than this the matter with him.</p> +<p>“The second violins,” continues the Wagnerian +enthusiast, “are carrying on the Wotan theme.” +That they are carrying on goes without saying: the players’ +faces are streaming with perspiration.</p> +<p>“The brass,” explains my friend—his object +is to cultivate my ear—“is accompanying the +singers.” I should have said drowning them. +There are occasions when I can rave about Wagner with the best of +them. High class moods come to all of us. The +difference between the really high-class man and us commonplace, +workaday men is the difference between, say, the eagle and the +barnyard chicken. I am the barnyard chicken. I have +my wings. There are ecstatic moments when I feel I want to +spurn the sordid earth and soar into the realms of art. I +do fly a little, but my body is heavy, and I only get as far as +the fence. After a while I find it lonesome on the fence, +and I hop down again among my fellows.</p> +<p>Listening to Wagner, during such temporary Philistinic mood, +my sense of fair play is outraged. A lone, lorn woman +stands upon the stage trying to make herself heard. She has +to do this sort of thing for her living; maybe an invalid mother, +younger brothers and sisters are dependent upon her. One +hundred and forty men, all armed with powerful instruments, +well-organised, and most of them looking well-fed, combine to +make it impossible for a single note of that poor woman’s +voice to be heard above their din. I see her standing +there, opening and shutting her mouth, getting redder and redder +in the face. She is singing, one feels sure of it; one +could hear her if only those one hundred and forty men would ease +up for a minute. She makes one mighty, supreme effort; +above the banging of the drums, the blare of the trumpets, the +shrieking of the strings, that last despairing note is distinctly +heard.</p> +<p>She has won, but the victory has cost her dear. She +sinks down fainting on the stage and is carried off by +supers. Chivalrous indignation has made it difficult for me +to keep my seat watching the unequal contest. My instinct +was to leap the barrier, hurl the bald-headed chief of her +enemies from his high chair, and lay about me with the trombone +or the clarionet—whichever might have come the easier to my +snatch.</p> +<p>“You cowardly lot of bullies,” I have wanted to +cry, “are you not ashamed of yourselves? A hundred +and forty of you against one, and that one a still beautiful and, +comparatively speaking, young lady. Be quiet for a +minute—can’t you? Give the poor girl a +chance.”</p> +<p>A lady of my acquaintance says that sitting out a Wagnerian +opera seems to her like listening to a singer accompanied by four +orchestras playing different tunes at the same time. As I +have said, there are times when Wagner carries me along with him, +when I exult in the crash and whirl of his contending +harmonies. But, alas! there are those other +moods—those after dinner moods—when my desire is for +something distinctly resembling a tune. Still, there are +other composers of grand opera besides Wagner. I grant to +the late Herr Wagner, that, in so far as music is concerned, +opera can supply us with all we can need.</p> +<p>But it was also Wagner’s argument that grand opera could +supply us with acting, and there I am compelled to disagree with +him. Wagner thought that the arts of acting and singing +could be combined. I have seen artists the great man has +trained himself. As singers they left nothing to be +desired, but the acting in grand opera has never yet impressed +me. Wagner never succeeded in avoiding the operatic +convention and nobody else ever will. When the operatic +lover meets his sweetheart he puts her in a corner and, turning +his back upon her, comes down to the footlights and tells the +audience how he adores her. When he has finished, he, in +his turn, retires into the corner, and she comes down and tells +the audience that she is simply mad about him.</p> +<p>Overcome with joy at finding she really cares for him, he +comes down right and says that this is the happiest moment of his +life; and she stands left, twelve feet away from him, and has the +presentiment that all this sort of thing is much too good to +last. They go off together, backwards, side by side. +If there is any love-making, such as I understand by the term, it +is done “off.” This is not my idea of +acting. But I do not see how you are going to substitute +for it anything more natural. When you are singing at the +top of your voice, you don’t want a heavy woman hanging +round your neck. When you are killing a man and warbling +about it at the same time, you don’t want him fooling +around you defending himself. You want him to have a little +reasonable patience, and to wait in his proper place till you +have finished, telling him, or rather telling the crowd, how much +you hate and despise him.</p> +<p>When the proper time comes, and if he is where you expect to +find him while thinking of your upper C, you will hit him lightly +on the shoulder with your sword, and then he can die to his own +particular tune. If you have been severely wounded in +battle, or in any other sort of row, and have got to sing a long +ballad before you finally expire, you don’t want to have to +think how a man would really behave who knew he had only got a +few minutes to live and was feeling bad about it. The +chances are that he would not want to sing at all. The +woman who really loved him would not encourage him to sing. +She would want him to keep quiet while she moved herself about a +bit, in case there was anything that could be done for him.</p> +<p>If a mob is climbing the stairs thirsting for your blood, you +do not want to stand upright with your arms stretched out, a good +eighteen inches from the door, while you go over at some length +the varied incidents leading up to the annoyance. If your +desire were to act naturally you would push against that door for +all you were worth, and yell for somebody to bring you a chest of +drawers and a bedstead, and things like that, to pile up against +it. If you were a king, and were giving a party, you would +not want your guests to fix you up at the other end of the room +and leave you there, with nobody to talk to but your own wife, +while they turned their backs upon you, and had a long and +complicated dance all to themselves. You would want to be +in it; you would want to let them know that you were king.</p> +<p>In acting, all these little points have to be +considered. In opera, everything is rightly sacrificed to +musical necessity. I have seen the young, enthusiastic +opera-singer who thought that he or she could act and sing at the +same time. The experienced artist takes the centre of the +stage and husbands his resources. Whether he is supposed to +be indignant because somebody has killed his mother, or cheerful +because he is going out to fight his country’s foes, who +are only waiting until he has finished singing to attack the +town, he leaves it to the composer to make clear.</p> +<p>Also it was Herr Wagner’s idea that the back cloth would +leave the opera-goer indifferent to the picture gallery. +The castle on the rock, accessible only by balloon, in which +every window lights up simultaneously and instantaneously, one +minute after sunset, while the full moon is rushing up the sky at +the pace of a champion comet—that wonderful sea that +suddenly opens and swallows up the ship—those snow-clad +mountains, over which the shadow of the hero passes like a +threatening cloud—the grand old chateau, trembling in the +wind—what need, will ask the opera-goer of the future, of +your Turners and your Corots, when, for prices ranging from a +shilling upwards, we can have a dozen pictures such as these +rolled up and down before us every evening?</p> +<p>But perhaps the most daring hope of all was the dream that +came to Herr Wagner that his opera singers, his grouped choruses, +would eventually satisfy the craving of the public for high class +statuary. I am not quite sure the general public does care +for statuary. I do not know whether the idea has ever +occurred to the Anarchist, but, were I myself organising secret +committee meetings for unholy purposes, I should invite my +comrades to meet in that section of the local museum devoted to +statuary. I can conceive of no place where we should be +freer from prying eyes and listening ears. A select few, +however, do appreciate statuary; and such, I am inclined to +think, will not be weaned from their passion by the contemplation +of the opera singer in his or her various quaint costumes.</p> +<p>And even if the tenor always satisfied our ideal of Apollo, +and the soprano were always as sylph-like as she is described in +the libretto, even then I should doubt the average operatic +chorus being regarded by the <i>connoisseur</i> as a cheap and +pleasant substitute for a bas relief from the Elgin +marbles. The great thing required of that operatic chorus +is experience. The young and giddy-pated the chorus master +has no use for. The sober, honest, industrious lady or +gentleman, with a knowledge of music is very properly his +ideal.</p> +<p>What I admire about the chorus chiefly is its unity. The +whole village dresses exactly alike. In wicked, worldly +villages there is rivalry, leading to heartburn and +jealously. One lady comes out suddenly, on, say, a Bank +Holiday, in a fetching blue that conquers every male heart. +Next holiday her rival cuts her out with a green hat. In +the operatic village it must be that the girls gather together +beforehand to arrange this thing. There is probably a +meeting called.</p> +<p>“The dear Count’s wedding,” announces the +chairwoman, “you will all be pleased to hear, has been +fixed for the fourteenth, at eleven o’clock in the +morning. The entire village will be assembled at ten-thirty +to await the return of the bridal <i>cortège</i> from the +church, and offer its felicitations. Married ladies, will, +of course, come accompanied by their husbands. Unmarried +ladies must each bring a male partner as near their own height as +possible. Fortunately, in this village the number of males +is exactly equal to that of females, so that the picture need not +be spoiled. The children will organise themselves into an +independent body and will group themselves picturesquely. +It has been thought advisable,” continues the chairwoman, +“that the village should meet the dear Count and his bride +at some spot not too far removed from the local alehouse. +The costume to be worn by the ladies will consist of a short pink +skirt terminating at the knees and ornamented with festoons of +flowers; above will be worn a bolero in mauve silk without +sleeves and cut <i>décolleté</i>. The shoes +should be of yellow satin over flesh-coloured stockings. +Ladies who are ‘out’ will wear pearl necklaces, and a +simple device in emeralds to decorate the hair. Thank God, +we can all of us afford it, and provided the weather holds up and +nothing unexpected happens—he is not what I call a lucky +man, our Count, and it is always as well to be prepared for +possibilities—well, I think we may look forward to a really +pleasant day.”</p> +<p>It cannot be done, Herr Wagner, believe me. You cannot +substitute the music drama for all the arts combined. The +object to be aimed at by the wise composer should be to make us, +while listening to his music, forgetful of all remaining artistic +considerations.</p> +<h2><a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 225</span>THE +WHITE MAN’S BURDEN! NEED IT BE SO HEAVY?</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is a delightful stroll on a +sunny summer morning from the Hague to the Huis ten Bosch, the +little “house in the wood,” built for Princess +Amalia, widow of Stadtholter Frederick Henry, under whom Holland +escaped finally from the bondage of her foes and entered into the +promised land of Liberty. Leaving the quiet streets, the +tree-bordered canals, with their creeping barges, you pass +through a pleasant park, where the soft-eyed deer press round +you, hurt and indignant if you have brought nothing in your +pocket—not even a piece of sugar—to offer them. +It is not that they are grasping—it is the want of +attention that wounds them.</p> +<p>“I thought he was a gentleman,” they seem to be +saying to one another, if you glance back, “he looked like +a gentleman.”</p> +<p>Their mild eyes haunt you; on the next occasion you do not +forget. The Park merges into the forest; you go by winding +ways till you reach the trim Dutch garden, moat-encircled, in the +centre of which stands the prim old-fashioned villa, which, to +the simple Dutchman, appears a palace. The +<i>concierge</i>, an old soldier, bows low to you and introduces +you to his wife—a stately, white-haired dame, who talks +most languages a little, so far as relates to all things within +and appertaining to this tiny palace of the wood. To things +without, beyond the wood, her powers of conversation do not +extend: apparently such matters do not interest her.</p> +<p>She conducts you to the Chinese Room; the sun streams through +the windows, illuminating the wondrous golden dragons standing +out in bold relief from the burnished lacquer work, decorating +still further with light and shade the delicate silk embroideries +thin taper hands have woven with infinite pains. The walls +are hung with rice paper, depicting the conventional scenes of +the conventional Chinese life.</p> +<p>You find your thoughts wandering. These grotesque +figures, these caricatures of humanity! A comical creature, +surely, this Chinaman, the pantaloon of civilization. How +useful he has been to us for our farces, our comic operas! +This yellow baby, in his ample pinafore, who lived thousands of +years ago, who has now passed into this strange second +childhood.</p> +<p>But is he dying—or does the life of a nation wake again, +as after sleep? Is he this droll, harmless thing he here +depicts himself? And if not? Suppose fresh sap be +stirring through his three hundred millions? We thought he +was so very dead; we thought the time had come to cut him up and +divide him, the only danger being lest we should quarrel over his +carcase among ourselves.</p> +<p>Suppose it turns out as the fable of the woodcutter and the +bear? The woodcutter found the bear lying in the +forest. At first he was much frightened, but the bear lay +remarkably still. So the woodman crept nearer, ventured to +kick the bear—very gently, ready to run if need be. +Surely the bear was dead! And parts of a bear are good to +eat, and bearskin to poor woodfolk on cold winter nights is +grateful. So the woodman drew his knife and commenced the +necessary preliminaries. But the bear was not dead.</p> +<p>If the Chinaman be not dead? If the cutting-up process +has only served to waken him? In a little time from now we +shall know.</p> +<p>From the Chinese Room the white-haired dame leads us to the +Japanese Room. Had gentle-looking Princess Amalia some +vague foreshadowing of the future in her mind when she planned +these two rooms leading into one another? The Japanese +decorations are more grotesque, the designs less cheerfully +comical than those of cousin Chinaman. These monstrous, +mis-shapen wrestlers, these patient-looking gods, with their +inscrutable eyes! Was it always there, or is it only by the +light of present events that one reads into the fantastic fancies +of the artist working long ago in the doorway of his paper house, +a meaning that has hitherto escaped us?</p> +<p>But the chief attraction of the Huis ten Bosch is the gorgeous +Orange Saloon, lighted by a cupola, fifty feet above the floor, +the walls one blaze of pictures, chiefly of the gorgeous Jordaen +school—“The Defeat of the Vices,” “Time +Vanquishing Slander”—mostly allegorical, in praise of +all the virtues, in praise of enlightenment and progress. +Aptly enough in a room so decorated, here was held the famous +Peace Congress that closed the last century. One can hardly +avoid smiling as one thinks of the solemn conclave of grandees +assembled to proclaim the popularity of Peace.</p> +<p>It was in the autumn of the same year that Europe decided upon +the dividing-up of China, that soldiers were instructed by +Christian monarchs to massacre men, women and children, the idea +being to impress upon the Heathen Chinee the superior +civilization of the white man. The Boer war followed almost +immediately. Since when the white man has been pretty busy +all over the world with his “expeditions” and his +“missions.” The world is undoubtedly growing +more refined. We do not care for ugly words. Even the +burglar refers airily to the “little job” he has on +hand. You would think he had found work in the +country. I should not be surprised to learn that he says a +prayer before starting, telegraphs home to his anxious wife the +next morning that his task has been crowned with blessing.</p> +<p>Until the far-off date of Universal Brotherhood war will +continue. Matters considered unimportant by both parties +will—with a mighty flourish of trumpets—be referred +to arbitration. I was talking of a famous financier a while +ago with a man who had been his secretary. Amongst other +anecdotes, he told me of a certain agreement about which dispute +had arisen. The famous financier took the paper into his +own hands and made a few swift calculations.</p> +<p>“Let it go,” he concluded, “it is only a +thousand pounds at the outside. May as well be +honest.”</p> +<p>Concerning a dead fisherman or two, concerning boundaries +through unproductive mountain ranges we shall arbitrate and feel +virtuous. For gold mines and good pasture lands, mixed up +with a little honour to give respectability to the business, we +shall fight it out, as previously. War being thus +inevitable, the humane man will rejoice that by one of those +brilliant discoveries, so simple when they are explained, war in +the future is going to be rendered equally satisfactory to victor +and to vanquished.</p> +<p>In by-elections, as a witty writer has pointed out, there are +no defeats—only victories and moral victories. The +idea seems to have caught on. War in the future is +evidently going to be conducted on the same understanding. +Once upon a time, from a far-off land, a certain general +telegraphed home congratulating his Government that the enemy had +shown no inclination whatever to prevent his running away. +The whole country rejoiced.</p> +<p>“Why, they never even tried to stop him,” +citizens, meeting other citizens in the street, told each +other. “Ah, they’ve had enough of him. I +bet they are only too glad to get rid of him. Why, they say +he ran for miles without seeing a trace of the foe.”</p> +<p>The enemy’s general, on the other hand, also wrote home +congratulating his Government. In this way the same battle +can be mafficked over by both parties. Contentment is the +great secret of happiness. Everything happens for the best, +if only you look at it the right way. That is going to be +the argument. The general of the future will telegraph to +headquarters that he is pleased to be able to inform His Majesty +that the enemy, having broken down all opposition, has succeeded +in crossing the frontier and is now well on his way to His +Majesty’s capital.</p> +<p>“I am luring him on,” he will add, “as fast +as I can. At our present rate of progress, I am in hopes of +bringing him home by the tenth.”</p> +<p>Lest foolish civilian sort of people should wonder whereabouts +lies the cause for rejoicing, the military man will condescend to +explain. The enemy is being enticed farther and farther +from his base. The defeated general—who is not really +defeated, who is only artful, and who appears to be running away, +is not really running away at all. On the contrary, he is +running home—bringing, as he explains, the enemy with +him.</p> +<p>If I remember rightly—it is long since I played +it—there is a parlour game entitled “Puss in the +Corner.” You beckon another player to you with your +finger. “Puss, puss!” you cry. Thereupon +he has to leave his chair—his “base,” as the +military man would term it—and try to get to you without +anything happening to him.</p> +<p>War in the future is going to be Puss in the Corner on a +bigger scale. You lure your enemy away from his base. +If all goes well—if he does not see the trap that is being +laid for him—why, then, almost before he knows it, he finds +himself in your capital. That finishes the game. You +find out what it is he really wants. Provided it is +something within reason, and you happen to have it handy, you +give it to him. He goes home crowing, and you, on your +side, laugh when you think how cleverly you succeeded in luring +him away from his base.</p> +<p>There is a bright side to all things. The gentleman +charged with the defence of a fortress will meet the other +gentleman who has captured it and shake hands with him mid the +ruins.</p> +<p>“So here you are at last!” he will explain. +“Why didn’t you come before? We have been +waiting for you.”</p> +<p>And he will send off dispatches felicitating his chief on +having got that fortress off their hands, together with all the +worry and expense it has been to them. When prisoners are +taken you will console yourself with the reflection that the cost +of feeding them for the future will have to be borne by the +enemy. Captured cannon you will watch being trailed away +with a sigh of relief.</p> +<p>“Confounded heavy things!” you will say to +yourself. “Thank goodness I’ve got rid of +them. Let him have the fun of dragging them about these +ghastly roads. See how he likes the job!”</p> +<p>War is a ridiculous method of settling disputes. +Anything that can tend to make its ridiculous aspect more +apparent is to be welcomed. The new school of military +dispatch-writers may succeed in turning even the laughter of the +mob against it.</p> +<p>The present trouble in the East would never have occurred but +for the white man’s enthusiasm for bearing other +people’s burdens. What we call the yellow danger is +the fear that the yellow man may before long request us, so far +as he is concerned, to put his particular burden down. It +may occur to him that, seeing it is his property, he would just +as soon carry it himself. A London policeman told me a +story the other day that struck him as an example of Cockney +humour under trying circumstances. But it may also serve as +a fable. From a lonely street in the neighbourhood of +Covent Garden, early one morning, the constable heard cries of +“Stop thief!” shouted in a childish treble. He +arrived on the scene just in time to collar a young hooligan, +who, having snatched a basket of fruit from a small lad—a +greengrocer’s errand boy, as it turned out—was, with +it, making tracks. The greengrocer’s boy, between +panting and tears, delivered his accusation. The hooligan +regarded him with an expression of amazed indignation.</p> +<p>“What d’yer mean, stealing it?” exclaimed +Mr. Hooligan. “Why, I was carrying it for +yer!”</p> +<p>The white man has got into the way of “carrying” +other people’s burdens, and now it looks as if the yellow +man were going to object to our carrying his any further. +Maybe he is going to get nasty, and insist on carrying it +himself. We call this “the yellow danger.”</p> +<p>A friend of mine—he is a man who in the street walks +into lamp-posts, and apologises—sees rising from the East +the dawn of a new day in the world’s history. The +yellow danger is to him a golden hope. He sees a race long +stagnant, stretching its giant limbs with the first vague +movements of returning life. He is a poor sort of patriot; +he calls himself, I suppose, a white man, yet he shamelessly +confesses he would rather see Asia’s millions rise from the +ruins of their ancient civilization to take their part in the +future of humanity, than that half the population of the globe +should remain bound in savagery for the pleasure and the profit +of his own particular species.</p> +<p>He even goes so far as to think that the white man may have +something to learn. The world has belonged to him now for +some thousands of years. Has he done all with it that could +have been done? Are his ideals the last word?</p> +<p>Not what the yellow man has absorbed from Europe, but what he +is going to give Europe it is that interests my friend. He +is watching the birth of a new force—an influence as yet +unknown. He clings to the fond belief that new ideas, new +formulæ, to replace the old worn shibboleths, may, during +these thousands of years, have been developing in those keen +brains that behind the impressive yellow mask have been working +so long in silence and in mystery.</p> +<h2><a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 238</span>WHY +DIDN’T HE MARRY THE GIRL?</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">What</span> is wrong with marriage, +anyhow? I find myself pondering this question so often, +when reading high-class literature. I put it to myself +again the other evening, during a performance of Faust. Why +could not Faust have married the girl? I would not have +married her myself for any consideration whatsoever; but that is +not the argument. Faust, apparently, could not see anything +amiss with her. Both of them were mad about each +other. Yet the idea of a quiet, unostentatious marriage +with a week’s honeymoon, say, in Vienna, followed by a neat +little cottage <i>orné</i>, not too far from +Nürnberg, so that their friends could have come out to them, +never seems to have occurred to either of them.</p> +<p>There could have been a garden. Marguerite might have +kept chickens and a cow. That sort of girl, brought up to +hard work and by no means too well educated, is all the better +for having something to do. Later, with the gradual arrival +of the family, a good, all-round woman might have been hired in +to assist. Faust, of course, would have had his study and +got to work again; that would have kept him out of further +mischief. The idea that a brainy man, his age, was going to +be happy with nothing to do all day but fool round a petticoat +was ridiculous from the beginning. Valentine—a good +fellow, Valentine, with nice ideas—would have spent his +Saturdays to Monday with them. Over a pipe and a glass of +wine, he and Faust would have discussed the local politics.</p> +<p>He would have danced the children on his knee, have told them +tales about the war—taught the eldest boy to shoot. +Faust, with a practical man like Valentine to help him, would +probably have invented a new gun. Valentine would have got +it taken up.</p> +<p>Things might have come of it. Sybil, in course of time, +would have married and settled down—perhaps have taken a +little house near to them. He and Marguerite would have +joked—when Mrs. Sybil was not around—about his early +infatuation. The old mother would have toddled over from +Nürnberg—not too often, just for the day.</p> +<p>The picture grows upon one the more one thinks of it. +Why did it never occur to them? There would have been a bit +of a bother with the Old Man. I can imagine Mephistopheles +being upset about it, thinking himself swindled. Of course, +if that was the reason—if Faust said to himself:</p> +<p>“I should like to marry the girl, but I won’t do +it; it would not be fair to the Old Man; he has been to a lot of +trouble working this thing up; in common gratitude I cannot turn +round now and behave like a decent, sensible man; it would not be +playing the game”—if this was the way Faust looked at +the matter there is nothing more to be said. Indeed, it +shows him in rather a fine light—noble, if quixotic.</p> +<p>If, on the other hand, he looked at the question from the +point of view of himself and the girl, I think the thing might +have been managed. All one had to do in those days when one +wanted to get rid of the Devil was to show him a sword +hilt. Faust and Marguerite could have slipped into a church +one morning, and have kept him out of the way with a sword hilt +till the ceremony was through. They might have hired a +small boy:</p> +<p>“You see the gentleman in red? Well, he wants us +and we don’t want him. That is the only difference +between us. Now, you take this sword, and when you see him +coming show him the hilt. Don’t hurt him; just show +him the sword and shake your head. He will +understand.”</p> +<p>The old gentleman’s expression, when subsequently Faust +presented him to Marguerite, would have been interesting:</p> +<p>“Allow me, my wife. My dear, a—a friend of +mine. You may remember meeting him that night at your +aunt’s.”</p> +<p>As I have said, there would have been ructions; but I do not +myself see what could have been done. There was nothing in +the bond to the effect that Faust should not marry, so far as we +are told. The Old Man had a sense of humour. My own +opinion is that, after getting over the first annoyance, he +himself would have seen the joke. I can even picture him +looking in now and again on Mr. and Mrs. Faust. The +children would be hurried off to bed. There would be, for a +while, an atmosphere of constraint.</p> +<p>But the Old Man had a way with him. He would have told +one or two stories at which Marguerite would have blushed, at +which Faust would have grinned. I can see the old fellow +occasionally joining the homely social board. The children, +awed at first, would have sat silent, with staring eyes. +But, as I have said, the Old Man had a way with him. Why +should he not have reformed? The good woman’s +unconsciously exerted influence—the sweet childish +prattle! One hears of such things. Might he not have +come to be known as “Nunkie”?</p> +<p>Myself—I believe I have already mentioned it—I +would not have married Marguerite. She is not my ideal of a +good girl. I never liked the way she deceived her +mother. And that aunt of hers! Well, a nice girl +would not have been friends with such a woman. She did not +behave at all too well to Sybil, either. It is clear to me +that she led the boy on. And what was she doing with that +box of jewels, anyhow? She was not a fool. She could +not have gone every day to that fountain, chatted with those girl +friends of hers, and learnt nothing. She must have known +that people don’t go leaving twenty thousand pounds’ +worth of jewels about on doorsteps as part of a round game. +Her own instinct, if she had been a good girl, would have told +her to leave the thing alone.</p> +<p>I don’t believe in these innocent people who do not know +what they are doing half their time. Ask any London +magistrate what he thinks of the lady who explains that she +picked up the diamond brooch:—</p> +<p>“Not meaning, of course, your Worship, to take it. +I would not do such a thing. It just happened this way, +your Worship. I was standing as you might say here, and not +seeing anyone about in the shop I opened the case and took it +out, thinking as perhaps it might belong to someone; and then +this gentleman here, as I had not noticed before, comes up quite +suddenly and says; ‘You come along with me,’ he +says. ‘What for,’ I says, ‘when I +don’t even know you?’ I says. ‘For +stealing,’ he says. ‘Well, that’s a hard +word to use to a lady,’ I says; ‘I don’t know +what you mean, I’m sure.’”</p> +<p>And if she had put them all on, not thinking, what would a +really nice girl have done when the gentleman came up and assured +her they were hers? She would have been thirty seconds +taking them off and flinging them back into the box.</p> +<p>“Thank you,” she would have said, +“I’ll trouble you to leave this garden as quickly as +you entered it and take them with you. I’m not that +sort of girl.”</p> +<p>Marguerite clings to the jewels, and accepts the young +man’s arm for a moonlight promenade. And when it does +enter into her innocent head that he and she have walked that +shady garden long enough, what does she do when she has said +good-bye and shut the door? She opens the ground-floor +window and begins to sing!</p> +<p>Maybe I am not poetical, but I do like justice. When +other girls do these sort of things they get called names. +I cannot see why this particular girl should be held up as an +ideal. She kills her mother. According to her own +account this was an accident. It is not an original line of +defence, and we are not allowed to hear the evidence for the +prosecution. She also kills her baby. You are not to +blame her for that, because at the time she was feeling +poorly. I don’t see why this girl should have a +special line of angels to take her up to heaven. There must +have been decent, hard-working women in Nürnburg more +entitled to the ticket.</p> +<p>Why is it that all these years we have been content to accept +Marguerite as a type of innocence and virtue? The +explanation is, I suppose, that Goethe wrote at a time when it +was the convention to regard all women as good. Anything in +petticoats was virtuous. If she did wrong it was always +somebody else’s fault. <i>Cherchez la femme</i> was a +later notion. In the days of Goethe it was always +<i>Cherchez l’homme</i>. It was the man’s +fault. It was the devil’s fault. It was +anybody’s fault you liked, but not her’s.</p> +<p>The convention has not yet died out. I was reading the +other day a most interesting book by a brilliant American +authoress. Seeing I live far away from the lady’s +haunts, I venture to mention names. I am speaking of +“Patience Sparhawk,” by Gertrude Atherton. I +take this book because it is typical of a large body of +fiction. Miss Sparhawk lives a troubled life: it puzzles +her. She asks herself what is wrong. Her own idea is +that it is civilisation.</p> +<p>If it is not civilisation, then it is the American man or +Nature—or Democracy. Miss Sparhawk marries the wrong +man. Later on she gets engaged to another wrong man. +In the end we are left to believe she is about to be married to +the right man. I should be better satisfied if I could hear +Miss Sparhawk talking six months after that last marriage. +But if a mistake has again been made I am confident that, in Miss +Sparhawk’s opinion, the fault will not be Miss +Sparhawk’s. The argument is always the same: Miss +Sparhawk, being a lady, can do no wrong.</p> +<p>If Miss Sparhawk cared to listen to me for five minutes, I +feel I could put her right on this point.</p> +<p>“It is quite true, my dear girl,” I should say to +her, “something is wrong—very wrong. But it is +not the American man. Never you mind the American man: you +leave him to worry out his own salvation. You are not the +girl to put him right, even where he is wrong. And it is +not civilisation. Civilisation has a deal to answer for, I +admit: don’t you load it up with this additional +trouble. The thing that is wrong in this case of +yours—if you will forgive my saying so—is you. +You make a fool of yourself; you marry a man who is a mere animal +because he appeals to your animal instincts. Then, like the +lady who cried out ‘Alack, I’ve married a +black,’ you appeal to heaven against the injustice of being +mated with a clown. You are not a nice girl, either in your +ideas or in your behaviour. I don’t blame you for it; +you did not make yourself. But when you set to work to +attract all that is lowest in man, why be so astonished at your +own success? There are plenty of shocking American men, I +agree. One meets the class even outside America. But +nice American girls will tell you that there are also nice +American men. There is an old proverb about birds of a +feather. Next time you find yourself in the company of a +shocking American man, you just ask yourself how he got there, +and how it is he seems to be feeling at home. You learn +self-control. Get it out of your head that you are the +centre of the universe, and grasp the idea that a petticoat is +not a halo, and you will find civilisation not half as wrong as +you thought it.”</p> +<p>I know what Miss Sparhawk’s reply would be.</p> +<p>“You say all this to me—to me, a lady? Great +Heavens! What has become of chivalry?”</p> +<p>A Frenchman was once put on trial for murdering his father and +mother. He confessed his guilt, but begged for mercy on the +plea that he was an orphan. Chivalry was founded on the +assumption that woman was worthy to be worshipped. The +modern woman’s notion is that when she does wrong she ought +to be excused by chivalrous man because she is a lady.</p> +<p>I like the naughty heroine; we all of us do. The early +Victorian heroine—the angel in a white frock, was a +bore. We knew exactly what she was going to do—the +right thing. We did not even have to ask ourselves, +“What will she think is the right thing to do under the +circumstances?” It was always the conventional right +thing. You could have put it to a Sunday school and have +got the answer every time. The heroine with passions, +instincts, emotions, is to be welcomed. But I want her to +grasp the fact that after all she is only one of us. I +should like her better if, instead of demanding:</p> +<p>“What is wrong in civilisation? What is the world +coming to?” and so forth, she would occasionally say to +herself:</p> +<p>“Guess I’ve made a fool of myself this time. +I do feel that ’shamed of myself.”</p> +<p>She would not lose by it. We should respect her all the +more.</p> +<h2><a name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 251</span>WHAT +MRS. WILKINS THOUGHT ABOUT IT.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Last</span> year, travelling on the +Underground Railway, I met a man; he was one of the +saddest-looking men I had seen for years. I used to know +him well in the old days when we were journalists together. +I asked him, in a sympathetic tone, how things were going with +him. I expected his response would be a flood of tears, and +that in the end I should have to fork out a fiver. To my +astonishment, his answer was that things were going exceedingly +well with him. I did not want to say to him bluntly:</p> +<p>“Then what has happened to you to make you look like a +mute at a temperance funeral?” I said:</p> +<p>“And how are all at home?”</p> +<p>I thought that if the trouble lay there he would take the +opportunity. It brightened him somewhat, the necessity of +replying to the question. It appeared that his wife was in +the best of health.</p> +<p>“You remember her,” he continued with a smile; +“wonderful spirits, always cheerful, nothing seems to put +her out, not even—”</p> +<p>He ended the sentence abruptly with a sigh.</p> +<p>His mother-in-law, I learned from further talk with him, had +died since I had last met him, and had left them a comfortable +addition to their income. His eldest daughter was engaged +to be married.</p> +<p>“It is entirely a love match,” he explained, +“and he is such a dear, good fellow, that I should not have +made any objection even had he been poor. But, of course, +as it is, I am naturally all the more content.”</p> +<p>His eldest boy, having won the Mottle Scholarship, was going +up to Cambridge in the Autumn. His own health, he told me, +had greatly improved; and a novel he had written in his leisure +time promised to be one of the successes of the season. +Then it was that I spoke plainly.</p> +<p>“If I am opening a wound too painful to be +touched,” I said, “tell me. If, on the +contrary, it is an ordinary sort of trouble upon which the +sympathy of a fellow worker may fall as balm, let me hear +it.”</p> +<p>“So far as I am concerned,” he replied, “I +should be glad to tell you. Speaking about it does me good, +and may lead—so I am always in hopes—to an +idea. But, for your own sake, if you take my advice, you +will not press me.”</p> +<p>“How can it affect me?” I asked, “it is +nothing to do with me, is it?”</p> +<p>“It need have nothing to do with you,” he +answered, “if you are sensible enough to keep out of +it. If I tell you: from this time onward it will be your +trouble also. Anyhow, that is what has happened in four +other separate cases. If you like to be the fifth and +complete the half dozen of us, you are welcome. But +remember I have warned you.”</p> +<p>“What has it done to the other five?” I +demanded.</p> +<p>“It has changed them from cheerful, companionable +persons into gloomy one-idead bores,” he told me. +“They think of but one thing, they talk of but one thing, +they dream of but one thing. Instead of getting over it, as +time goes on, it takes possession of them more and more. +There are men, of course, who would be unaffected by it—who +could shake it off. I warn you in particular against it, +because, in spite of all that is said, I am convinced you have a +sense of humour; and that being so, it will lay hold of +you. It will plague you night and day. You see what +it has made of me! Three months ago a lady interviewer +described me as of a sunny temperament. If you know your +own business you will get out at the next station.”</p> +<p>I wish now I had followed his advice. As it was, I +allowed my curiosity to take possession of me, and begged him to +explain. And he did so.</p> +<p>“It was just about Christmas time,” he said. +“We were discussing the Drury Lane Pantomime—some +three or four of us—in the smoking room of the Devonshire +Club, and young Gold said he thought it would prove a mistake, +the introduction of a subject like the Fiscal question into the +story of Humpty Dumpty. The two things, so far as he could +see, had nothing to do with one another. He added that he +entertained a real regard for Mr. Dan Leno, whom he had once met +on a steamboat, but that there were other topics upon which he +would prefer to seek that gentleman’s guidance. +Nettleship, on the other hand, declared that he had no sympathy +with the argument that artists should never intrude upon public +affairs. The actor was a fellow citizen with the rest of +us. He said that, whether one agreed with their conclusions +or not, one must admit that the nation owed a debt of gratitude +to Mrs. Brown Potter and to Miss Olga Nethersole for giving to it +the benefit of their convictions. He had talked to both +ladies in private on the subject and was convinced they knew as +much about it as did most people.</p> +<p>“Burnside, who was one of the party, contended that if +sides were to be taken, a pantomime should surely advocate the +Free-Food Cause, seeing it was a form of entertainment supposed +to appeal primarily to the tastes of the Little Englander. +Then I came into the discussion.</p> +<p>“‘The Fiscal question,’ I said, ‘is on +everybody’s tongue. Such being the case, it is fit +and proper it should be referred to in our annual pantomime, +which has come to be regarded as a review of the year’s +doings. But it should not have been dealt with from the +political standpoint. The proper attitude to have assumed +towards it was that of innocent raillery, free from all trace of +partisanship.’</p> +<p>“Old Johnson had strolled up and was standing behind +us.</p> +<p>“‘The very thing I have been trying to get hold of +for weeks,’ he said—‘a bright, amusing +<i>resumé</i> of the whole problem that should give +offence to neither side. You know our paper,’ he +continued; ‘we steer clear of politics, but, at the same +time, try to be up-to-date; it is not always easy. The +treatment of the subject, on the lines you suggest, is just what +we require. I do wish you would write me +something.’</p> +<p>“He is a good old sort, Johnson; it seemed an easy +thing. I said I would. Since that time I have been +thinking how to do it. As a matter of fact, I have not +thought of much else. Maybe you can suggest +something.”</p> +<p>I was feeling in a good working mood the next morning.</p> +<p>“Pilson,” said I to myself, “shall have the +benefit of this. He does not need anything boisterously +funny. A few playfully witty remarks on the subject will be +the ideal.”</p> +<p>I lit a pipe and sat down to think. At half-past twelve, +having to write some letters before going out to lunch, I +dismissed the Fiscal question from my mind.</p> +<p>But not for long. It worried me all the afternoon. +I thought, maybe, something would come to me in the +evening. I wasted all that evening, and I wasted all the +following morning. Everything has its amusing side, I told +myself. One turns out comic stories about funerals, about +weddings. Hardly a misfortune that can happen to mankind +but has produced its comic literature. An American friend +of mine once took a contract from the Editor of an Insurance +Journal to write four humorous stories; one was to deal with an +earthquake, the second with a cyclone, the third with a flood, +and the fourth with a thunderstorm. And more amusing +stories I have never read. What is the matter with the +Fiscal question?</p> +<p>I myself have written lightly on Bime-metallism. Home +Rule we used to be merry over in the eighties. I remember +one delightful evening at the Codgers’ Hall. It would +have been more delightful still, but for a raw-boned Irishman, +who rose towards eleven o’clock and requested to be +informed if any other speaker was wishful to make any more jokes +on the subject of Ould Ireland; because, if so, the raw-boned +gentleman was prepared to save time by waiting and dealing with +them altogether. But if not, then—so the raw-boned +gentleman announced—his intention was to go for the last +speaker and the last speaker but two at once and without further +warning.</p> +<p>No other humourist rising, the raw-boned gentleman proceeded +to make good his threat, with the result that the fun degenerated +somewhat. Even on the Boer War we used to whisper jokes to +one another in quiet places. In this Fiscal question there +must be fun. Where is it?</p> +<p>For days I thought of little else. My laundress—as +we call them in the Temple—noticed my trouble.</p> +<p>“Mrs. Wilkins,” I confessed, “I am trying to +think of something innocently amusing to say on the Fiscal +question.”</p> +<p>“I’ve ’eard about it,” she said, +“but I don’t ’ave much time to read the +papers. They want to make us pay more for our food, +don’t they?”</p> +<p>“For some of it,” I explained. “But, +then, we shall pay less for other things, so that really we +shan’t be paying more at all.”</p> +<p>“There don’t seem much in it, either way,” +was Mrs. Wilkins’ opinion.</p> +<p>“Just so,” I agreed, “that is the advantage +of the system. It will cost nobody anything, and will +result in everybody being better off.”</p> +<p>“The pity is,” said Mrs. Wilkins “that pity +nobody ever thought of it before.”</p> +<p>“The whole trouble hitherto,” I explained, +“has been the foreigner.”</p> +<p>“Ah,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “I never +’eard much good of ’em, though they do say the +Almighty ’as a use for almost everything.”</p> +<p>“These foreigners,” I continued, “these +Germans and Americans, they dump things on us, you +know.”</p> +<p>“What’s that?” demanded Mrs. Wilkins.</p> +<p>“What’s dump? Well, it’s dumping, you +know. You take things, and you dump them down.”</p> +<p>“But what things? ’Ow do they do it?” +asked Mrs. Wilkins.</p> +<p>“Why, all sorts of things: pig iron, bacon, +door-mats—everything. They bring them over +here—in ships, you understand—and then, if you +please, just dump them down upon our shores.”</p> +<p>“You don’t mean surely to tell me that they just +throw them out and leave them there?” queried Mrs. +Wilkins.</p> +<p>“Of course not,” I replied; “when I say they +dump these things upon our shores, that is a figure of +speech. What I mean is they sell them to us.”</p> +<p>“But why do we buy them if we don’t want +them?” asked Mrs. Wilkins; “we’re not bound to +buy them, are we?”</p> +<p>“It is their artfulness,” I explained, +“these Germans and Americans, and the others; they are all +just as bad as one another—they insist on selling us these +things at less price than they cost to make.”</p> +<p>“It seems a bit silly of them, don’t it?” +thought Mrs. Wilkins. “I suppose being foreigners, +poor things, they ain’t naturally got much +sense.”</p> +<p>“It does seem silly of them, if you look at it that +way,” I admitted, “but what we have got to consider +is, the injury it is doing us.”</p> +<p>“Don’t see ’ow it can do us much +’arm,” argued Mrs. Wilkins; “seems a bit of +luck so far as we are concerned. There’s a few more +things they’d be welcome to dump round my way.”</p> +<p>“I don’t seem to be putting this thing quite in +the right light to you, Mrs. Wilkins,” I confessed. +“It is a long argument, and you might not be able to follow +it; but you must take it as a fact now generally admitted that +the cheaper you buy things the sooner your money goes. By +allowing the foreigner to sell us all these things at about half +the cost price, he is getting richer every day, and we are +getting poorer. Unless we, as a country, insist on paying +at least twenty per cent. more for everything we want, it is +calculated that in a very few years England won’t have a +penny left.”</p> +<p>“Sounds a bit topsy turvy,” suggested Mrs. +Wilkins.</p> +<p>“It may sound so,” I answered, “but I fear +there can be no doubt of it. The Board of Trade Returns +would seem to prove it conclusively.”</p> +<p>“Well, God be praised, we’ve found it out in +time,” ejaculated Mrs. Wilkins piously.</p> +<p>“It is a matter of congratulation,” I agreed; +“the difficulty is that a good many other people say that +far from being ruined, we are doing very well indeed, and are +growing richer every year.”</p> +<p>“But ’ow can they say that,” argued Mrs. +Wilkins, “when, as you tell me, those Trade Returns prove +just the opposite?”</p> +<p>“Well, they say the same, Mrs. Wilkins, that the Board +of Trade Returns prove just the opposite.”</p> +<p>“Well, they can’t both be right,” said Mrs. +Wilkins.</p> +<p>“You would be surprised, Mrs. Wilkins,” I said, +“how many things can be proved from Board of Trade +Returns!”</p> +<p>But I have not yet thought of that article for Pilson.</p> +<h2><a name="page264"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +264</span>SHALL WE BE RUINED BY CHINESE CHEAP LABOUR?</h2> +<p>“<span class="smcap">What</span> is all this talk I +’ear about the Chinese?” said Mrs. Wilkins to me the +other morning. We generally indulge in a little chat while +Mrs. Wilkins is laying the breakfast-table. Letters and +newspapers do not arrive in my part of the Temple much before +nine. From half-past eight to nine I am rather glad of Mrs. +Wilkins. “They ’ave been up to some of their +tricks again, ’aven’t they?”</p> +<p>“The foreigner, Mrs. Wilkins,” I replied, +“whether he be Chinee or any other he, is always up to +tricks. Was not England specially prepared by an all-wise +Providence to frustrate these knavish tricks? Which of such +particular tricks may you be referring to at the moment, Mrs. +Wilkins?”</p> +<p>“Well, ’e’s comin’ over +’ere—isn’t he, sir? to take the work out of our +mouths, as it were.”</p> +<p>“Well, not exactly over here, to England, Mrs. +Wilkins,” I explained. “He has been introduced +into Africa to work in the mines there.”</p> +<p>“It’s a funny thing,” said Mrs. Wilkins, +“but to ’ear the way some of them talk in our block, +you might run away with the notion—that is, if you +didn’t know ’em—that work was their only +joy. I said to one of ’em, the other evening—a +man as calls ’isself a brass finisher, though, Lord knows, +the only brass ’e ever finishes is what ’is poor wife +earns and isn’t quick enough to ’ide away from +’im—well, whatever ’appens, I says, it will be +clever of ’em if they take away much work from you. +It made them all laugh, that did,” added Mrs. Wilkins, with +a touch of pardonable pride.</p> +<p>“Ah,” continued the good lady, “it’s +surprising ’ow contented they can be with a little, some of +’em. Give ’em a ’ard-working woman to +look after them, and a day out once a week with a procession of +the unemployed, they don’t ask for nothing more. +There’s that beauty my poor sister Jane was fool enough to +marry. Serves ’er right, as I used to tell ’er +at first, till there didn’t seem any more need to rub it +into ’er. She’d ’ad one good +’usband. It wouldn’t ’ave been fair for +’er to ’ave ’ad another, even if there’d +been a chance of it, seeing the few of ’em there is to go +round among so many. But it’s always the same with us +widows: if we ’appen to ’ave been lucky the first +time, we put it down to our own judgment—think we +can’t ever make a mistake; and if we draw a wrong +’un, as the saying is, we argue as if it was the duty of +Providence to make it up to us the second time. Why, +I’d a been making a fool of myself three years ago if +’e ’adn’t been good-natured enough to call one +afternoon when I was out, and ’ook it off with two pounds +eight in the best teapot that I ’ad been soft enough to +talk to ’im about: and never let me set eyes on ’im +again. God bless ’im! ’E’s one of +the born-tireds, ’e is, as poor Jane might ’ave seen +for ’erself, if she ’ad only looked at ’im, +instead of listening to ’im.</p> +<p>“But that’s courtship all the world over—old +and young alike, so far as I’ve been able to see it,” +was the opinion of Mrs. Wilkins. “The man’s all +eyes and the woman all ears. They don’t seem to +’ave any other senses left ’em. I ran against +’im the other night, on my way ’ome, at the corner of +Gray’s Inn Road. There was the usual crowd watching a +pack of them Italians laying down the asphalt in ’Olborn, +and ’e was among ’em. ’E ’ad +secured the only lamp-post, and was leaning agen it.</p> +<p>“’Ullo,’ I says, ‘glad to see you +’aven’t lost your job. Nothin’ like +stickin’ to it, when you’ve dropped into +somethin’ that really suits you.’</p> +<p>“‘What do you mean, Martha?’ ’e +says. ’E’s not one of what I call your smart +sort. It takes a bit of sarcasm to get through ’is +’ead.</p> +<p>“‘Well,’ I says, ‘you’re still +on the old track, I see, looking for work. Take care you +don’t ’ave an accident one of these days and run up +agen it before you’ve got time to get out of its +way.’</p> +<p>“‘It’s these miserable foreigners,’ +’e says. ‘Look at ’em,’ ’e +says.</p> +<p>“‘There’s enough of you doing that,’ I +says. ‘I’ve got my room to put straight and +three hours needlework to do before I can get to bed. But +don’t let me ’inder you. You might forget what +work was like, if you didn’t take an opportunity of +watching it now and then.’</p> +<p>“‘They come over ’ere,’ ’e says, +‘and take the work away from us chaps.’</p> +<p>“‘Ah,’ I says, ‘poor things, perhaps +they ain’t married.’</p> +<p>“‘Lazy devils! ’e says. ‘Look at +’em, smoking cigarettes. I could do that sort of +work. There’s nothing in it. It don’t +take ’eathen foreigners to dab a bit of tar about a +road.’</p> +<p>“‘Yes,’ I says, ‘you always could do +anybody else’s work but your own.’</p> +<p>“‘I can’t find it, Martha,’ ’e +says.</p> +<p>“‘No,’ I says, ‘and you never will in +the sort of places you go looking for it. They don’t +’ang it out on lamp-posts, and they don’t leave it +about at the street corners. Go ’ome,’ I says, +‘and turn the mangle for your poor wife. That’s +big enough for you to find, even in the dark.’</p> +<p>“Looking for work!” snorted Mrs. Wilkins with +contempt; “we women never ’ave much difficulty in +finding it, I’ve noticed. There are times when I feel +I could do with losing it for a day.”</p> +<p>“But what did he reply, Mrs. Wilkins,” I asked; +“your brass-finishing friend, who was holding forth on the +subject of Chinese cheap labour.” Mrs. Wilkins as a +conversationalist is not easily kept to the point. I was +curious to know what the working classes were thinking on the +subject.</p> +<p>“Oh, that,” replied Mrs. Wilkins, “’e +did not say nothing. ’E ain’t the sort +that’s got much to say in an argument. ’E +belongs to the crowd that ’angs about at the back, and does +the shouting. But there was another of ’em, a young +fellow as I feels sorry for, with a wife and three small +children, who ’asn’t ’ad much luck for the last +six months; and that through no fault of ’is own, I should +say, from the look of ’im. ‘I was a +fool,’ says ’e, ‘when I chucked a good +situation and went out to the war. They told me I was going +to fight for equal rights for all white men. I thought they +meant that all of us were going to ’ave a better chance, +and it seemed worth making a bit of sacrifice for, that +did. I should be glad if they would give me a job in their +mines that would enable me to feed my wife and children. +That’s all I ask them for!’”</p> +<p>“It is a difficult problem, Mrs. Wilkins,” I +said. “According to the mine owners—”</p> +<p>“Ah,” said Mrs. Wilkins. “They +don’t seem to be exactly what you’d call popular, +them mine owners, do they? Daresay they’re not as bad +as they’re painted.”</p> +<p>“Some people, Mrs. Wilkins,” I said, “paint +them very black. There are those who hold that the South +African mine-owner is not a man at all, but a kind of pantomime +demon. You take Goliath, the whale that swallowed Jonah, a +selection from the least respectable citizens of Sodom and +Gomorrah at their worst, Bluebeard, Bloody Queen Mary, Guy +Fawkes, and the sea-serpent—or, rather, you take the most +objectionable attributes of all these various personages, and mix +them up together. The result is the South African +mine-owner, a monster who would willingly promote a company for +the putting on the market of a new meat extract, prepared +exclusively from new-born infants, provided the scheme promised a +fair and reasonable opportunity of fleecing the widow and +orphan.”</p> +<p>“I’ve ’eard they’re a bad lot,” +said Mrs. Wilkins. “But we’re most of us that, +if we listen to what other people say about us.”</p> +<p>“Quite so, Mrs. Wilkins,” I agreed. +“One never arrives at the truth by listening to one side +only. On the other hand, for example, there are those who +stoutly maintain that the South African mine-owner is a kind of +spiritual creature, all heart and sentiment, who, against his own +will, has been, so to speak, dumped down upon this earth as the +result of over-production up above of the higher class of +archangel. The stock of archangels of superior finish +exceeds the heavenly demand; the surplus has been dropped down +into South Africa and has taken to mine owning. It is not +that these celestial visitors of German sounding nomenclature +care themselves about the gold. Their only desire is, +during this earthly pilgrimage of theirs, to benefit the human +race. Nothing can be obtained in this world without +money—”</p> +<p>“That’s true,” said Mrs. Wilkins, with a +sigh.</p> +<p>“For gold, everything can be obtained. The aim of +the mine-owning archangel is to provide the world with +gold. Why should the world trouble to grow things and make +things? ‘Let us,’ say these archangels, +temporarily dwelling in South Africa, ‘dig up and +distribute to the world plenty of gold, then the world can buy +whatever it wants, and be happy.’</p> +<p>“There may be a flaw in the argument, Mrs. +Wilkins,” I allowed. “I am not presenting it to +you as the last word upon the subject. I am merely quoting +the view of the South African mine-owner, feeling himself a much +misunderstood benefactor of mankind.”</p> +<p>“I expect,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “they are +just the ordinary sort of Christian, like the rest of us, anxious +to do the best they can for themselves, and not too particular as +to doing other people in the process.”</p> +<p>“I am inclined to think, Mrs. Wilkins,” I said, +“that you are not very far from the truth. A friend +of mine, a year ago, was very bitter on this subject of Chinese +cheap labour. A little later there died a distant relative +of his who left him twenty thousand South African mining +shares. He thinks now that to object to the Chinese is +narrow-minded, illiberal, and against all religious +teaching. He has bought an abridged edition of Confucius, +and tells me that there is much that is ennobling in Chinese +morality. Indeed, I gather from him that the introduction +of the Chinese into South Africa will be the saving of that +country. The noble Chinese will afford an object lesson to +the poor white man, displaying to him the virtues of sobriety, +thrift, and humility. I also gather that it will be of +inestimable benefit to the noble Chinee himself. The +Christian missionary will get hold of him in bulk, so to speak, +and imbue him with the higher theology. It appears to be +one of those rare cases where everybody is benefited at the +expense of nobody. It is always a pity to let these rare +opportunities slip by.”</p> +<p>“Well,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “I’ve +nothin’ to say agen the Chinaman, as a Chinaman. As +to ’is being a ’eathen, well, throwin’ stones +at a church, as the sayin’ is, don’t make a Christian +of you. There’s Christians I’ve met as +couldn’t do themselves much ’arm by changing their +religion; and as to cleanliness, well, I’ve never met but +one, and ’e was a washerwoman, and I’d rather +’ave sat next to ’im in a third-class carriage on a +Bank ’Oliday than next to some of ’em.</p> +<p>“Seems to me,” continued Mrs. Wilkins, +“we’ve got into the ’abit of talkin’ a +bit too much about other people’s dirt. The London +atmosphere ain’t nat’rally a dry-cleanin’ +process in itself, but there’s a goodish few as seem to +think it is. One comes across Freeborn Britons ’ere +and there as I’d be sorry to scrub clean for a +shillin’ and find my own soap.”</p> +<p>“It is a universal failing, Mrs. Wilkins,” I +explained. “If you talk to a travelled Frenchman, he +contrasts to his own satisfaction the Paris <i>ouvrier</i> in his +blue blouse with the appearance of the London +labourer.”</p> +<p>“I daresay they’re all right according to their +lights,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “but it does seem a bit +wrong that if our own chaps are willin’ and anxious to +work, after all they’ve done, too, in the way of getting +the mines for us, they shouldn’t be allowed the +job.”</p> +<p>“Again, Mrs. Wilkins, it is difficult to arrive at a +just conclusion,” I said. “The mine-owner, +according to his enemies, hates the British workman with the +natural instinct that evil creatures feel towards the noble and +virtuous. He will go to trouble and expense merely to spite +the British workman, to keep him out of South Africa. +According to his friends, the mine-owner sets his face against +the idea of white labour for two reasons. First and +foremost, it is not nice work; the mine-owner hates the thought +of his beloved white brother toiling in the mines. It is +not right that the noble white man should demean himself by such +work. Secondly, white labour is too expensive. If for +digging gold men had to be paid anything like the same prices +they are paid for digging coal, the mines could not be +worked. The world would lose the gold that the mine-owner +is anxious to bestow upon it.</p> +<p>“The mine-owner, following his own inclinations, would +take a little farm, grow potatoes, and live a beautiful +life—perhaps write a little poetry. A slave to sense +of duty, he is chained to the philanthropic work of +gold-mining. If we hamper him and worry him the danger is +that he will get angry with us—possibly he will order his +fiery chariot and return to where he came from.”</p> +<p>“Well, ’e can’t take the gold with him, +wherever ’e goes to?” argued Mrs. Wilkins.</p> +<p>“You talk, Mrs. Wilkins,” I said, “as if the +gold were of more value to the world than is the +mine-owner.”</p> +<p>“Well, isn’t it?” demanded Mrs. Wilkins.</p> +<p>“It’s a new idea, Mrs. Wilkins,” I answered; +“it wants thinking out.”</p> +<h2><a name="page278"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 278</span>HOW +TO SOLVE THE SERVANT PROBLEM.</h2> +<p>“I <span class="smcap">am</span> glad to see, Mrs. +Wilkins,” I said, “that the Women’s Domestic +Guild of America has succeeded in solving the servant girl +problem—none too soon, one might almost say.”</p> +<p>“Ah,” said Mrs. Wilkins, as she took the cover off +the bacon and gave an extra polish to the mustard-pot with her +apron, “they are clever people over there; leastways, so +I’ve always ’eard.”</p> +<p>“This, their latest, Mrs. Wilkins,” I said, +“I am inclined to regard as their greatest triumph. +My hope is that the Women’s Domestic Guild of America, when +it has finished with the United States and Canada, will, perhaps, +see its way to establishing a branch in England. There are +ladies of my acquaintance who would welcome, I feel sure, any +really satisfactory solution of the problem.”</p> +<p>“Well, good luck to it, is all I say,” responded +Mrs. Wilkins, “and if it makes all the gals contented with +their places, and all the mistresses satisfied with what +they’ve got and ’appy in their minds, why, God bless +it, say I.”</p> +<p>“The mistake hitherto,” I said, “from what I +read, appears to have been that the right servant was not sent to +the right place. What the Women’s Domestic Guild of +America proposes to do is to find the right servant for the right +place. You see the difference, don’t you, Mrs. +Wilkins?”</p> +<p>“That’s the secret,” agreed Mrs. +Wilkins. “They don’t anticipate any difficulty +in getting the right sort of gal, I take it?”</p> +<p>“I gather not, Mrs. Wilkins,” I replied.</p> +<p>Mrs. Wilkins is of a pessimistic turn of mind.</p> +<p>“I am not so sure about it,” she said; “the +Almighty don’t seem to ’ave made too many of that +sort. Unless these American ladies that you speak of are +going to start a factory of their own. I am afraid there is +disappointment in store for them.”</p> +<p>“Don’t throw cold water on the idea before it is +fairly started, Mrs. Wilkins,” I pleaded.</p> +<p>“Well, sir,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “I +’ave been a gal myself in service; and in my time +I‘ve ’ad a few mistresses of my own, and I’ve +’eard a good deal about others. There are ladies and +ladies, as you may know, sir, and some of them, if they +aren’t exactly angels, are about as near to it as can be +looked for in this climate, and they are not the ones that do +most of the complaining. But, as for the average +mistress—well it ain’t a gal she wants, it’s a +plaster image, without any natural innards—a sort of thing +as ain’t ’uman, and ain’t to be found in +’uman nature. And then she’d grumble at it, if +it didn’t ’appen to be able to be in two places at +once.”</p> +<p>“You fear that the standard for that ‘right +girl’ is likely to be set a trifle too high Mrs. +Wilkins,” I suggested.</p> +<p>“That ‘right gal,’ according to the notions +of some of ’em,” retorted Mrs. Wilkins, +“’er place ain’t down ’ere among us mere +mortals; ’er place is up in ’eaven with a ’arp +and a golden crown. There’s my niece, Emma, I +don’t say she is a saint, but a better ’earted, +’arder working gal, at twenty pounds a year, you +don’t expect to find, unless maybe you’re a natural +born fool that can’t ’elp yourself. She wanted +a place. She ’ad been ’ome for nearly six +months, nursing ’er old father, as ’ad been down all +the winter with rheumatic fever; and ’ard-put to it she was +for a few clothes. You ’ear ’em talk about gals +as insists on an hour a day for practising the piano, and the +right to invite their young man to spend the evening with them in +the drawing-room. Perhaps it is meant to be funny; I +ain’t come across that type of gal myself, outside the +pictures in the comic papers; and I’ll never believe, till +I see ’er myself, that anybody else ’as. They +sent ’er from the registry office to a lady at Clapton.</p> +<p>“‘I ’ope you are good at getting up early in +the morning?’ says the lady, ‘I like a gal as rises +cheerfully to ’er work.’</p> +<p>“‘Well, ma’am,’ says Emma, ‘I +can’t say as I’ve got a passion for it. But +it’s one of those things that ’as to be done, and I +guess I’ve learnt the trick.’</p> +<p>“‘I’m a great believer in early +rising,’ says my lady; ‘in the morning, one is always +fresher for one’s work; my ’usband and the younger +children breakfast at ’arf past seven; myself and my eldest +daughter ’ave our breakfest in bed at eight.’</p> +<p>“‘That’ll be all right, ma’am,’ +says Emma.</p> +<p>“‘And I ’ope,’ says the lady, +‘you are of an amiable disposition. Some gals when +you ring the bell come up looking so disagreeable, one almost +wishes one didn’t want them.’</p> +<p>“‘Well, it ain’t a thing,’ explains +Emma, ‘as makes you want to burst out laughing, +’earing the bell go off for the twentieth time, and +’aving suddenly to put down your work at, perhaps, a +critical moment. Some ladies don’t seem able to reach +down their ’at for themselves.’</p> +<p>“‘I ’ope you are not impertinent,’ +says the lady; ‘if there’s one thing that I object to +in a servant it is impertinence.’</p> +<p>“‘We none of us like being answered back,’ +says Emma, ‘more particularly when we are in the +wrong. But I know my place ma’am, and I shan’t +give you no lip. It always leads to less trouble, I find, +keeping your mouth shut, rather than opening it.’</p> +<p>“‘Are you fond of children,’ asks my +lady.</p> +<p>“‘It depends upon the children,’ says Emma; +‘there are some I ’ave ’ad to do with as made +the day seem pleasanter, and I’ve come across others as I +could ’ave parted from at any moment without +tears.’</p> +<p>“‘I like a gal,’ says the lady, ‘who +is naturally fond of children, it shows a good +character.’</p> +<p>“‘How many of them are there?’ says +Emma.</p> +<p>“‘Four of them,’ answers my lady, ‘but +you won’t ’ave much to do except with the two +youngest. The great thing with young children is to +surround them with good examples. Are you a +Christian?’ asks my lady.</p> +<p>“‘That’s what I’m generally +called,’ says Emma.</p> +<p>“‘Every other Sunday evening out is my +rule,’ says the lady, ‘but of course I shall expect +you to go to church.’</p> +<p>“‘Do you mean in my time, ma’am,’ says +Emma, ‘or in yours.’</p> +<p>“‘I mean on your evening of course,’ says my +lady. ‘’Ow else could you go?’</p> +<p>“‘Well, ma’am,’ says Emma, ‘I +like to see my people now and then.’</p> +<p>“‘There are better things,’ says my lady, +‘than seeing what you call your people, and I should not +care to take a girl into my ’ouse as put ’er pleasure +before ’er religion. You are not engaged, I +’ope?’</p> +<p>“‘Walking out, ma’am, do you mean?’ +says Emma. ‘No, ma’am, there is nobody +I’ve got in my mind—not just at present.’</p> +<p>“‘I never will take a gal,’ explains my +lady, ‘who is engaged. I find it distracts ’er +attention from ’er work. And I must insist if you +come to me,’ continues my lady, ‘that you get +yourself another ’at and jacket. If there is one +thing I object to in a servant it is a disposition to cheap +finery.’</p> +<p>“’Er own daughter was sitting there beside +’er with ’alf a dozen silver bangles on ’er +wrist, and a sort of thing ’anging around ’er neck, +as, ’ad it been real, would ’ave been worth perhaps a +thousand pounds. But Emma wanted a job, so she kept +’er thoughts to ’erself.</p> +<p>“‘I can put these things by and get myself +something else,’ she says, ‘if you don’t mind, +ma’am, advancing me something out of my first three +months’ wages. I’m afraid my account at the +bank is a bit overdrawn.’</p> +<p>“The lady whispered something to ’er +daughter. ‘I am afraid, on thinking it over,’ +she says, ‘that you won’t suit, after all. You +don’t look serious enough. I feel sure, from the way +you do your ’air,’ says my lady, ‘there’s +a frivolous side to your nature.’</p> +<p>“So Emma came away, and was not, on the whole, too +sorry.”</p> +<p>“But do they get servants to come to them, this type of +mistress, do you think, Mrs. Wilkins?” I asked.</p> +<p>“They get them all right,” said Mrs. Wilkins, +“and if it’s a decent gal, it makes a bad gal of +’er, that ever afterwards looks upon every mistress as +’er enemy, and acts accordingly. And if she +ain’t a naturally good gal, it makes ’er worse, and +then you ’ear what awful things gals are. I +don’t say it’s an easy problem,” continued Mrs. +Wilkins, “it’s just like marriages. The good +mistress gets ’old of the bad servant, and the bad +mistress, as often as not is lucky.”</p> +<p>“But how is it,” I argued, “that in hotels, +for instance, the service is excellent, and the girls, generally +speaking, seem contented? The work is hard, and the wages +not much better, if as good.”</p> +<p>“Ah,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “you ’ave +’it the right nail on the ’ead, there, sir. +They go into the ’otels and work like niggers, knowing that +if a single thing goes wrong they will be bully-ragged and sworn +at till they don’t know whether they are standing on their +’ead or their ’eels. But they ’ave their +hours; the gal knows when ’er work is done, and when the +clock strikes she is a ’uman being once again. She +’as got that moment to look forward to all day, and it +keeps ’er going. In private service there’s no +moment in the day to ’ope for. If the lady is +reasonable she ain’t overworked; but no ’ow can she +ever feel she is her own mistress, free to come and go, to wear +’er bit of finery, to ’ave ’er bit of +fun. She works from six in the morning till eleven or +twelve at night, and then she only goes to bed provided she +ain’t wanted. She don’t belong to ’erself +at all; it’s that that irritates them.”</p> +<p>“I see your point, Mrs. Wilkins,” I said, +“and, of course, in a house where two or three servants +were kept some such plan might easily be arranged. The girl +who commenced work at six o’clock in the morning might +consider herself free at six o’clock in the evening. +What she did with herself, how she dressed herself in her own +time, would be her affair. What church the clerk or the +workman belongs to, what company he keeps, is no concern of the +firm. In such matters, mistresses, I am inclined to think, +saddle themselves with a responsibility for which there is no +need. If the girl behaves herself while in the house, and +does her work, there the contract ends. The mistress who +thinks it her duty to combine the <i>rôles</i> of employer +and of maiden aunt is naturally resented. The next month +the girl might change her hours from twelve to twelve, and her +fellow-servant could enjoy the six a.m. to six p.m. shift. +But how do you propose to deal, Mrs. Wilkins, with the smaller +<i>menage</i>, that employs only one servant?”</p> +<p>“Well, sir,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “it seems to +me simple enough. Ladies talk pretty about the dignity of +labour, and are never tired of pointing out why gals should +prefer domestic service to all other kinds of work. Suppose +they practise what they preach. In the ’ouse, where +there’s only the master and the mistress, and, say a couple +of small children, let the lady take her turn. After all, +it’s only her duty, same as the office or the shop is the +man’s. Where, on the other ’and, there are +biggish boys and gals about the place, well it wouldn’t do +them any ’arm to be taught to play a little less, and to +look after themselves a little more. It’s just +arranging things—that’s all that’s +wanted.”</p> +<p>“You remind me of a family I once knew, Mrs. +Wilkins,” I said; “it consisted of the usual father +and mother, and of five sad, healthy girls. They kept two +servants—or, rather, they never kept any servants; they +lived always looking for servants, breaking their hearts over +servants, packing servants off at a moment’s notice, +standing disconsolately looking after servants who had packed +themselves off at a moment’s notice, wondering generally +what the world was coming too. It occurred to me at the +time, that without much trouble, they could have lived a peaceful +life without servants. The eldest girl was learning +painting—and seemed unable to learn anything else. It +was poor sort of painting; she noticed it herself. But she +seemed to think that, if she talked a lot about it, and thought +of nothing else, that somehow it would all come right. The +second girl played the violin. She played it from early +morning till late evening, and friends fell away from them. +There wasn’t a spark of talent in the family, but they all +had a notion that a vague longing to be admired was just the same +as genius.</p> +<p>“Another daughter fancied she would like to be an +actress, and screamed all day in the attic. The fourth +wrote poetry on a typewriter, and wondered why nobody seemed to +want it; while the fifth one suffered from a weird belief that +smearing wood with a red-hot sort of poker was a thing worth +doing for its own sake. All of them seemed willing enough +to work, provided only that it was work of no use to any living +soul. With a little sense, and the occasional assistance of +a charwoman, they could have led a merrier life.”</p> +<p>“If I was giving away secrets,” said Mrs. Wilkins, +“I’d say to the mistresses: ‘Show yourselves +able to be independent.’ It’s because the gals +know that the mistresses can’t do without them that they +sometimes gives themselves airs.”</p> +<h2><a name="page292"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 292</span>WHY +WE HATE THE FOREIGNER.</h2> +<p>The advantage that the foreigner possesses over the Englishman +is that he is born good. He does not have to try to be +good, as we do. He does not have to start the New Year with +the resolution to be good, and succeed, bar accidents, in being +so till the middle of January. He is just good all the year +round. When a foreigner is told to mount or descend from a +tram on the near side, it does not occur to him that it would be +humanly possible to secure egress from or ingress to that tram +from the off side.</p> +<p>In Brussels once I witnessed a daring attempt by a lawless +foreigner to enter a tram from the wrong side. The gate was +open: he was standing close beside it. A line of traffic +was in his way: to have got round to the right side of that tram +would have meant missing it. He entered when the conductor +was not looking, and took his seat. The astonishment of the +conductor on finding him there was immense. How did he get +there? The conductor had been watching the proper entrance, +and the man had not passed him. Later, the true explanation +suggested itself to the conductor, but for a while he hesitated +to accuse a fellow human being of such crime.</p> +<p>He appealed to the passenger himself. Was his presence +to be accounted for by miracle or by sin? The passenger +confessed. It was more in sorrow than in anger that the +conductor requested him at once to leave. This tram was +going to be kept respectable. The passenger proved +refractory, a halt was called, and the gendarmerie appealed +to. After the manner of policemen, they sprang, as it were, +from the ground, and formed up behind an imposing officer, whom I +took to be the sergeant. At first the sergeant could hardly +believe the conductor’s statement. Even then, had the +passenger asserted that he had entered by the proper entrance, +his word would have been taken. Much easier to the foreign +official mind would it have been to believe that the conductor +had been stricken with temporary blindness, than that man born of +woman would have deliberately done anything expressly forbidden +by a printed notice.</p> +<p>Myself, in his case, I should have lied and got the trouble +over. But he was a proud man, or had not much +sense—one of the two, and so held fast to the truth. +It was pointed out to him that he must descend immediately and +wait for the next tram. Other gendarmes were arriving from +every quarter: resistance in the circumstances seemed +hopeless. He said he would get down. He made to +descend this time by the proper gate, but that was not +justice. He had mounted the wrong side, he must alight on +the wrong side. Accordingly, he was put out amongst the +traffic, after which the conductor preached a sermon from the +centre of the tram on the danger of ascents and descents +conducted from the wrong quarter.</p> +<p>There is a law throughout Germany—an excellent law it +is: I would we had it in England—that nobody may scatter +paper about the street. An English military friend told me +that, one day in Dresden, unacquainted with this rule, he tore a +long letter he had been reading into some fifty fragments and +threw them behind him. A policeman stopped him and +explained to him quite politely the law upon the subject. +My military friend agreed that it was a very good law, thanked +the man for his information, and said that for the future he +would bear it in mind. That, as the policeman pointed out, +would make things right enough for the future, but meanwhile it +was necessary to deal with the past—with the fifty or so +pieces of paper lying scattered about the road and pavement.</p> +<p>My military friend, with a pleasant laugh, confessed he did +not see what was to be done. The policeman, more +imaginative, saw a way out. It was that my military friend +should set to work and pick up those fifty scraps of paper. +He is an English General on the Retired List, and of imposing +appearance: his manner on occasion is haughty. He did not +see himself on his hands and knees in the chief street of +Dresden, in the middle of the afternoon, picking up paper.</p> +<p>The German policeman himself admitted that the situation was +awkward. If the English General could not accept it there +happened to be an alternative. It was that the English +General should accompany the policeman through the streets, +followed by the usual crowd, to the nearest prison, some three +miles off. It being now four o’clock in the +afternoon, they would probably find the judge departed. But +the most comfortable thing possible in prison cells should be +allotted to him, and the policeman had little doubt that the +General, having paid his fine of forty marks, would find himself +a free man again in time for lunch the following day. The +general suggested hiring a boy to pick up the paper. The +policeman referred to the wording of the law, and found that this +would not be permitted.</p> +<p>“I thought the matter out,” my friend told me, +“imagining all the possible alternatives, including that of +knocking the fellow down and making a bolt, and came to the +conclusion that his first suggestion would, on the whole, result +in the least discomfort. But I had no idea that picking up +small scraps of thin paper off greasy stones was the business +that I found it! It took me nearly ten minutes, and +afforded amusement, I calculate, to over a thousand people. +But it is a good law, mind you: all I wish is that I had known it +beforehand.”</p> +<p>On one occasion I accompanied an American lady to a German +Opera House. The taking-off of hats in the German +Schausspielhaus is obligatory, and again I would it were so in +England. But the American lady is accustomed to disregard +rules made by mere man. She explained to the doorkeeper +that she was going to wear her hat. He, on his side, +explained to her that she was not: they were both a bit short +with one another. I took the opportunity to turn aside and +buy a programme: the fewer people there are mixed up in an +argument, I always think, the better.</p> +<p>My companion explained quite frankly to the doorkeeper that it +did not matter what he said, she was not going to take any notice +of him. He did not look a talkative man at any time, and, +maybe, this announcement further discouraged him. In any +case, he made no attempt to answer. All he did was to stand +in the centre of the doorway with a far-away look in his +eyes. The doorway was some four feet wide: he was about +three feet six across, and weighed about twenty stone. As I +explained, I was busy buying a programme, and when I returned my +friend had her hat in her hand, and was digging pins into it: I +think she was trying to make believe it was the heart of the +doorkeeper. She did not want to listen to the opera, she +wanted to talk all the time about that doorkeeper, but the people +round us would not even let her do that.</p> +<p>She has spent three winters in Germany since then. Now +when she feels like passing through a door that is standing wide +open just in front of her, and which leads to just the place she +wants to get to, and an official shakes his head at her, and +explains that she must not, but must go up two flights of stairs +and along a corridor and down another flight of stairs, and so +get to her place that way, she apologises for her error and trots +off looking ashamed of herself.</p> +<p>Continental Governments have trained their citizens to +perfection. Obedience is the Continent’s first +law. The story that is told of a Spanish king who was +nearly drowned because the particular official whose duty it was +to dive in after Spanish kings when they tumbled out of boats +happened to be dead, and his successor had not yet been +appointed, I can quite believe. On the Continental railways +if you ride second class with a first-class ticket you render +yourself liable to imprisonment. What the penalty is for +riding first with a second-class ticket I cannot +say—probably death, though a friend of mine came very near +on one occasion to finding out.</p> +<p>All would have gone well with him if he had not been so darned +honest. He is one of those men who pride themselves on +being honest. I believe he takes a positive pleasure in +being honest. He had purchased a second-class ticket for a +station up a mountain, but meeting, by chance on the platform, a +lady acquaintance, had gone with her into a first-class +apartment. On arriving at the journey’s end he +explained to the collector what he had done, and, with his purse +in his hand, demanded to know the difference. They took him +into a room and locked the door. They wrote out his +confession and read it over to him, and made him sign it, and +then they sent for a policeman.</p> +<p>The policeman cross-examined him for about a quarter of an +hour. They did not believe the story about the lady. +Where was the lady? He did not know. They searched +the neighbourhood for her, but could not find her. He +suggested—what turned out to be the truth—that, tired +of loitering about the station, she had gone up the +mountain. An Anarchist outrage had occurred in the +neighbouring town some months before. The policeman +suggested searching for bombs. Fortunately, a Cook’s +agent, returning with a party of tourists, arrived upon the +scene, and took it upon himself to explain in delicate language +that my friend was a bit of an ass and could not tell first class +from second. It was the red cushions that had deceived my +friend: he thought it was first class, as a matter of fact it was +second class.</p> +<p>Everybody breathed again. The confession was torn up +amid universal joy: and then the fool of a ticket collector +wanted to know about the lady—who must have travelled in a +second-class compartment with a first-class ticket. It +looked as if a bad time were in store for her on her return to +the station.</p> +<p>But the admirable representative of Cook was again equal to +the occasion. He explained that my friend was also a bit of +a liar. When he said he had travelled with this lady he was +merely boasting. He would like to have travelled with her, +that was all he meant, only his German was shaky. Joy once +more entered upon the scene. My friend’s character +appeared to be re-established. He was not the abandoned +wretch for whom they had taken him—only, apparently, a +wandering idiot. Such an one the German official could +respect. At the expense of such an one the German official +even consented to drink beer.</p> +<p>Not only the foreign man, woman and child, but the foreign dog +is born good. In England, if you happen to be the possessor +of a dog, much of your time is taken up dragging him out of +fights, quarrelling with the possessor of the other dog as to +which began it, explaining to irate elderly ladies that he did +not kill the cat, that the cat must have died of heart disease +while running across the road, assuring disbelieving game-keepers +that he is not your dog, that you have not the faintest notion +whose dog he is. With the foreign dog, life is a peaceful +proceeding. When the foreign dog sees a row, tears spring +to his eyes: he hastens on and tries to find a policeman. +When the foreign dog sees a cat in a hurry, he stands aside to +allow her to pass. They dress the foreign dog—some of +them—in a little coat, with a pocket for his handkerchief, +and put shoes on his feet. They have not given him a +hat—not yet. When they do, he will contrive by some +means or another to raise it politely when he meets a cat he +thinks he knows.</p> +<p>One morning, in a Continental city, I came across a +disturbance—it might be more correct to say the disturbance +came across me: it swept down upon me, enveloped me before I knew +that I was in it. A fox-terrier it was, belonging to a very +young lady—it was when the disturbance was to a certain +extent over that we discovered he belonged to this young +lady. She arrived towards the end of the disturbance, very +much out of breath: she had been running for a mile, poor girl, +and shouting most of the way. When she looked round and saw +all the things that had happened, and had had other things that +she had missed explained to her, she burst into tears. An +English owner of that fox-terrier would have given one look round +and then have jumped upon the nearest tram going anywhere. +But, as I have said, the foreigner is born good. I left her +giving her name and address to seven different people.</p> +<p>But it was about the dog I wished to speak more +particularly. He had commenced innocently enough, trying to +catch a sparrow. Nothing delights a sparrow more than being +chased by a dog. A dozen times he thought he had the +sparrow. Then another dog had got in his way. I +don’t know what they call this breed of dog, but abroad it +is popular: it has no tail and looks like a pig—when things +are going well with it. This particular specimen, when I +saw him, looked more like part of a doormat. The +fox-terrier had seized it by the scruff of the neck and had +rolled it over into the gutter just in front of a motor +cycle. Its owner, a large lady, had darted out to save it, +and had collided with the motor cyclist. The large lady had +been thrown some half a dozen yards against an Italian boy +carrying a tray load of plaster images.</p> +<p>I have seen a good deal of trouble in my life, but never one +yet that did not have an Italian image-vendor somehow or other +mixed up in it. Where these boys hide in times of peace is +a mystery. The chance of being upset brings them out as +sunshine brings out flies. The motor cycle had dashed into +a little milk-cart and had spread it out neatly in the middle of +the tram lines. The tram traffic looked like being stopped +for a quarter of an hour; but the idea of every approaching tram +driver appeared to be that if he rang his bell with sufficient +vigor this seeming obstruction would fade away and disappear.</p> +<p>In an English town all this would not have attracted much +attention. Somebody would have explained that a dog was the +original cause, and the whole series of events would have +appeared ordinary and natural. Upon these foreigners the +fear descended that the Almighty, for some reason, was angry with +them. A policeman ran to catch the dog.</p> +<p>The delighted dog rushed backwards, barking furiously, and +tried to throw up paving stones with its hind legs. That +frightened a nursemaid who was wheeling a perambulator, and then +it was that I entered into the proceedings. Seated on the +edge of the pavement, with a perambulator on one side of me and a +howling baby on the other, I told that dog what I thought of +him.</p> +<p>Forgetful that I was in a foreign land—that he might not +understand me—I told it him in English, I told it him at +length, I told it very loud and clear. He stood a yard in +front of me, listening to me with an expression of ecstatic joy I +have never before or since seen equalled on any face, human or +canine. He drank it in as though it had been music from +Paradise.</p> +<p>“Where have I heard that song before?” he seemed +to be saying to himself, “the old familiar language they +used to talk to me when I was young?”</p> +<p>He approached nearer to me; there were almost tears in his +eyes when I had finished.</p> +<p>“Say it again!” he seemed to be asking of +me. “Oh! say it all over again, the dear old English +oaths and curses that in this God-forsaken land I never hoped to +hear again.”</p> +<p>I learnt from the young lady that he was an English-born +fox-terrier. That explained everything. The foreign +dog does not do this sort of thing. The foreigner is born +good: that is why we hate him.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDLE IDEAS IN 1905***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 3140-h.htm or 3140-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/1/4/3140 + + + +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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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