TheAngelandtheAuthor,andOthers

ByJeromeK.Jerome

THEANGELANDTHEAUTHOR,ANDOTHERS

CHAPTERI

Ihadavexingdreamonenight, not longago: itwasabout a fortnight afterChristmas.IdreamtIflewoutofthewindowinmynightshirt.Iwentupandup.IwasgladthatIwasgoingup.“Theyhavebeennoticingme,”Ithoughttomyself.“Ifanything,Ihavebeenabittoogood.AlittlelessvirtueandImighthavelivedlonger.Butonecannothaveeverything.”Theworldgrewsmaller and smaller. The last I sawofLondonwas the long lineofelectriclamps bordering the Embankment; later nothing remained but a faint

luminosityburiedbeneathdarkness.ItwasatthispointofmyjourneythatIheardbehindmetheslow,throbbingsoundofwings.

Iturnedmyhead.ItwastheRecordingAngel.Hehadawearylook;Ijudgedhimtobetired.

“Yes,”heacknowledged,“itisatryingperiodforme,yourChristmastime.”

“Iamsureitmustbe,”Ireturned;“thewondertomeishowyougetthroughitall.YouseeatChristmastime,”Iwenton,“allwemenandwomenbecomegenerous,quitesuddenly.Itisreallyadelightfulsensation.”

“Youaretobeenvied,”heagreed.

“It is the first Christmas number that starts me off,” I told him; “thosebeautifulpictures—thesweetchildlookingsoprettyinherfurs,givingBovrilwithherowndear littlehands to theshiveringstreetarab; thegoodold red-facedsquireshovellingoutplumpuddingtothecrowdofgratefulvillagers.Itmakesmeyearntoborrowacollectingboxandgorounddoinggoodmyself.

“Anditisnotonlyme—IshouldsayI,”Icontinued;“Idon’twantyoutorunawaywiththeideathatIamtheonlygoodmanintheworld. That’swhatIlikeaboutChristmas,itmakeseverybodygood.Thelovelysentimentswegoaboutrepeating!thenobledeedswedo!fromalittlebeforeChristmasupto,say,theendofJanuary!whynotingthemdownmustbeacomforttoyou.”

“Yes,”headmitted,“nobledeedsarealwaysagreatjoytome.”

“Theyaretoallofus,”Isaid;“IlovetothinkofallthegooddeedsImyselfhavedone.Ihaveoftenthoughtofkeepingadiary—jottingthemdowneachday.Itwouldbesoniceforone’schildren.”

Heagreedtherewasanideainthis.

“Thatbookofyours,”Isaid,“Isuppose,now,itcontainsallthegoodactionsthatwemenandwomenhavebeendoingduringthelastsixweeks?”Itwasabulkylookingvolume.

Yes,heanswered,theywereallrecordedinthebook.

TheAuthortellsofhisGoodDeeds.

ItwasmoreforthesakeoftalkingofhisthananythingelsethatIkeptupwithhim. I did not really doubt his care and conscientiousness, but it is alwayspleasanttochataboutone’sself.“MyfiveshillingssubscriptiontotheDailyTelegraph’sSix-pennyFundfortheUnemployed—gotthatdownallright?”Iaskedhim.

Yes,hereplied,itwasentered.

“Asamatteroffact,nowIcometothinkofit,”Iadded,“itwastenshillingsaltogether.Theyspeltmynamewrongthefirsttime.”

Bothsubscriptionshadbeenentered,hetoldme.

“ThenIhavebeentofourcharitydinners,”Iremindedhim;“Iforgetwhattheparticularcharitywasabout.IknowIsufferedthenextmorning.Champagneneverdoesagreewithme. But, then, ifyoudon’torder itpeople thinkyoucan’taffordit. NotthatIdon’tlikeit. It’smyliver,ifyouunderstand.IfItakemore—”

Heinterruptedmewiththeassurancethatmyattendancehadbeennoted.

“LastweekIsentadozenphotographsofmyself,signed,toacharitybazaar.”

Hesaidherememberedmydoingso.

“Then letme see,” I continued, “I havebeen to twoordinaryballs. I don’tcaremuchaboutdancing,butafewofusgenerallyplayalittlebridge;andtoonefancydressaffair.IwentasSirWalterRaleigh.Somemencannotaffordtoshowtheirleg.WhatIsayis,ifamancan,whynot?Itisn’toftenthatonegetstheopportunityofreallylookingone’sbest.”

Hetoldmeallthreeballshadbeendulyentered:andcommentedupon.

“And,ofcourse,youremembermyperformanceofTalbotChampneysinOurBoystheweekbeforelast,inaidoftheFundforPoorCurates,”Iwenton.“Idon’tknowwhetheryousawthenoticeintheMorningPost,but—”

HeagaininterruptedmetoremarkthatwhattheMorningPostmansaidwouldbeentered,onewayor theother, to thecriticof theMorningPost, andhadnothingtodowithme.“Ofcoursenot,”Iagreed;“andbetweenourselves,Idon’t think the charity got very much. Expenses, when you come to addrefreshments and one thing and another,mount up. But I fancy they ratherlikedmyTalbotChampneys.”

Herepliedthathehadbeenpresentattheperformance,andhadmadehisownreport.

IalsoremindedhimofthefourbalconyseatsIhadtakenforthemonstershowatHisMajesty’sinaidoftheFundfortheDestituteBritishinJohannesburg.Not all the celebrated actors and actresses announced on the posters hadappeared,butallhadsentlettersfullofkindlywishes;andtheothers—allthecelebrities one had never heard of—had turned up to a man. Still, on the

whole,theshowwaswellworththemoney.Therewasnothingtogrumbleat.

Therewereothernobledeedsofmine.Icouldnotrememberthematthetimeintheirentirety.Iseemedtohavedoneagoodmany.ButIdidremembertherummagesaletowhichIsentallmyoldclothes,includingacoatthathadgotmixedupwiththembyaccident,andthatIbelieveIcouldhavewornagain.

AndalsotheraffleIhadjoinedforamotor-car.

TheAngelsaidIreallyneednotbealarmed,thateverythinghadbeennoted,togetherwithothermattersI,maybe,hadforgotten.

TheAngelappearstohavemadeaslightMistake.

Ifeltacertaincuriosity.Wehadbeengettingonverywelltogether—soithadseemed tome. Iaskedhim ifhewouldmindmyseeing thebook. Hesaidtherecouldbenoobjection.Heopeneditatthepagedevotedtomyself,andIflewalittlehigher,andlookeddownoverhisshoulder.Icanhardlybelieveit,evennow—thatIcouldhavedreamtanythingsofoolish:

Hehadgotitalldownwrong!

Insteadoftothecreditsideofmyaccounthehadputthewholebagoftrickstomydebit.Hehadmixedthemupwithmysins—withmyactsofhypocrisy,vanity,self-indulgence.UndertheheadofCharityhehadbutoneitemtomycreditforthepastsixmonths:mygivingupmyseatinsideatramcar,lateonewet night, to a dismal-looking old woman, who had not had even thepolitenesstosay“thankyou,”sheseemedjusthalfasleep.Accordingtothisidiot,allthetimeandmoneyIhadspentrespondingtothesecharitableappealshadbeenwasted.

Iwasnotangrywithhim,atfirst.Iwaswillingtoregardwhathehaddoneasmerelyaclericalerror.

“Youhavegot theitemsdownallright,”Isaid(Ispokequitefriendly),“butyouhavemadeaslightmistake—wealldonowandagain;youhaveputthemdownon thewrong sideof thebook. Ionlyhope this sortof thingdoesn’toccuroften.”

What irritatedme as much as anything was the grave, passionless face theAngelturneduponme.

“Thereisnomistake,”heanswered.

“Nomistake!”Icried.“Why,youblundering—”

Heclosedthebookwithawearysigh.

I felt somadwith him, Iwent to snatch it out of his hand. He did not doanythingthatIwasawareof,butatonceIbeganfalling.Thefaintluminositybeneathmegrew,andthenthelightsofLondonseemedshootinguptomeetme.IwascomingdownontheclocktoweratWestminster.Igavemyselfaconvulsivetwist,hopingtoescapeit,andfellintotheriver.

AndthenIawoke.

But it stayswithme: thewearysadnessof theAngel’s face. Icannotshakeremembrancefromme.WouldIhavedonebetter,hadItakenthemoneyIhadspentuponthesefooleries,gonedownwithitamongthepoormyself,askingnothing in return. Is this fraction of our superfluity, flung without furtherthought or care into the collection box, likely to satisfy the ImpracticableIdealist,whoactuallysuggested—oneshrugsone’sshoulderswhenonethinksofit—thatoneshouldsellallonehadandgivetothepoor?

TheAuthoristroubledconcerninghisInvestments.

Or is our charity but a salve to conscience—an insurance, at decidedlymoderate premium, in case, after all, there should happen to be anotherworld?IsCharitylendingtotheLordsomethingwecansoeasilydowithout?

Irememberaladytidyingupherhouse,clearingitofrubbish. Shecalledit“GivingtotheFreshAirFund.”Intotheheapoflumberoneofherdaughtersflungapairofcrutchesthatforyearshadbeenknockingaboutthehouse.Theladypickedthemoutagain.

“Wewon’tgivethoseaway,”shesaid,“theymightcomeinusefulagain.Oneneverknows.”

Anotherlady,Iremembercomingdownstairsoneeveningdressedforafancyball.Iforgetthetitleofthecharity,butIrememberthateveryladywhosoldmorethantenticketsreceivedanautographletterofthanksfromtheDuchesswho was the president. The tickets were twelve and sixpence each andincludedlightrefreshmentsandaverysubstantialsupper. Onepresumestheoddsixpencereachedthepoor—oratleastthenoisierportionofthem.

“A little décolletée, isn’t it, my dear?” suggested a lady friend, as thecharitabledancerenteredthedrawing-room.

“Perhapsitis—alittle,”sheadmitted,“butweallofusoughttodoallwecanfortheCause.Don’tyouthinkso,dear?”

Really,seeingtheamountwegiveincharity,thewonderisthereareanypoorleft.Itisacomfortthatthereare.Whatshouldwedowithoutthem?Ourfur-cladlittlegirls!ourjolly,red-facedsquires!weshouldneverknowhowgood

theywere,butforthepoor?Withoutthepoorhowcouldwebevirtuous?Weshould have to go about giving to each other. And friends expect suchexpensivepresents,whileashillinghereandthereamongthepoorbringstousallthesensationsofagoodSamaritan.Providencehasbeenverythoughtfulinprovidinguswithpoor.

DearLadyBountiful!doesitnoteveroccurtoyoutothankGodforthepoor?Theclean,gratefulpoor,whobobtheirheadsandcurtseyandassureyouthatheavenisgoingtorepayyouathousandfold.Onedoeshopeyouwillnotbedisappointed.

AnEast-Endcurateonce toldme,witha twinkle inhiseye,ofasmart ladywhocalleduponhiminhercarriage,andinsistedonhisgoingroundwithherto showherwhere thepoorhid themselves. Theywentdownmanystreets,and the ladydistributedherparcels. Then theycame tooneof theworst, averynarrowstreet.Thecoachmangaveitoneglance.

“Sorry,mylady,”saidthecoachman,“butthecarriagewon’tgodown.”

Theladysighed.

“Iamafraidweshallhavetoleaveit,”shesaid.

Sothegallantgreysdashedpast.

Where the real poor creep I fear there is no room forLadyBountiful’s finecoach. Theways are very narrow—wide enough only for little Sister Pity,stealingsoftly.

Iputittomyfriend,thecurate:

“Butifallthischarityis,asyousay,souseless;ifittouchesbutthefringe;ifitmakestheevilworse,whatwouldyoudo?”

AndquestionsaManofThought.

“I would substitute Justice,” he answered; “there would be no need forCharity.”

“Butitissodelightfultogive,”Ianswered.

“Yes,”heagreed. “It isbetter togivethantoreceive. Iwasthinkingofthereceiver. Andmyidealisalongwayoff. Weshallhavetoworktowardsitslowly.”

CHAPTERII

PhilosophyandtheDæmon.

Philosophy,ithasbeensaid,istheartofbearingotherpeople’stroubles.Thetruest philosopher I ever heard ofwas awoman. Shewas brought into theLondonHospital suffering fromapoisoned leg. Thehouse surgeonmadeahurriedexamination.Hewasamanofbluntspeech.

“Itwillhavetocomeoff,”hetoldher.

“What,notallofit?”

“Thewholeofit,Iamsorrytosay,”growledthehousesurgeon.

“Nothingelseforit?”

“Nootherchanceforyouwhatever,”explainedthehousesurgeon.

“Ah,well,thankGawdit’snotmy’ead,”observedthelady.

Thepoorhaveagreatadvantageoverusbetter-offfolk.Providenceprovidesthemwithmanyopportunitiesforthepracticeofphilosophy.Iwaspresentata “high tea” given lastwinter by charitable folk to a party of char-women.Afterthetableswereclearedwesoughttoamusethem.Oneyounglady,whowasproudofherselfasapalmist,setouttostudytheir“lines.”Atsightofthefirsttoil-wornhandshetookholdofhersympatheticfacegrewsad.

“Thereisagreattroublecomingtoyou,”sheinformedtheancientdame.

Theplacid-featureddamelookedupandsmiled:

“What,onlyone,mydear?”

“Yes,onlyone,”assertedthekindfortune-teller,muchpleased,“afterthatallgoessmoothly.”

“Ah,”murmuredtheolddame,quitecheerfully,“wewasallofusashort-livedfamily.”

OurskinshardentotheblowsofFate.IwaslunchingoneWednesdaywithafriendinthecountry.Hissonandheir,agedtwelve,enteredandtookhisseatatthetable.

“Well,”saidhisfather,“andhowdidwegetonatschoolto-day?”

“Oh, all right,” answered the youngster, settling himself down to his dinner

withevidentappetite.

“Nobodycaned?”demandedhis father,with—as Inoticed—asly twinkle inhiseye.

“No,”repliedyounghopeful,afterreflection;“no,Idon’tthinkso,”addingasanafterthought,ashetuckedintobeefandpotatoes,“’cepting,o’course,me.”

WhentheDæmonwillnotwork.

It is a simple science, philosophy. The idea is that it never matters whathappenstoyouprovidedyoudon’tmindit.Theweakpointintheargumentisthatninetimesoutoftenyoucan’thelpmindingit.

“Nomisfortunecanharmme,”saysMarcusAurelius,“withouttheconsentofthedæmonwithinme.”

Thetroubleisourdæmoncannotalwaysbereliedupon.Sooftenhedoesnotseemuptohiswork.

“You’vebeenanaughtyboy,andI’mgoingtowhipyou,”saidnursetoafour-year-oldcriminal.

“Youtant,”retortedtheyoungruffian,grippingwithbothhandsthechairthathewasoccupying,“I’sesittin’onit.”

Hisdæmonwas,nodoubt,resolvedthatmisfortune,aspersonifiedbynurse,shouldnothurthim.Themisfortune,alas!provedstrongerthanthedæmon,andmisfortune,hefounddidhurthim.

Thetoothachecannothurtussolongasthedæmonwithinus(thatis tosay,ourwillpower)holdsontothechairandsaysitcan’t.But,soonerorlater,thedæmonletsgo,andthenwehowl.Oneseestheidea:intheoryitisexcellent.Onemakesbelieve. Yourbankhas suddenly stoppedpayment. You say toyourself.

“Thisdoesnotreallymatter.”

Yourbutcher andyourbaker say it does, and insist onmaking a row in thepassage.

You fill yourself upwith gooseberrywine. You tell yourself it is seasonedchampagne.Yourlivernextmorningsaysitisnot.

Thedæmonwithinusmeanswell,butforgetsitisnottheonlythingthere.AmanIknewwasanenthusiastonvegetarianism. Heargued that if thepoorwouldadoptavegetariandiet theproblemofexistencewouldbesimplerfor

them,andmaybehewasright. Soonedayheassembledsometwentypoorlads for the purpose of introducing to them a vegetarian lunch. He beggedthemtobelievethatlentilbeansweresteaks,thatcauliflowerswerechops.Asathirdcourseheplacedbeforethemamixtureofcarrotsandsavouryherbs,andurgedthemtoimaginetheywereeatingsaveloys.

“Now,youalllikesaveloys,”hesaid,addressingthem,“andthepalateisbutthecreatureoftheimagination.Saytoyourselves,‘Iameatingsaveloys,’andforallpracticalpurposesthesethingswillbesaveloys.”

Some of the lads professed to have done it, but one disappointed-lookingyouthconfessedtofailure.

“Buthowcanyoubesureitwasnotasaveloy?”thehostpersisted.

“Because,”explainedtheboy,“Ihaven’tgotthestomach-ache.”

It appeared that saveloys, although a dish ofwhich hewas fond, invariablyandimmediatelydisagreedwithhim.Ifonlywewerealldæmonandnothingelsephilosophywouldbeeasier.Unfortunately,thereismoreofus.

Another argument much approved by philosophy is that nothing matters,becauseahundredyearshence,say,attheoutside,weshallbedead.Whatwereallywantisaphilosophythatwillenableustogetalongwhilewearestillalive. I am not worrying about my centenary; I am worrying about nextquarter-day. I feel that ifotherpeoplewouldonlygoaway,andleaveme—income-tax collectors, critics,menwho come round about the gas, all thosesortofpeople—Icouldbeaphilosophermyself.Iamwillingenoughtomakebelievethatnothingmatters,buttheyarenot. Theysayit isgoingtobecutoff,andtalkaboutjudgmentsummonses.Itellthemitwon’ttroubleanyofusahundredyearshence.Theyanswertheyarenottalkingofahundredyearshence, but of this thing that was due last April twelvemonth. They won’tlisten tomydæmon. Hedoesnot interest them. Nor, tobe candid,does itcomfortmyselfverymuch, thisphilosophicalreflection thatahundredyearslateronI’llbesuretobedead—thatis,withordinaryluck.Whatbucksmeupmuchmore is the hope that theywill be dead. Besides, in a hundredyearsthingsmayhaveimproved.Imaynotwanttobedead.IfIweresureofbeingdead next morning, before their threat of cutting off that water or that gascouldby anypossibilitybe carriedout, before that judgment summons theyarebraggingaboutcouldbemadereturnable,Imight—Idon’tsayIshould—beamused,thinkinghowIwasgoingtodishthem.Thewifeofaverywickedmanvisitedhimoneevening inprison, and foundhimenjoyinga supperoftoastedcheese.

“How foolish of you, Edward,” argued the fond lady, “to be eating toasted

cheese for supper. Youknow it always affects your liver. All day long to-morrowyouwillbecomplaining.”

“No,Ishan’t,”interruptedEdward;“notsofoolishasyouthinkme.Theyaregoingtohangmeto-morrow—early.”

ThereisapassageinMarcusAureliusthatusedtopuzzlemeuntilIhituponthesolution.Afoot-notesaysthemeaningisobscure.Myself,IhadgatheredthisbeforeIreadthefoot-note.WhatitisallaboutIdefyanyhumanbeingtoexplain. It mightmean anything; it mightmean nothing. Themajority ofstudents incline to the latter theory, though a minority maintain there is ameaning,ifonlyitcouldbediscovered.MyownconvictionisthatonceinhislifeMarcusAurelius had a real good time. He came home feeling pleasedwithhimselfwithoutknowingquitewhy.

“Iwillwriteitdown,”hesaidtohimself,“now,whileitisfreshinmymind.”

Itseemedtohimthemostwonderfulthingthatanybodyhadeversaid.Maybeheshedatearortwo,thinkingofallthegoodhewasdoing,andlateronwentsuddenly to sleep. In the morning he had forgotten all about it, and byaccidentitgotmixedupwiththerestofthebook.Thatistheonlyexplanationthatseemstomepossible,anditcomfortsme.

Wearenoneofusphilosophersallthetime.

Philosophyisthescienceofsufferingtheinevitable,whichmostofuscontriveto accomplish without the aid of philosophy. Marcus Aurelius was anEmperorofRome,andDiogeneswasabachelor livingrentfree. Iwantthephilosophyof thebankclerkmarriedon thirty shillingsaweek,of the farmlabourer bringing up a family of eight on a precarious wage of twelveshillings.ThetroublesofMarcusAureliuswerechieflythoseofotherpeople.

“Taxeswillhavetogoup,Iamafraid,”nodoubtheoftensighed.“But,afterall,what are taxes? A thing in conformitywith the nature ofman—a littlethingthatZeusapprovesof,onefeelssure.Thedæmonwithinmesaystaxesdon’treallymatter.”

Maybethepaterfamiliasoftheperiod,whodidthepaying,worriedaboutnewsandalsforthechildren,hiswifeinsistingshehadn’tafrockfittobeseeninattheamphitheatre;that,iftherewasonethingintheworldshefancied,itwasseeingaChristianeatenbya lion,butnowshesupposed thechildrenwouldhavetogowithouther,foundthatphilosophycametohisaidlessreadily.

“Bother these barbarians,” Marcus Aurelius may have been tempted, in anunphilosophicalmoment, to exclaim; “I dowish theywould not burn these

poor people’s houses over their heads, toss the babies about on spears, andcarryofftheolderchildrenintoslavery.Whydon’ttheybehavethemselves?”

But philosophy inMarcus Aurelius would eventually triumph over passingfretfulness.

“Buthowfoolishofmetobeangrywiththem,”hewouldarguewithhimself.“One is not vexedwith the fig-tree for yielding figs,with the cucumber forbeingbitter!Onemustexpectbarbarianstobehavebarbariously.”

MarcusAureliuswouldproceedtoslaughterthebarbarians,andthenforgivethem.Wecanmostofusforgiveourbrotherhistransgressions,havingoncegot evenwithhim. In a tinySwissvillage, behind the angleof the school-housewall, I came across amaiden crying bitterly, her head resting on herarm.Iaskedherwhathadhappened.Betweenhersobssheexplainedthataschoolcompanion,alittleladaboutherownage,havingsnatchedherhatfromher head, was at thatmoment playing football with it the other side of thewall. I attempted to console herwith philosophy. I pointedout to her thatboys would be boys—that to expect from them at that age reverence forfeminineheadgearwas toseekwhatwasnotconformablewith thenatureofboy.Butsheappearedtohavenophilosophyinher.Shesaidhewasahorridboy, and that she hated him. It transpired it was a hat she rather fanciedherselfin. Hepeepedroundthecornerwhileweweretalking,thehatinhishand. He held it out to her, but she took no notice of him. I gathered theincident was closed, and went my way, but turned a few steps further on,curioustowitnesstheend.Stepbystepheapproachednearer,lookingalittleashamedofhimself;butstillshewept,herfacehiddeninherarm.

Hewasnotexpectingit:toallseemingshestoodtherethepersonificationofthe grief that is not to be comforted, oblivious to all surroundings.Incautiouslyhetookanotherstep.Inaninstantshehad“landed”himovertheheadwith a longnarrowwoodenbox containing, one supposes, pencils andpens.Hemusthavebeenahard-headedyoungster,thesoundofthecompactechoedthroughthevalley.Imetheragainonmywayback.

“Hatmuchdamaged?”Iinquired.

“Oh,no,”sheanswered,smiling;“besides,itwasonlyanoldhat.I’vegotabetteroneforSundays.”

I often feel philosophical myself; generally over a good cigar after asatisfactory dinner. At such times I open myMarcus Aurelius, my pocketEpicurus,my translation of Plato’s “Republic.” At such times I agreewiththem.Mantroubleshimselftoomuchabouttheunessential.Letuscultivateserenity. Nothing can happen to us that we have not been constituted by

Nature to sustain. That foolish farm labourer, on his precarious wage oftwelveshillingsaweek:lethimdwellratheronthemerciesheenjoys.Ishenotsparedallanxietyconcerningsafeinvestmentofcapitalyieldingfourpercent.?Isnotthesunriseandthesunsetforhimalso?Manyofusneverseethesunrise.Somanyofourso-termedpoorerbrethenareprivilegedrarelytomiss that earlymorning festival. Let thedæmonwithin themrejoice. Whyshouldhefretwhenthechildrencryforbread?Isitnotinthenatureofthingsthatthechildrenofthepoorshouldcryforbread?Thegodsintheirwisdomhavearrangeditthus.Letthedæmonwithinhimreflectupontheadvantagetothe community of cheap labour. Let the farm labourer contemplate theuniversalgood.

CHAPTERIII

LiteratureandtheMiddleClasses.

I am sorry to be compelled to cast a slur upon the Literary profession, butobservation showsme that it still containswithin its rankswriters born andbred in, andmoving amidst—if,without offence, onemay put it bluntly—apurelymiddle-class environment:men andwomen towhomParkLanewillneverbeanythingthantheshortestroutebetweenNottingHillandtheStrand;towhomDebrett’sPeerage—gilt-edged andbound in red, a tasteful-lookingvolume—ever has been and everwill remain a drawing-roomornament andnotasocialnecessity.Nowwhatistobecomeofthesewriters—ofus,ifforthe moment I may be allowed to speak as representative of this rapidly-diminishing yet nevertheless still numerous section of theworld ofArt andLetters?Formerly,providedweweremastersofstyle,possessedimaginationand insight,understoodhumannature,hadsympathywithandknowledgeoflife, and could express ourselveswith humour and distinction, our pathwaywas,comparativelyspeaking,freefromobstacle. Wedrewfromthemiddle-classlifearoundus,passeditthroughourownmiddle-classindividuality,andpresentedittoapubliccomposedofmiddle-classreaders.

Butthemiddle-classpublic,forpurposesofArt,haspracticallydisappeared.ThesocialstratafromwhichGeorgeEliotandDickensdrewtheircharactersno longer interests the great B. P. Hetty Sorrell, Little Em’ly, would bepronounced “provincial;” a Deronda or a Wilfer Family ignored as“suburban.”

Iconfessthatpersonallytheterms“provincial”and“suburban,”asepithetsof

reproach,havealwayspuzzledme.Inevermetanyonemoresevereonwhatshe termed the “suburbannote” in literature than a thin ladywho lived in asemi-detachedvillainaby-streetofHammersmith.IsArtmerelyaquestionofgeography,andifsowhatistheexactlimit?Isitthefour-milecabradiusfrom Charing Cross? Is the cheesemonger of Tottenham Court Road ofnecessityamanoftaste,andtheOxfordprofessorofnecessityaPhilistine?Iwanttounderstandthisthing.Ioncehazardedthedirectquestiontoacriticalfriend:

“You say a book is suburban,” I put it to him, “and there is an end to thematter.Butwhatdoyoumeanbysuburban?”

“Well,”hereplied,“Imeanitisthesortofbooklikelytoappealtotheclassthatinhabitsthesuburbs.”HelivedhimselfinChanceryLane.

Mayamanofintelligencelive,say,inSurbiton?

“ButthereisJones,theeditorofTheEveningGentleman,”Iargued;“helivesat Surbiton. It is just twelve miles from Waterloo. He comes up everymorningbytheeight-fifteenandreturnsagainbythefive-ten.WouldyousaythatabookisboundtobebadbecauseitappealstoJones?Thenagain,takeTomlinson: he lives, as you arewell aware, at ForestGatewhich isEppingway, and entertains you onKakemonoswhenever you call upon him. Youknowwhat Imean, of course. I think ‘Kakemono’ is right. They are longthings;theylooklikecolouredhieroglyphicsprintedonbrownpaper.Hegetsbehind themandholds themupabovehisheadon theendofastickso thatyou can see the whole of them at once; and he tells you the name of theJapanese artist who painted them in the year 1500 B.C., and what it is allabout. He shows them to you by the hour and forgets to give you dinner.Thereisn’taneasychairinthehouse.Toputitvulgarly,whatiswrongwithTomlinsonfromahighartpointofview?

“There’s aman I knowwho lives in Birmingham: youmust have heard ofhim. He is the great collector of Eighteenth Century caricatures, theRowlandson andGilray school of things. I don’t call them artisticmyself;theymakemeill tolookat them;butpeoplewhounderstandArtraveaboutthem.Whycan’tamanbeartisticwhohasgotacottageinthecountry?”

“Youdon’t understandme,” retortedmycritical friend, a little irritably, as Ithought.

“Iadmitit,”Ireturned.“ItiswhatIamtryingtodo.”

“Ofcourseartisticpeopleliveinthesuburbs,”headmitted.“Buttheyarenotofthesuburbs.”

“Thoughtheymaydwell inWimbledonorHornsey,”Isuggested,“theysingwiththeScotchbard:‘MyheartisintheSouth-Westpostaldistrict.Myheartisnothere.’”

“Youcanputitthatwayifyoulike,”hegrowled.

“Iwill,ifyouhavenoobjection,”Iagreed.“Itmakeslifeeasierforthoseofuswithlimitedincomes.”

Themodernnoveltakescare,however,toavoidalldoubtuponthesubject.Itspersonages,oneandall,residewithinthehalf-milesquarelyingbetweenBondStreet and the Park—a neighbourhood that would appear to be somewhatdenselypopulated.True,ayearortwoagothereappearedafairlysuccessfulnovel the heroine of which resided in OnslowGardens. An eminent criticobserved of it that: “It fell short only by a little way of being a seriouscontribution to English literature.” Consultation with the keeper of thecabman’sshelteratHydeParkCornersuggestedtomethatthe“littleway”thecritichadinmindmeasuresexactlyelevenhundredyards.Whenthenobilityand gentry of the modern novel do leave London they do not go into theprovinces: to do that would be vulgar. Theymake straight for “BarchesterTowers,” or what the Duke calls “his little place up north”—localities, onepresumes,suspendedsomewhereinmid-air.

Ineverysocialcircleexistgreatsoulswithyearningstowardshigherthings.Even among the labouring classes onemeetswith naturally refined natures,gentlemanly persons to whom the loom and the plough will always appearlow,whosenaturaldesireistowardsthedignitiesandgracesoftheservants’hall.SoinGrubStreetwecanalwaysreckonuponthesuperiorwriterwhosetemperament will prompt him to make respectful study of his betters. Areasonable supply of high-class novels might always have been dependedupon;thetroubleisthatthepublicnowdemandsthatallstoriesmustbeoftheuppertenthousand.AuldRobinGreymustbeSirRobertGrey,SouthAfricanmillionaire;andJamie,theyoungestsonoftheoldEarl,otherwiseaculturedpublic can take no interest in the ballad. A modern nursery rhymester tosucceedwouldhavetowriteofLittleLordJackandLadyJillascendingoneofthe many beautiful eminences belonging to the ancestral estates of theirparents,bearingbetweenthem,onasilverrod,anexquisitelypaintedSèvresvasefilledwithottarofroses.

I take up my fourpenny-halfpenny magazine. The heroine is a youthfulDuchess;herhusbandgambleswiththousand-poundnotes,withtheresultthattheyarereducedtolivingonthefirstflooroftheCarltonHotel.ThevillainisaRussianPrince.TheBaronetofasimpleragehasbeenunable,poorfellow,tokeeppacewiththetimes.Whatself-respectingheroinewouldabandonher

husbandandchildrenforsinandapaltryfivethousandayear?Totheheroineof the past—to the clergyman’s daughter or the lady artist—he wasdangerous. The modern heroine misbehaves herself with nothing belowCabinetrank.

Iturntosomethinglesspretentious,aweeklyperiodicalthatmywifetellsmeis thebest authority shehascomeacrossonblouses. I find in itwhatonceupon a time would have been called a farce. It is now a “drawing-roomcomedietta.Allrightsreserved.”ThedramatispersonæconsistoftheEarlofDanbury, the Marquis of Rottenborough (with a past), and an Americanheiress—acharacter thatnowadays takeswith loversof thesimple theplaceformerlyoccupiedby“Rose,themiller’sdaughter.”

Isometimeswonder,isitsuchteachingasthatofCarlyleandTennysonthatisresponsibleforthispresenttendencyofliterature?Carlyleimpresseduponusthattheonlyhistoryworthconsiderationwasthelifeofgreatmenandwomen,andTennyson thatwe“needsmust love thehighest.” So literature, strivingeverupward,ignoresplainRomolafortheLadyPonsonbydeTompkins; theprovincialismsofaCharlotteBrontëforwhatacertaincritic,bornbeforehistime,wouldhavecalledthe“doin’softhehuppersuccles.”

TheBritishDramahasadvancedbyevengreaterbounds.Ittakesplacenowexclusivelywithin castlewalls, and—whatMessrs.Lumley&Co.’s circularwould describe as—“desirable town mansions, suitable for gentlemen ofmeans.” A livingdramatist,who should know, tells us that dramadoes notoccur in thebackparlour. Dramatistshave, ithasbeenargued,occasionallyfounditthere,butsuchmayhavebeendramatistswitheyescapableofseeingthroughclothes.

IoncewroteaplaywhichIreadtoadistinguishedManager.Hesaiditwasamostinterestingplay:theyalwayssaythat.Iwaited,wonderingtowhatothermanagerhewould recommendme to take it. Tomysurprisehe toldmehewouldlikeitforhimself—butwithalterations.

“Thewholethingwantsliftingup,”washisopinion.“Yourheroisabarrister:my public take no interest in plain barristers. Make him the SolicitorGeneral.”

“But he’s got to be amusing,” I argued. “A Solicitor General is neveramusing.”

My Manager pondered for a moment. “Let him be Solicitor General forIreland,”hesuggested.

Imadeanoteofit.

“Your heroine,” he continued, “is the daughter of a seaside lodging-housekeeper.Mypublicdonotrecognizeseasidelodgings.Whynotthedaughterofanhotelproprietor?Eventhatwillberisky,butwemightventureit.”Aninspiration came to him. “Or better still, let the oldman be theManagingDirectorofanhotelTrust:thatwouldaccountforherclothes.”

Unfortunately Iput the thingaside fora fewmonths,andwhen Iwas readyagain the public taste had still further advanced. The doors of the BritishDramawereclosedforthetimebeingonallbutmembersofthearistocracy,andIdidnotseemycomicoldmanasaMarquis,whichwasthelowesttitlethatjustthenonedaredtooffertoalowcomedian.

Nowhowarewemiddle-classnovelistsanddramatiststocontinuetolive?Iamawareoftheobviousretort,buttousitabsolutelyisnecessary.Weknowonlyparlours:wecallthemdrawing-rooms.Atthebottomofourmiddle-classheartsweregardthemfondly:thefolding-doorsthrownback,theymakeratherafineapartment.Theonlydramathatweknowtakesplaceinsuchrooms:thehero sitting in the gentleman’s easy chair, of green repp: the heroine in thelady’sditto,withoutarms—thechair,Imean.Thescornfulglances,thebitterwords of our middle-class world are hurled across these three-legged loo-tables, the wedding-cake ornament under its glass case playing the part ofwhiteghost.

In these days, when “Imperial cement” is at a premium, who would daresuggest that theemotionsofaparlourcanbyanypossibilitybe thesameasthose exhibited in a salon furnished in the style ofLouisQuatorze; that thetearsofBayswatercanpossiblybecomparedforsaltnesswiththelachrymalfluiddistilledfromSouthAudleyStreetglands;thatthelaughterofClaphamcanbe as catching as the cultured cackleofCurzonStreet? Butwe,whosebestclothesareexhibitedonlyinparlours,whatarewetodo?Howcanwelay bare the souls of Duchesses, explain the heart-throbs of peers of therealm? Some of my friends who, being Conservative, attend Primrose“tourneys” (or is it “Courts of love”? I speak as an outsider. Somethingmediæval,Iknowitis)do,itistrue,occasionallyconversewithtitledladies.But theperiodforconversationisalwayslimitedowingto theimpatienceofthemanbehind;andIdoubtiftheinterviewiseverofmuchpracticalusetothem, as conveying knowledge of the workings of the aristocratic mind.ThoseofuswhoarenotPrimroseKnightsmisseventhispoorglimpseintotheworld above us. We know nothing, simply nothing, concerning the deeperfeelingsoftheupperten.Personally,IoncereceivedaletterfromanEarl,butthat was in connection with a dairy company of which his lordship waschairman, and spoke only of his lordship’s views concerning milk and theadvantages of the cash system. Of what I really wished to know—his

lordship’s passions, yearnings and general attitude to life—the circular saidnothing.

Year by year I findmyselfmore andmore in aminority. One by onemyliterary friends enter into this charmed aristocratic circle; after which onehearsnomore from them regarding themiddle-classes. Atonce they set towork to describe themental sufferings of Grooms of the Bed-chamber, thehidden emotions of Ladies in their own right, the religious doubts ofMarquises.Iwanttoknowhowtheydoit—“howthedeviltheygetthere.”Theyrefusetotellme.

Meanwhile, I see nothing before me but the workhouse. Year by year thepublic grows more impatient of literature dealing merely with the middle-classes.Iknownothingaboutanyotherclass.WhatamItodo?

Commonplace people—friends of mine without conscience, counsel me inflippantphraseto“haveashotatit.”

“Iexpect,oldfellow,youknowjustasmuchaboutitastheseotherJohnniesdo.”(Iamnotdefendingtheirconversationeitherasregardsstyleormatter:Iam merely quoting.) “And even if you don’t, what does it matter? Theaveragereaderknowsless.Howishetofindyouout?”

But,asIexplaintothem,itisthelawofliteraturenevertowriteexceptaboutwhat you really know. I want to mix with the aristocracy, study them,understandthem;sothatImayearnmylivingintheonlywayaliterarymannowadayscanearnhisliving,namely,bywritingabouttheuppercircles.

Iwanttoknowhowtogetthere.

CHAPTERIV

ManandhisMaster.

ThereisonethingthattheAnglo-Saxondoesbetterthanthe“French,orTurk,or Rooshian,” to which add theGerman or the Belgian. When theAnglo-Saxonappointsanofficial,heappointsaservant:whentheothersputamaninuniform,theyaddtotheirlonglistofmasters. IfamongyouracquaintancesyoucandiscoveranAmerican,orEnglishman,unfamiliarwiththecontinentalofficial,itisworthyourwhiletoaccompanyhim,thefirsttimehegoesouttopostaletter,say.Headvancestowardsthepost-officeabreezy,self-confident

gentleman,borneupbyprideofrace.Whilemountingthestepshetalksairilyof“justgettingthisletteroffhismind,andthenpickingupJobsonandgoingontoDurand’sforlunch.”

He talks as if hehad thewholedaybefore him. At the topof the steps heattempts topushopen thedoor. Itwillnotmove. He looksabouthim,anddiscovers that is thedoorofegress,notof ingress. Itdoesnot seem tohimworthwhile redescending the twentystepsandclimbinganother twenty. Sofarasheisconcernedheiswillingtopullthedoor,insteadofpushingit.Butasternofficialbarshisway,andhaughtilyindicatestheproperentrance.“Oh,bother,”hesays,anddownhetrotsagain,anduptheotherflight.

“Ishallnotbeaminute,”heremarksoverhisshoulder.“Youcanwaitformeoutside.”

Butifyouknowyourwayabout,youfollowhimin.Thereareseatswithin,andyouhaveanewspaperinyourpocket:thetimewillpassmorepleasantly.Inside he looks round, bewildered. The German post-office, generallyspeaking, is about the size of theBank of England. Some twenty differentwindows confront your troubled friend, each one bearing its own particularlegend. Starting with number one, he sets to work to spell them out. ItappearstohimthatthepostingoflettersisnotathingthattheGermanpost-officedesirestoencourage.Wouldhenotlikeadoglicenceinstead?iswhatonewindowsuggeststohim.“Oh,nevermindthatletterofyours;comeandtalkaboutbicycles,”pleadsanother. Atlasthethinkshehasfoundtherighthole:theword“Registration”hedistinctlyrecognizes.Hetapsattheglass.

Nobodytakesanynoticeofhim. Theforeignofficial isamanwhoselife issaddened by a public always wanting something. You read it in his facewhereveryougo.Themanwhosellsyouticketsforthetheatre!Heiseatingsandwicheswhenyouknockathiswindow.Heturnstohiscompanion:

“GoodLord!”youcanseehimsay,“here’sanotherof’em.Iftherehasbeenonemanworryingme thismorning therehavebeenahundred. Always thesamestory:allof’emwanttocomeandseetheplay.Youlistennow;betyouanything he’s going to botherme for tickets. Really, it gets onmy nervessometimes.”

Attherailwaystationitisjustthesame.

“AnothermanwhowantstogotoAntwerp!Don’tseemtocareforrest,thesepeople:flyinghere,flyingthere,what’sthesenseofit?”Itisthisabsurdcrazeon the part of the public for letter-writing that is spoiling the temper of thecontinentalpost-officeofficial.Hedoeshisbesttodiscourageit.

“Lookatthem,”hesaystohisassistant—thethoughtfulGermanGovernmentiscareful toprovideeveryofficialwithanotherofficial forcompany, lestbysheer force of ennui he might be reduced to taking interest in his work—“twentyof’em,allinarow!Someof’embeenthereforthelastquarterofanhour.”

“Let ’em wait another quarter of an hour,” advises the assistant; “perhapsthey’llgoaway.”

“My dear fellow,” he answers, “do you think I haven’t tried that? There’ssimplynogettingridof’em.Andit’salwaysthesamecry:‘Stamps!stamps!stamps!’’Ponmyword,Ithinktheyliveonstamps,someof’em.”

“Well let ’em have their stamps?” suggests the assistant, with a burst ofinspiration;“perhapsitwillgetridof’em.”

WhytheManinUniformhas,generally,sadEyes.

“What’s the use?”wearily replies the olderman. “Therewill only come afreshcrowdwhenthosearegone.”

“Oh, well,” argues the other, “that will be a change, anyhow. I’m tired oflookingatthislot.”

I put it to a German post-office clerk once—a man I had been boring formonths.Isaid:

“YouthinkIwritetheseletters—theseshortstories,thesethree-actplays—onpurpose to annoy you. Do let me try to get the idea out of your head.Personally, Ihatework—hate itasmuchasyoudo. This isapleasant littletown of yours: given a free choice, I could spend the whole day mooningroundit,neverputtingpentopaper.ButwhatamItodo?Ihaveawifeandchildren. You know what it is yourself: they clamour for food, boots—allsortsofthings.Ihavetopreparetheselittlepacketsforsaleandbringthemtoyoutosendoff.Yousee,youarehere.Ifyouwerenothere—iftherewerenopost-officeinthistown,maybeI’dhavetotrainpigeons,orcorkthethingupinabottle,flingitintotheriver,andtrusttoluckandtheGulfStream.But,youbeinghere,andcallingyourselfapost-office—well,it’satemptationtoafellow.”

Ithinkitdidgood.Anyhow,afterthatheusedtogrinwhenIopenedthedoor,insteadofgreetingmeasformerlywithafacethepictureofdespair. Buttoreturntoourinexperiencedfriend.

Atlastthewicketissuddenlyopened.Aperemptoryofficialdemandsofhim“nameandaddress.”Notexpectingthequestion,heisalittledoubtfulofhis

address, and has to correct himself once or twice. The official eyes himsuspiciously.

“Nameofmother?”continuestheofficial.

“Nameofwhat?”

“Mother!”repeatstheofficial.“Hadamotherofsomesort,Isuppose.”

Heisamanwholovedhismothersincerelywhileshelived,butshehasbeendeadthesetwentyyears,and,forthelifeofhimhecannotrecollecthername.HethinksitwasMargaretHenrietta,but isnotatallsure. Besides,whatonearthhashismothergottodowiththisregisteredletterthathewantstosendtohispartnerinNewYork?

“Whendiditdie?”askstheofficial.

“Whendidwhatdie?Mother?”

“No,no,thechild.”

“Whatchild?”Theindignationoftheofficialisalmostpicturesque.

“AllIwanttodo,”explainsyourfriend,“istoregisteraletter.”

“Awhat?”

“Thisletter,Iwant—”

Thewindowisslammed inhis face. When, tenminutes laterhedoes reachtherightwicket—thebureaufortheregistrationofletters,andnotthebureaufortheregistrationofinfantiledeaths—itispointedouttohimthatthelettereitherissealedorthatitisnotsealed.

I haveneverbeen ableyet to solve this problem. If your letter is sealed, itthenappearsthatitoughtnottohavebeensealed.

If, on theotherhand,youhaveomitted to seal it, that isyour fault. In anycase,thelettercannotgoasitis.ThecontinentalofficialbringsupthepublicontheprincipleofthenursewhosenttheeldestgirltoseewhatTommywasdoingand tellhimhemustn’t. Your friend,havingwastedhalfanhourandmislaidhistemperfortheday,decidestoleavethisthingoverandtalktothehotelporter about it. Next to theBurgomeister, thehotelporter is themostinfluentialmaninthecontinentaltown:maybebecausehecanswearinsevendifferentlanguages.Butevenheisnotomnipotent.

TheTraveller’soneFriend.

Threeofus,onthepointofstartingforawalkingtourthroughtheTyrol,oncesentonourluggagebypostfromConstancetoInnsbruck.Ourideawasthat,reaching Innsbruck in theheightof the season, after aweek’s trampon twoflannelshirtsandachangeofsocks,weshouldbegladtogetintofreshclothesbeforeshowingourselvesincivilizedsociety.Ourbagswerewaitingforusinthepost-office:wecouldseethemthroughthegrating.Butsomeinformality—I have never been able to understand what it was—had occurred atConstance. The suspicionof theSwiss postal authorities hadbeen aroused,and special instructionshadbeen sent that thebagswere tobedelivereduponlytotheirrightfulowners.

It sounds sensible enough. Nobody wants his bag delivered up to anyoneelse. But ithadnotbeenexplained to theauthoritiesat Innsbruckhowtheywere toknowtheproperowners. Threewretched-lookingcreaturescrawledintothepost-officeandsaidtheywantedthosethreebags—“thosebags,therein the corner”—whichhappened tobenice, clean, respectable-lookingbags,thesortofbagsthatanyonemightwant.Oneofthemproducedabitofpaper,itistrue,whichhesaidhadbeengiventohimasareceiptbythepost-officepeopleatConstance.ButinthelonelypassesoftheTyroloneman,setuponby three,might easily be robbed of his papers, and his body thrown over aprecipice. The chief clerk shook his head. He would like us to returnaccompaniedbysomeonewhocouldidentifyus.Thehotelporteroccurredtous,asamatterofcourse.Keepingtothebackstreets,wereturnedtothehotelandfishedhimoutofhisbox.

“IamMr.J.,”Isaid:“thisismyfriendMr.B.andthisisMr.S.”

Theporterbowedandsaidhewasdelighted.

“Iwantyoutocomewithustothepost-office,”Iexplained,“andidentifyus.”

The hotel porter is always a practical man: his calling robs him of allsympathywiththehide-boundformalityofhiscompatriots.Heputonhiscapandaccompaniedusbacktotheoffice.Hedidhisbest:noonecouldsayhedidnot.Hetoldthemwhowewere:theyaskedhimhowheknew.Forreplyheaskedthemhowtheythoughtheknewhismother:hejustknewus:itwassecond naturewith him. He implied that the questionwas a silly one, andsuggested that, ashis timewasvaluable, they shouldhandusover the threebagsandhavedonewiththeirnonsense.

Theyaskedhimhowlonghehadknownus.Hethrewuphishandswithaneloquent gesture:memory refused to travel back such distance. It appearedthere was never a time when he had not known us. We had been boystogether.

Did he know anybody else who knew us? The question appeared to himalmostinsulting.EverybodyinInnsbruckknewus,honouredus,respectedus—everybody, that is, except a few post-office officials, people quite out ofsociety.

Would he kindly bring along, say; one undoubtedly respectable citizenwhocould vouch for our identity? The request caused him to forget us and ourtroubles.Theargumentbecameapersonalquarrelbetweentheporterandtheclerk.Ifhe,theporter,wasnotarespectablecitizenofInnsbruck,wherewassuchanonetobefound?

ThedisadvantageofbeinganunknownPerson.

Both gentlemen became excited, and the discussion passed beyond myunderstanding.ButIgathereddimlyfromwhattheclerksaid,thatill-naturedremarksrelativeto theporter’sgrandfatherandamissingcowhadneveryetbeensatisfactorilyrepliedto:and,fromobservationsmadebytheporter,thatstorieswereincirculationabouttheclerk’sauntandasergeantofartillerythatshould suggest to adiscreet nephewof the lady the inadvisabilityof talkingaboutotherpeople’sgrandfathers.

Oursympathieswerenaturallywiththeporter:hewasourman,buthedidnotseem to be advancing our cause much. We left them quarrelling, andpersuaded the head waiter that evening to turn out the gas at our end ofthetabled’hôte.

The next morning we returned to the post-office by ourselves. The clerkprovedareasonablemanwhentreatedinafriendlyspirit. Hewasabitofaclimberhimself.Headmittedthepossibilityofourbeingtherightfulowners.Hisinstructionswereonlynottodeliverupthebags,andhehimselfsuggestedawayoutof thedifficulty. Wemightcomeeachdayanddress in thepost-office,behindthescreen.Itwasanawkwardarrangement,evenalthoughtheclerkallowedus theuseof thebackdoor. Andoccasionally, in spiteof theutmost care, bits of uswould showoutside the screen. But for a couple ofdays,untiltheBritishConsulreturnedfromSalzburg,thepost-officehadtobeourdressingroom.Thecontinentalofficial,Iaminclinedtothink,errsonthesideofprudence.

CHAPTERV

IfonlywehadnotlostourTails!

Afriendofminethinksitapitythatwehavelostourtails.Hearguesitwouldbesohelpfulif,likethedog,wepossessedatailthatwaggedwhenwewerepleased,thatstuckoutstraightwhenwewerefeelingmad.

“Now, do come and see us again soon,” says our hostess; “don’twait to beasked.Dropinwheneveryouarepassing.”

We take her at herword. The servantwho answers our knocking says she“will see.” There is a scufflingof feet, amurmurofhushedvoices, a swiftopeningandclosingofdoors.Weareshownintothedrawing-room,themaid,breathless from her search, one supposes, having discovered that hermistressisathome.Westanduponthehearthrug,clingingtoourhatandstickastothingsfriendlyandsympathetic:thesuggestionforcingitselfuponusisthatofavisittothedentist.

Ourhostessenterswreathedinsmiles.Isshereallypleasedtoseeus,orisshesayingtoherself,“Drattheman!WhymusthechoosetheverymorningIhadintendedtofixupthecleancurtains?”

Butshehastopretendtobedelighted,andaskustostaytolunch.Itwouldsave us hours of anxiety couldwe look beyond her smiling face to her tailpeepingout saucily fromaplacket-hole. Is itwagging,or is it standingoutrigidatrightanglesfromherskirt?

ButIfearbythistimeweshouldhavetaughtourtailspolitebehaviour. Weshould have schooled them to wag enthusiastically the while we weregrowlingsavagelytoourselves.Manputoninsinceritytohidehismindwhenhemadehimselfagarmentoffig-leavestohidehisbody.

One sometimes wonders whether he has gained so very much. A smallacquaintanceofmineisbeingbroughtuponstrangeprinciples.Whetherhisparents are mad or not is a matter of opinion. Their ideas are certainlypeculiar. They encourage him rather than otherwise to tell the truth on alloccasions.Iamwatchingtheexperimentwithinterest.Ifyouaskhimwhathe thinks of you, he tells you. Some people don’t ask him a second time.Theysay:

“Whataveryrudelittleboyyouare!”

“Butyouinsisteduponit,”heexplains;“ItoldyouI’drathernotsay.”

It does not comfort them in the least. Yet the result is, he is already aninfluence.Peoplewhohavebravedtheordeal,andemergedsuccessfully,goaboutwithswelledhead.

AndlittleBoyswouldalwaystelltheTruth!

Politeness would seem to have been invented for the comfort of theundeserving.Weletfallourrainofcomplimentsupontheunjustandthejustwithout distinction. Every hostess has provided uswith themost charmingevening of our life. Every guest has conferred a like blessing upon us byaccepting our invitation. I remember a dear good lady in a small southGermantownorganizingforonewinter’sdayasleighingpartytothewoods.A sleighing party differs from a picnic. The people who want each othercannotgoofftogetherandlosethemselves,leavingtheborestofindonlyeachother.Youareinclosecompanyfromearlymorntilllateatnight.Weweretodrivetwentymiles,sixinasledge,dinetogetherinalonelyWirtschaft,danceandsingsongs,andafterwardsdrivehomebymoonlight.Successdependsoneverymemberofthecompanyfittingintohisplaceandassistinginthegeneralharmony. Our chieftainess was fixing the final arrangements the eveningbeforeinthedrawing-roomofthepension.Oneplacewasstilltospare.

“Tompkins!”

Twovoicesutteredthenamesimultaneously;threeothersimmediatelytookupthe refrain. Tompkins was our man—the cheeriest, merriest companionimaginable. Tompkins alone could be trusted tomake the affair a success.Tompkins, who had only arrived that afternoon, was pointed out to ourchieftainess. We could hear his good-tempered laugh from where we sat,grouped together at the other end of the room. Our chieftainess rose, andmadeforhimdirect.

Alas!shewasashort-sightedlady—wehadnotthoughtofthat.Shereturnedintriumph,followedbyadismal-lookingmanIhadmettheyearbeforeintheBlackForest,andhadhopednevertomeetagain.Idrewheraside.

“Whateveryoudo,”Isaid,“don’task---”(Iforgethisname. OneofthesedaysI’llforgethimaltogether,andbehappier.IwillcallhimJohnson.)“Hewould turn thewhole thing intoa funeralbeforewewerehalf-way there. Iclimbed a mountain with him once. He makes you forget all your othertroubles;thatistheonlythingheisgoodfor.”

“But who is Johnson?” she demanded. “Why, that’s Johnson,” I explained—“the thingyou’vebroughtover. Whyonearthdidn’tyou leave it alone?Where’syourwoman’sinstinct?”

“Greatheavens!”shecried,“IthoughtitwasTompkins.I’veinvitedhim,andhe’saccepted.”

Shewasasticklerforpoliteness,andwouldnothearofhisbeingtoldthathehadbeenmistakenforanagreeableman,butthat theerror,mostfortunately,hadbeendiscoveredintime. Hestartedarowwiththedriverofthesledge,

anddevotedthejourneyoutwardstoanargumentonthefiscalquestion. Hetold the proprietor of the hotel what he thought of German cooking, andinsistedonhavingthewindowsopen.Oneofourparty—aGermanstudent—sang, “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles,”—which led to a heateddiscussion on the proper place of sentiment in literature, and a generaldenunciation by Johnson ofTeutonic characteristics in general. We did notdance.Johnsonsaidthat,ofcourse,hespokeonlyforhimself,butthesightofmiddle-aged ladies and gentlemen catching hold of each other round themiddle and jigging about like children was to him rather a saddeningspectacle,buttotheyoungsuchgambollingwasnatural.Lettheyoungonesindulgethemselves.Onlyfourofourpartycouldclaimtobeunderthirtywithanyhopeofsuccess.Theywerekindenoughnottoimpressthefactuponus.Johnsonenlivenedthejourneybackbyasearchinganalysisofenjoyment:Ofwhatdiditreallyconsist?

Yet, on wishing him “Good-night,” our chieftainess thanked him for hiscompany in precisely the same terms shewould have applied to Tompkins,who, byunflagginggoodhumour and tact,wouldhavemade thedayworthrememberingtousallforalltime.

AndeveryoneobtainedhisjustDeserts!

Wepaydearlyforourwantofsincerity.Wearedeniedthepaymentofpraise:ithasceasedtohaveanyvalue.Peopleshakemewarmlybythehandandtellme that they like my books. It only bores me. Not that I am superior tocompliment—nobody is—but because I cannot be sure that they mean it.Theywouldsay just thesamehad theynever reada line Ihadwritten. If Ivisitahouseandfindabookofmineopenfacedownwardsonthewindow-seat,itsendsnothrillofpridethroughmysuspiciousmind.Aslikelyasnot,Itellmyself,thefollowingistheconversationthathastakenplacebetweenmyhostandhostessthedaybeforemyarrival:

“Don’tforgetthatmanJ---iscomingdownto-morrow.”

“To-morrow!Iwishyouwouldtellmeofthesethingsalittleearlier.”

“Ididtellyou—toldyoulastweek.Yourmemorygetsworseeveryday.”

“Youcertainlynevertoldme,orIshouldhaverememberedit.Isheanybodyimportant?”

“Oh,no;writesbooks.”

“Whatsortofbooks?—Imean,ishequiterespectable?”

“Of course, or I should not have invited him. These sort of people go

everywhere nowadays. By the by, havewe got any of his books about thehouse?”

“Idon’t thinkso. I’ll lookandsee. IfyouhadletmeknowintimeIcouldhaveorderedonefromMudie’s.”

“Well,I’vegottogototown;I’llmakesureofit,andbuyone.”

“Seemsapitytowastemoney.Won’tyoubegoinganywherenearMudie’s?”

“Looksmore appreciative to have bought a copy. It will do for a birthdaypresentforsomeone.”

Ontheotherhand,theconversationmayhavebeenverydifferent.Myhostessmayhavesaid:

“Oh,Iamgladhe’scoming.Ihavebeenlongingtomeethimforyears.”

Shemayhaveboughtmybookon thedayof publication, andbe reading itthrough for the second time. Shemay,bypureaccident,have left itonherfavourite seat beneath the window. The knowledge that insincerity is ouruniversalgarmenthasreducedallcomplimenttomeaninglessformula.Aladyoneeveningatapartydrewmeaside.Thechiefguest—afamouswriter—hadjustarrived.

“Tellme,”shesaid,“Ihavesolittletimeforreading,whathashedone?”

Iwasonthepointofreplyingwhenaninveteratewag,whohadoverheardher,interposedbetweenus.

“‘TheCloisterandtheHearth,’”hetoldher,“and‘AdamBede.’”

He happened to know the lady well. She has a good heart, but was evermuddle-headed. She thankedthatwagwithasmile,andIheardher later inthe eveningboringmost evidently that literary lionwith elongatedpraiseofthe“CloisterandtheHearth”and“AdamBede.” Theywereamongthefewbooksshehadeverread,andtalkingaboutthemcameeasilytoher.Shetoldmeafterwardsthatshehadfoundthatliterarylionacharmingman,but—

“Well,” she laughed,“hehasgotagoodopinionofhimself. He toldmeheconsideredbothbooksamongthefinestintheEnglishlanguage.”

Itisaswellalwaystomakeanoteoftheauthor’sname.Somepeopleneverdo—moreparticularlyplaygoers. Awell-knowndramaticauthor toldmeheoncetookacoupleofcolonialfriendstoaplayofhisown.ItwasafteralittledinneratKettner’s;theysuggestedthetheatre,andhethoughthewouldgivethem a treat. He did notmention to them that hewas the author, and they

neverlookedattheprogramme.Theirfacesastheplayproceededlengthened;itdidnotseemtobetheirschoolofcomedy.Attheendofthefirstacttheysprangtotheirfeet.

“Let’schuckthisrot,”suggestedone.

“Let’s go to the Empire,” suggested the other. The well-known dramatistfollowedthemout.Hethinksthefaultmusthavebeenwiththedinner.

A young friend ofmine—aman of good family—contracted amésalliance:that is, hemarried thedaughter of aCanadian farmer, a frank, amiablegirl,bewitchingly pretty, withmore character in her little finger than some girlspossessintheirwholebody.Imethimoneday,somethreemonthsafterhisreturntoLondon.

AndonlypeoplewoulddoParlourTrickswhodothemwell!

“Well,”Iaskedhim,“howisitshaping?”

“She is the dearest girl in theworld,” he answered. “She has only got onefault;shebelieveswhatpeoplesay.”

“Shewillgetoverthat,”Isuggested.

“Ihopeshedoes,”hereplied;“it’sawkwardatpresent.”

“Icanseeitleadingherintodifficulty,”Iagreed.

“Sheisnotaccomplished,”hecontinued.Heseemedtowishtotalkaboutittoasympatheticlistener.“Sheneverpretendedtobeaccomplished.Ididnotmarry her for her accomplishments. But now she is beginning to think shemusthavebeenaccomplishedallthetime,withoutknowingit.Sheplaysthepiano likeaschoolgirlonaparents’visiting-day. She told themshedidnotplay—notworth listening to—at least, she began by telling them so. Theyinsistedthatshedid,thattheyhadheardaboutherplaying,andwerethirstingto enjoy it. She is good nature itself. Shewould stand on her head if shethought itwouldgive real joy to anyone. She took it they reallywanted tohearher,andsolet’emhaveit.Theytellherthathertouchissomethingquiteoutofthecommon—whichisthetruth,ifonlyshecouldunderstandit—whydidshenever thinkof takingupmusicasaprofession? By this timeshe iswonderingherselfthatsheneverdid.Theyarenotsatisfiedwithhearingheronce. Theyask formore, and theyget it. Theother evening Ihad tokeepquietonmychairwhileshethumpedthroughfourpiecesoneaftertheother,includingtheBeethovenSonata.WeknewitwastheBeethovenSonata.ShetoldusbeforeshestarteditwasgoingtobetheBeethovenSonata,otherwise,for all any of us could have guessed, it might have been the ‘Battle of

Prague.’Weallsatroundwithwoodenfaces,staringatourboots.Afterwardsthose of them that couldn’t get near enough to her to make a fool of hercrowded round me. Wanted to know why I had never told them I haddiscovered a musical prodigy. I’ll lose my temper one day and pullsomebody’snose,IfeelIshall.She’sgotarecitation;whetherintendedtobeseriousor comic Ihadneverbeenable tomakeupmymind. Theway shegivesitconfersuponitallthedisadvantagesofboth.Itischieflyconcernedwithanangelandachild.Butadogcomesintoitaboutthemiddle,andfromthatpointonwarditisimpossibletotellwhoistalking—sometimesyouthinkitistheangel,andthenitsoundsmorelikethedog.Thechildistheeasiesttofollow: it talks all the time through its nose. If I have heard that recitationonceIhavehearditfiftytimes;andnowsheisbusylearninganencore.

AndalltheWorldhadSense!

“What hurtsmemost,” hewent on, “is having towatch hermaking herselfridiculous. Yet what am I to do? If I explain things to her she will bemiserableandashamedofherself;addedtowhichherfrankness—perhapshergreatestcharm—willbemurdered.Thetroublerunsthrougheverything.Shewon’ttakemyadviceaboutherfrocks.Shelaughs,andrepeatstome—well,the lies that other women tell a girl who is spoiling herself by dressingabsurdly;especiallywhensheisaprettygirlandtheyareanxioussheshouldgoonspoilingherself. Sheboughtahat lastweek,onedaywhenIwasnotwithher.ItonlywantsthecandlestolooklikeaChristmastree.Theyinsiston her taking it off so theymay examine it more closely, with the idea ofhavingonebuiltlikeitforthemselves;andshesitsbydelighted,andexplainsto them the secret of the thing. We get to parties half an hour before theopeningtime;sheisafraidofbeingaminutelate.Theyhavetoldherthatthepartycan’tbeginwithouther—isn’tworthcallingapartytillshe’sthere.Wearealwaysthelasttogo.Theotherpeopledon’tmatter,butifshegoestheywillfeelthewholethinghasbeenafailure.Sheisdeadforwantofsleep,andthey are sick and tired of us; but if I look atmywatch they talk as if theirheartswerebreaking,andshethinksmeabruteforwantingtoleavefriendssopassionatelyattachedtous.

“Whydoweallplay this sillygame;what is the senseof it?”hewanted toknow.

Icouldnottellhim.

CHAPTERVI

FireandtheForeigner.

They are odd folk, these foreigners. There aremoments of despairwhen Ialmost give themup—feel I don’t carewhat becomes of them—feel as if Icould let themmuddleon in theirownway—washmyhandsof them,so tospeak, and attend exclusively tomy own business:we all have our days offeebleness.Theywillsitoutsideacaféonafreezingnight,withaneastwindblowing, and play dominoes. They will stand outside a tramcar, rushingthrough the icyair at fifteenmiles anhour, and refuse togo inside, even toobligealady.Yetinrailwaycarriages,inwhichyoucouldgrillabloaterbythe simple process of laying it underneath the seat, they will insist on thewindowbeingclosed, lightcigars tokeep theirnoseswarm,andsitwith thecollarsoftheirfurcoatsbuttoneduparoundtheirnecks.

Intheirhousestheykeepthedoublewindowshermeticallysealedforthreeorfourmonthsatatime:andthehotairquiveringaboutthestovesscorchesyourfaceifyouventurenearertoitthanayard.Travelcanbroadenthemind.Itcan also suggest to the Britisher that in some respects his countrymen arenothingnearsosillyastheyaresupposedtobe.TherewasatimewhenIusedto sitwithmy legs stretchedoutbefore theEnglishcoal fireand listenwithrespectfulattentionwhilepeoplewhoIthoughtknewallaboutitexplainedtomehowwickedandhowwastefulwereourmethods.

Alltheheatfromthatfire,theytoldme,wasgoingupthechimney.Ididnotlike to answer them that notwithstanding I felt warm and cosy. I feared itmightbemerelyBritishstupiditythatkeptmewarmandcosy,notthefireatall. How could it be the fire? The heat from the fire was going up thechimney. It was the glow of ignorance that was making my toes tingle.Besides, if by sitting close in front of the fire and looking hard at it, I didcontrive,byhypnoticsuggestion,maybe,tofancymyselfwarm,whatshouldIfeellikeattheotherendoftheroom?

ItseemedlikebeggingthequestiontoreplythatIhadnoparticularusefortheotherendoftheroom,thatgenerallyspeakingtherewasroomenoughaboutthefireforallthepeopleIreallycaredfor,thatsittingaltogetherroundthefireseemedquiteassensibleassulkingbyone’sselfinacornertheotherendofthe room, that the firemadea cheerful andconvenient focus for family andfriends. Theypointedout tomehowa stove,blockingup thecentreof theroom, with a dingy looking fluepipe wandering round the ceiling, wouldenable us to sit ranged round the walls, like patients in a hospital waiting-room,anduseupcokeandpotato-peelings.

SincethenIhavehadpracticalexperienceofthescientificstove.Iwantthe

old-fashioned,unsanitary,wasteful, illogical,openfireplace. Iwant theheatto go up the chimney, instead of stopping in the room and giving me aheadache,andmakingeverythinggoround.WhenIcomeinoutofthesnowIwanttoseeafire—somethingthatsaystomewithacheerfulcrackle,“Hallo,oldman, coldoutside, isn’t it? Comeand sit down. Comequite close andwarmyourhands.That’sright,putyourfootunderhimandpersuadehimtomoveayardortwo. That’sallhe’sbeendoingforthelasthour, lyingthereroastinghimself,lazylittledevil.He’llgetsofteningofthespine,that’swhatwill happen tohim. Putyour toeson the fender. The teawill behere in aminute.”

MyBritishStupidity.

Iwant something that I can toastmybackagainst,while standingwithcoattails tuckedupandmyhands inmypockets, explaining things topeople. Idon’twantacomfortless,staring,whitething,inacorneroftheroom,behindthe sofa—a thing that looks and smells like a family tomb. It may behygienic,anditmaybehot,butitdoesnotseemtodomeanygood.Ithasitsadvantages:itcontainsacupboardintowhichyoucanputthingstodry.Youcanalsoforgetthem,andleavethemthere.Thenpeoplecomplainofasmellof burning, and hope the house is not on fire, and you ease their mind byexplainingto themthat it isprobablyonlyyourboots. Complicatedinternalarrangementsareworkedbyakey. Ifyouputontoomuchfuel,anddonotworkthiskeyproperly,thethingexplodes.Andifyoudonotputonanycoalatallandthefiregoesoutsuddenly,thenlikewiseitexplodes.Thatistheonlywayitknowsofcallingattentiontoitself.OntheContinentyouknowwhenthefirewantsseeingtomerelybylistening:

“Soundedlikethedining-room,thatlastexplosion,”somebodyremarks.

“I think not,” observes another, “I distinctly felt the shock behindme—mybedroom,Iexpect.”

Bitsofceilingbegintofall,andyounoticethatthemirroroverthesideboardisslowlycomingtowardsyou.

“Why itmust be this stove,” you say; “curious how difficult it is to locatesound.”

Yousnatchup thechildrenandhurryoutof the room. Afterawhile,whenthingshavesettleddown,youventuretolookinagain.Maybeitwasonlyamildexplosion.Aten-poundnoteandacoupleofplumbersinthehouseforaweek will put things right again. They tell me they are economical, theseGermanstoves,butyouhavegottounderstandthem.IthinkIhavelearntthetrickof themat last: and Idon’t suppose, all told, it has costmemore than

fifty pounds. Andnow I am trying to teach the rest of the family. What Icomplainaboutthefamilyisthattheydonotseemanxioustolearn.

“You do it,” they say, pressing the coal scoop into my hand: “it makes usnervous.”

It is a pretty, patriarchal idea: I stand between the trusting, admiring familyandtheseexplosivestovesthataretheterroroftheirlives.Theygatherroundme in a group andwatchme, the capable, all-knowingHeadwho fears noforeignstove.ButtherearedayswhenIgettiredofgoingroundmakingupfires.

Nor is it sufficient to understand only one particular stove. The practicalforeignerprideshimselfuponhavingvariousstoves,adaptedtovariouswork.HithertoIhavebeenspeakingonlyofthestovesupposedtobebestsuitedtoreceptionroomsandbedrooms.Thehallisprovidedwithanothersortofstovealtogether: an iron stove this, that turns up its nose at coke and potato-peelings.Ifyougiveitanythingelsebutthebestcoalitexplodes.Itislikeliving surrounded by peppery old colonels, trying to pass a peacefulwinteramongthesepassionatestoves.Thereisastoveinthekitchentobeusedonlyforroasting:thisonewillnotlookatanythingelsebutwood.Giveitabitofcoal,meaningtobekind,andbeforeyouareoutoftheroomithasexploded.

ThenthereisatrickstovespeciallypopularinBelgium.Ithasalittledooratthe topandanother littledoorat thebottom,and looks likeapepper-caster.Whether it is happy or not depends upon those two little doors. There aretimes when it feels it wants the bottom door shut and the top door open,orviceversâ,orbothopenatthesametime,orbothshut—itisafussylittlestove.

Ordinaryintelligencedoesnothelpyoumuchwiththisstove.Youwanttobebred in the country. It is a question of instinct: you have to have Belgianbloodinyourveinstogetoncomfortablywithit.Onthewhole,itisamildlittlestove,thisBelgianpet.Itdoesnotoftenexplode:itonlygetsangry,andthrows its cover into the air, and flings hot coals about the room. It lives,generallyspeaking,insideanironcupboardwithtwodoors.Whenyouwantit,youopenthesedoors,andpullitoutintotheroom.Itworksonaswivel.Andwhenyoudon’twantityoutrytopushitbackagain,andthenthewholething tumbles over, and the girl throws her hands up to Heaven and says,“MonDieu!” and screams for the cook and thefemme journée, and they allthree say “MonDieu!” and fall upon itwithbuckets ofwater. By the timeeverythinghasbeenextinguishedyouhavemadeupyourmind tosubstituteforitjusttheordinaryexplosivestovetowhichyouareaccustomed.

IamconsideredColdandMad.

Inyourownhouseyoucan,ofcourse,openthewindows,andthusdefeattheforeignstove.Therestofthestreetthinksyoumad,butthentheEnglishmanisconsideredbyallforeignerstobealwaysmad.Itishisprivilegetobemad.Thestreet thinksnoworseofyou than itdidbefore,andyoucanbreathe incomfort. But in the railway carriage they don’t allow you to be mad. InEurope,unlessyouareprepared todrawat sightupon theotherpassengers,throwtheconductoroutofthewindow,andtakethetraininbyyourself,itisuseless arguing thequestionof fresh air. The rule abroad is that if anyonemanobjectstothewindowbeingopen,thewindowremainsclosed.Hedoesnotquarrelwithyou:heringsthebell,andpointsouttotheconductorthatthetemperature of the carriage has sunk to little more than ninety degrees,Fahrenheit.Hethinksawindowmustbeopen.

The conductor is generally an old soldier: he understands being shot, heunderstandsbeingthrownoutofwindow,butnotthelawsofsanitation.If,asIhaveexplained,youshoothim,orthrowhimoutonthepermanentway,thatconvinces him. He leaves you to discuss the matter with the secondconductor, who, by your action, has now, of course, become the firstconductor. As therearegenerallyhalfadozenof theseconductorsscatteredabout the train, the process of educating them becomes monotonous. Yougenerallyendbysubmittingtothelaw.

Unless you happen to be anAmericanwoman. Never didmy heart go outmoregladlytoAmericaasanationthanonespringdaytravellingfromBernetoVevey.WehadbeensittingforanhourinanatmospherethatwouldhaverenderedaDantedisinclinedtonoticethings.Dante,aftertenminutesinthatatmosphere,wouldhavelostallinterestintheshow.Hewouldnothaveaskedquestions.HewouldhavewhisperedtoVirgil:

“Getmeoutofthis,oldman,there’sagoodfellow!”

SometimesIwishIwereanAmericanWoman.

Thecarriagewascrowded,chieflywithGermans.Everywindowwasclosed,everyventilatorshut.Thehotairquiveredroundourfeet.Seventeenmenandfourwomenwere smoking, two childrenwere sucking peppermints, and anoldmarriedcouplewereeatingtheirlunch,consistingchieflyofgarlic.Atajunction,thedoorwasthrownopen.Theforeigneropensthedooralittleway,glidesin,andclosesitbehindhim.Thiswasnotaforeigner,butanAmericanlady,envoyage,accompaniedbyfiveotherAmerican ladies. Theymarchedincarryingpackages.Theycouldnotfindsixseatstogether,sotheyscatteredupanddownthecarriage. Thefirst thingthateachwomandid,themoment

shecouldgetherhandsfree,wastodashforthenearestwindowandhaulitdown.

“Astonishes me,” said the first woman, “that somebody is not dead in thiscarriage.”

Their idea, I think,was that throughasphyxiationwehadbecomecomatose,and,butfortheirentrance,wouldhavediedunconscious.

“Itisacurrentofairthatiswanted,”saidanotheroftheladies.

So theyopened thedoor at the front of the carriage and fourof them stoodoutsideon theplatform, chattingpleasantly and admiring the scenery,whiletwo of themopened the door at the other end, and took photographs of theLakeofGeneva. Thecarriageroseandcursedtheminsixlanguages. Bellswererung:conductorscameflyingin.Itwasallofnouse.ThoseAmericanladies were cheerful but firm. They argued with volubility: they arguedstanding in theopendoorway. The conductors, familiar, nodoubt,with theAmericanladyandherways,shruggedtheirshouldersandretired.Theotherpassengers undid their bags and bundles, and wrapped themselves up inshawlsandJaegernightshirts.

I met the ladies afterwards in Lausanne. They told me they had beencondemned toa fineof forty francsapiece. Theyalsoexplained tome thattheyhadnottheslightestintentionofpayingit.

CHAPTERVII

ToomuchPostcard.

ThepostcardcrazeisdyingoutinGermany—thelandofitsbirth—Iamtold.InGermany theydo things thoroughly, or not at all. TheGermanwhenhetook tosendingpostcardsabandonedalmosteveryotherpursuit in life. TheGermantouristneverknewwherehehadbeenuntilonreachinghomeagainheasked some friendor relation to allowhim to lookover thepostcardshehadsent.Thenitwashebegantoenjoyhistrip.

“What a charmingold town!” theGerman touristwould exclaim. “Iwish Icouldhave found timewhile Iwas there tohavegoneoutside thehotel andhavehadalookround.Still,itispleasanttothinkonehasbeenthere.”

“Isupposeyoudidnothavemuchtime?”hisfriendwouldsuggest.

“Wedidnotgettheretill theevening,”thetouristwouldexplain. “Wewerebusytilldarkbuyingpostcards,andtheninthemorningtherewasthewritingand addressing to be done, and when that was over, and we had had ourbreakfast,itwastimetoleaveagain.”

Hewouldtakeupanothercardshowingthepanoramafromamountaintop.

“Sublime! colossal!” he would cry enraptured. “If I had known it wasanythinglikethat,I’dhavestoppedanotherdayandhadalookatit.”

It was always worth seeing, the arrival of a party of German tourists in aSchwartzwald village. Leaping from the coach theywould surge round thesolitarygendarme.

“Whereisthepostcardshop?”“Tellus—wehaveonlytwohours—wheredowegetpostcards?”

Thegendarme,scentingTrinkgeld,wouldheadthematthedouble-quick:stoutoldgentlemenunaccustomedtothedouble-quick,stouterFrauengatheringuptheirskirtswithutterdisregardtoallpropriety,slimFräuleinclingingtotheirbelovedwould runafterhim. Nervouspedestrianswould fly for safety intodoorways,carelessloitererswouldbesweptintothegutter.

Inthenarrowdoorwayofthepostcardshoptroublewouldbegin.Thecriesofsuffocated women and trampled children, the curses of strong men, wouldrendtheair.TheGermanisapeaceful,law-abidingcitizen,butinthehuntforpostcards he was a beast. A woman would pounce on a tray of cards,commence selecting, suddenly the tray would be snatched from her. Shewould burst into tears, and hit the person nearest to herwith her umbrella.The cunning and the strong would secure the best cards. The weak andcourteousbeleftwithpicturesofpostofficesandrailwaystations.Tornanddishevelled,thecrowdwouldrushbacktothehotel,sweepcrockeryfromthetable,and—suckingstumpypencils—writefeverishly.Ahurriedmealwouldfollow. Then the horseswould be put to again, theGerman touristswouldclimbbacktotheirplacesandbedrivenaway,askingofthecoachmanwhatthenameoftheplacetheyhadjustleftmighthappentobe.

ThePostcardasaFamilyCurse.

One presumes that even to the patientGerman the thing grew tiresome. Inthe Fliegende Blätter two young clerks were represented discussing thequestionofsummerholidays.

“Whereareyougoing?”asksAofB.

“Nowhere,”answersB.

“Can’tyouaffordit?”asksthesympatheticA.

“Onlybeenable tosaveupenoughfor thepostcards,”answersB,gloomily;“nomoneyleftforthetrip.”

Menandwomencarriedbulkyvolumescontainingthenamesandaddressesofthepeople towhom theyhadpromised to sendcards. Everywhere, throughwinding forest glade, by silver sea, on mountain pathway, one met withprematurelyagedlookingtouristsmutteringastheywalked:

“DidIsendAuntGretchenapostcardfromthatlastvillagethatwestoppedat,ordidIaddresstwotoCousinLisa?”

Then,again,maybe,thepicturepostcardledtodisappointment.Uninterestingtowns clamoured, as ill-favoured spinsters in a photographic studio, to bemadebeautiful.

“Iwant,” says the lady, “aphotographmy friendswill really like. Someofthesesecond-ratephotographersmakeonelookquiteplain.Idon’twantyoutoflatterme,ifyouunderstand,Imerelywantsomethingnice.”

Theobligingphotographerdoeshisbest. Thenose iscarefully toneddown,thewartbecomesadimple,herownhusbanddoesn’tknowher.Thepostcardartisthasendedbyimaginingeverythingasitmighthavebeen.

“Ifitwerenotforthehouses,”saysthepostcardartisttohimself,“thismighthavebeenapicturesqueoldHighstreetofmediævalaspect.”

SohedrawsapictureoftheHighstreetasitmighthavebeen.Theloverofquaintarchitecture travelsoutofhisway tosee it, andwhenhe finds itandcontrastsitwiththepicturepostcardhegetsmad.IboughtapostcardmyselfoncerepresentingthemarketplaceofacertainFrenchtown.Itseemedtome,lookingatthepostcard,thatIhadn’treallyseenFrance—notyet.Itravellednearly a hundredmiles to see thatmarket place. Iwas careful to arrive onmarketdayandtogetthereattherighttime.Ireachedthemarketsquareandlookedatit.ThenIaskedagendarmewhereitwas.

Hesaiditwasthere—thatIwasinit.

Isaid,“Idon’tmeanthisone,Iwanttheotherone,thepicturesqueone.”

Hesaiditwastheonlymarketsquaretheyhad.Itookthepostcardfrommypocket.

“Whereareallthegirls?”Iaskedhim.

“Whatgirls?”hedemanded.

TheArtist’sDream.

“Why,thesegirls;”Ishowedhimthepostcard,thereoughttohavebeenaboutahundredofthem.Therewasnotaplainoneamongthelot.ManyofthemIshouldhavecalledbeautiful.Theyweresellingflowersandfruit,allkindsoffruit—cherries,strawberries,rosy-cheekedapples,lusciousgrapes—allfreshlypicked and sparklingwith dew. The gendarme said he had never seen anygirls—not in thisparticularsquare. Referringcasually to thebloodofsaintsand martyrs, he said he would like to see a few girls in that town worthlookingat.Inthesquareitselfsatsixmotherlyoldsoulsroundalamp-post.Oneofthemhadamoustache,andwassmokingapipe,butinotherrespects,Ihavenodoubt,wasallawomanshouldbe. Twoof themweresellingfish.That is theywould have sold fish, no doubt, had anyone been there to buyfish. The gaily clad thousands of eager purchasers pictured in the postcardwererepresentedbytwoworkmeninblueblousestalkingatacorner,mostlywiththeirfingers;asmallboywalkingbackwards,withtheideaapparentlyofnotmissinganythingbehindhim,andayellowdogthatsatonthekerb,andhad given up all hope—judging from his expression—of anything everhappening again. With the gendarme andmyself, these fourwere the onlylivingcreaturesinthesquare.Therestofthemarketconsistedofeggsandafewemaciatedfowlshangingfromasortofbroomhandle.

“Andwhere’sthecathedral?”Iaskedthegendarme.ItwasaGothicstructureinthepostcardofevidentantiquity.Hesaidtherehadoncebeenacathedral.It was now a brewery; he pointed it out to me. He said he thought someportionoftheoriginalsouthwallhadbeenretained.Hethoughtthemanagerofthebrewerymightbewillingtoshowittome.

“Andthefountain?”Idemanded,“andallthesedoves!”

Hesaidtherehadbeentalkofafountain.Hebelievedthedesignhadalreadybeenprepared.

Itookthenexttrainback.Idonotnowtravelmuchoutofmywaytoseetheoriginalof thepicturepostcard. Maybeothershavehad likeexperienceandthepicturepostcardasaguidetotheContinenthaslostitsvalue.

Thedealerhasfallenbackupontheeternalfeminine.Thepostcardcollectorisconfined to girls. Through the kindness of correspondents I possessmyselfsomefiftytoahundredgirls,orperhapsitwouldbemorecorrecttosayonegirl infifty toahundreddifferenthats. Ihaveher inbighats, Ihaveher insmall hats, I have her in no hat at all. I have her smiling, and I have herlookingasifshehadlostherlastsixpence.Ihaveheroverdressed,Ihaveherdecidedly underdressed, but she is much the same girl. Very young men

cannothavetoomanyofher,butmyselfIamgettingtiredofher.Isupposeitistheresultofgrowingold.

WhynottheEternalMaleforachange?

Girlsofmyacquaintancearealsobeginningtogrumbleather.Ioftenthinkithardongirlsthattheartistsoneglectstheeternalmale.Whyshouldtherenotbeportraitsofyoungmenindifferenthats;youngmeninbighats,youngmeninlittlehats,youngmensmilingarchly,youngmenlookingnoble.Girlsdon’twant todecorate their roomswithpicturesof other girls, theywant rowsofyoungmenbeamingdownuponthem.

ButpossiblyIamsinningmymercies.Afatherhearswhatyoungmendon’t.Thegirlinreallifeisfeelingitkeenly:theimpossiblestandardsetforherbythepopularartist.

“Real skirts don’t hang like that,” she grumbles, “it’s not in the nature ofskirts. You can’t have feet that size. It isn’t our fault, they are notmade.Lookatthosewaists!Therewouldbenoroomtoputanything?”

“Nature,infashioningwoman,hasnotyetcreptuptotheartisticideal. Theyoung man studies the picture on the postcard; on the coloured almanackgivenawayatChristmasby the localgrocer;on theadvertisementofJones’soap,andthinkswithdiscontentofPollyPerkins,whoinanaturalwayisaspretty a girl as can be looked for in this imperfect world. Thus it is thatwomanhashadtotaketoshorthandandtypewriting.Modernwomanisbeingruinedbytheartist.

HowWomenareruinedbyArt.

Mr.Ansteytellsastoryofayoungbarberwhofellinlovewithhisownwaxmodel.Alldayhedreamedoftheimpossible.She—theyoungladyofwax-like complexion, with her everlasting expression of dignity combined withamiability.Nogirlofhisacquaintancecouldcompetewithher.IfIrememberrightlyhediedabachelor,stilldreamingofwax-likeperfection.Perhapsitisaswellwemenarenothandicappedtothesameextent.Ifeveryhoarding,ifevery picture shop window, if every illustrated journal teemed withillustrations of the ideal young man in perfect fitting trousers that neverbaggedattheknees!Maybeitwouldresultinourcookingourownbreakfastsandmakingourownbedstotheendofourlives.

Thenovelistandplaywright,asitis,havemadethingsdifficultenoughforus.In books and plays the youngmanmakes love with a flow of language, awealthofimagery,thatmusthavetakenhimyearstoacquire.Whatdoesthenovel-readinggirlthink,Iwonder,whentherealyoungmanproposestoher!

He has not called her anything in particular. Possibly he has got as far assuggestingsheisaduckoradaisy,orhintingshylythatsheishisbeeorhishoneysuckle:inhisexcitementheisnotquitesurewhich.Inthenovelshehasbeenreadingtheherohaslikenedtheheroinetohalfthevegetablekingdom.Elementaryastronomyhasbeenexhaustedinhisattempttodescribetohertheimpressionherappearanceleavesonhim.BondStreethasbeensackedinhisendeavourtoget itclearlyhometoherwhatdifferentpartsofherarelike—hereyes,her teeth,herheart,herhair,herears. Delicacyalonepreventshisextending the catalogue. AFiji Island lovermight possibly go further. WehavenotyethadtheFijiIslandnovel. Bythetimeheisthroughwithitshemust have a somewhat confused notion of herself—a vague conviction thatsheisasortofcondensedSouthKensingtonMuseum.

DifficultyoflivinguptothePoster.

PoorAngelinamustfeeldissatisfiedwiththeEdwinofreallife.Iamnotsurethatartandfictionhavenotmade lifemoredifficult forus thaneven itwasintended to be. The view from the mountain top is less extensive thanrepresented by the picture postcard. The play, I fear me, does not alwayscomeuptotheposter. PollyPerkinsisprettyenoughasgirlsgo;butohforthe young lady of the grocer’s almanack! Poor dear John is very nice andlovesus—sohe tellsus, inhisstupid,haltingway;buthowcanwerespondwhenwerememberhowthemanlovedintheplay!The“artisthasfashionedhisdreamofdelight,”andtheworkadayworldbycomparisonseemstametous.

CHAPTERVIII

TheLadyandtheProblem.

She is a good woman, the Heroine of the Problem Play, but accidents willhappen,andotherpeopleweretoblame.

Perhaps that is really the Problem: who was responsible for the heroine’spast?Wasitherfather?Shedoesnotsayso—notinsomanywords.Thatisnot her way. It is not for her, the silently-suffering victim of complicatedantecedent incidents, topurchase justice forherselfbypointing thefingerofaccusation against him who, whatever his faults may be, was once, at allevents,herfather.Thatonefactinhisfavourshecanneverforget.Indeedshewouldnotifshecould.Thatoneasset,forwhateveritmaybeworthbythe

timetheDayofJudgmentarrives,heshallretain. Itshallnotbetakenfromhim. “After all he was my father.” She admits it, with the accent on the“was.”Thatheissonolonger,hehasonlyhimselftoblame.Hissubsequentbehaviour has apparently rendered it necessary for her to sever therelationship.

“I loveyou,”shehasprobablysaid tohim,paraphrasingOthello’sspeechtoCassio;“itismyduty,and—asbythistimeyoumustbeaware—itismykeenifoccasionallysomewhatinvolved,senseofdutythatisthecauseofalmostallourtroublesinthisplay.YouwillalwaysremaintheobjectofwhatIcannothelp feeling ismisplacedaffectiononmypart,mingledwithcontempt. Butnevermoreberelativeofmine.”

Certainit isthatbutforherfathershewouldneverhavehadapast. Failinganyoneelseonwhomtolaytheblameforwhatevertheladymayhavedone,wecangenerallyfallbackuponthefather.Hebecomesoursheet-anchor,sotospeak.Thereareplaysinwhichatfirstsightitwouldalmostappeartherewas nobody to blame—nobody, except the heroine herself. It all seems tohappenjustbecausesheisnobetterthansheoughttobe:clearly,thefather’sfault! foreverhavinghadadaughternobetter thansheought tobe. AstheHeroineofacertainProblemPlayonceputitneatlyandsuccinctlytotheoldmanhimself:“Itisyouparentsthatmakeuschildrenwhatweare.”Shehadhim there. He had not a word to answer for himself, but went off centre,leavinghishatbehindhim.

Sometimes,however,thefatherismerelya“Scientist”—whichinStagelandisanothertermforhelplessimbecile.InStageland,ifagentlemanhasnotgottohavemuchbrainandyoudonotknowwhatelsetomakeofhim,youlethimbeascientist—andthen,ofcourse,heisonlytoblameinaminordegree.Ifhehadnotbeenascientist—thinkingmoreofhissillyoldstarsorbeetlesthanofhisintricatedaughter,hemighthavedonesomething.Theheroinedoesnotsaypreciselywhat:perhapshavetakenherupstairsnowandagain,whileshewasstillyoungandsusceptibleofimprovement,andhavespankedsomesenseintoher.

TheStageHerowho,foronce,hadJusticedonetohim.

Irememberwitnessinglongago,inacountrybarn,ahighlymoralplay.ItwasaProblemPlay,nowIcometothinkofit.Atleast,thatis,itwouldhavebeenaProblemPlay but that the partywith the past happened in this case to bemerelyamalething.Stagelifepresentsnoproblemstotheman.TheherooftheProblemPlayhasnotgottowonderwhattodo;hehasgottowonderonlywhat the heroinewill do next. The hero—hewas not exactly the hero; hewouldhavebeentheherohadhenotbeenhangedinthelastact.Butforthat

hewasratheraniceyoungman,fullofsentimentandnotashamedofit.Fromthescaffoldhepleadedforleavetoembracehismotherjustoncemorebeforehe died. It was a pretty idea. The hangman himself was touched. Thenecessaryleavewasgrantedhim.Hedescendedthestepsandflunghisarmsroundthesobbingoldlady,and—bitoffhernose.Afterthathetoldherwhyhe had bitten off her nose. It appeared that when he was a boy, he hadreturnedhomeoneeveningwitharabbitinhispocket.Insteadofputtinghimacrossherknee,andworkingintohimtheeighthcommandment,shehadsaidnothing;butthatitseemedtobeafairlyusefulsortofrabbit,andhadsenthimoutintothegardentopickonions.Ifshehaddoneherdutybyhimthen,hewouldnothavebeennowinhispresentmostunsatisfactoryposition,andshewould still have had her nose. The fathers and mothers in the audienceapplauded,butthechildren,scentingadditiontoprecedent,lookedglum.

Maybe it is something of this kind the heroine is hinting at. Perhaps theProblem has nothing to do with the heroine herself, but with the heroine’sparents: what is the best way of bringing up a daughter who shows theslightest sign of developing a tendency towards a Past? Can it be done bykindness?And,ifnot,howmuch?

Occasionally the parents attempt to solve the Problem, so far as they areconcerned,bydyingyoung—shortlyaftertheheroine’sbirth.Nodoubttheyargue to themselves this is theironly chanceof avoiding futureblame. Buttheydonotgetoutofitsoeasily.

“Ah,ifIhadonlyhadamother—orevenafather!”criestheheroine:onefeelshowmeanitwasofthemtoslipawayastheydid.

Thefactremains,however,thattheyaredead.Onedespisesthemfordying,but beyond that it is difficult to hold them personally responsible for theheroine’ssubsequentmisdeeds.Theargumenttakestoitselfnewshape.IsitFatethatistoblame?Theladyherselfwouldseemtofavourthissuggestion.Ithasalwaysbeenherfate,sheexplains, tobringsufferingandmiseryuponthosesheloves. Atfirst,accordingtoherownaccount,sherebelledagainstthiscruelFate—possiblyinstigatedtheretobythepeopleunfortunateenoughtobelovedbyher.Butoflateshehascometoacceptthisstrangedestinyofherswithtouchingresignation.Itgrievesher,whenshethinksofit,thatsheisunabletoimbuethosesheloveswithherownpatientspirit.Theyseemtobeafretfullittleband.

Considered as a scapegoat, Fate, as compared with the father, has thisadvantage: it is always about: it cannot slip away and die before the realtroublebegins:itcannotevenpleadascientifichead;itisthereallthetime.Withcareonecanblameitformosteverything.Thevexingthingaboutitis,

that it does notmind being blamed. One cannotmake Fate feel small andmean. Itaffordsnorelief toourharrowedfeelings tocryout indignantly toFate: “look here, what you have done. Look at this sweet and well-proportionedlady,compelledtotravelfirst-class,accompaniedbyanamountof luggage that must be a perpetual nightmare to her maid, from onefashionable European resort to another; forced to exist on a well-securedincome of, apparently, five thousand a year, most of which has to go inclothes; beloved by only the best people in the play; talked about byeverybodyincessantlytotheexclusionofeverybodyelse—alltheneighboursinterestedinherandinnobodyelsemuch;allthewomenenvyingher;allthemen tumblingover one another after her—looks, in spite of all herworries,notadayolderthantwenty-three;andhasdiscoveredadressmakerneveryetknowntohavebeenanhourbehindherpromise! Andallyourfault,yours,Fate.Willnothingmoveyoutoshame?”

ShehasawayofmislayingherHusband.

Itbringsnosatisfactionwithit,speakingoutone’smindtoFate.Wewanttoseehimbeforeus,thethingoffleshandbloodthathasbroughtallthisuponher.Wasitthatearlyhusband—orratherthegentlemanshethoughtwasherhusband.Asamatteroffact,hewasahusband.Onlyhedidnothappentobehers.Thatnaturallyconfusedher.“Thenwhoismyhusband?”sheseemstohavesaidtoherself;“Ihadahusband:Irememberitdistinctly.”

“Difficulttoknowthemapartfromoneanother,”saystheladywiththepast,“the way they dress them all alike nowadays. I suppose it does not reallymatter. They aremuch the sameasone anotherwhenyouget themhome.Doesn’tdotobetoofussy.”

She isacarelesswoman. She isalwaysmislaying thatearlyhusband. Andshehasanunfortunateknackoffindinghimat thewrongmoment. PerhapsthatistheProblem:Whatisaladytodowithahusbandforwhomshehasnofurtheruse?Ifshegiveshimawayheissuretocomeback,likethecleverdogthat is sent in a hamper to the other end of the kingdom, and three daysafterwardsisfoundgaspingonthedoorstep.IfsheleaveshiminthemiddleofSouthAfrica,withmostof theheavybaggageandall thedebts, shemayreckonitacertaintythatonherreturnfromhernexthoneymoonhewillbethefirsttogreether.

Her surpriseatmeetinghimagain is a littleunreasonable. She seems tobeundertheimpressionthatbecauseshehasforgottenhim,heisforallpracticalpurposesdead.

“WhyIforgotallabouthim,”sheseemstobearguingtoherself,“sevenyears

agoatleast.AccordingtothelawsofNaturethereoughttobenothingleftofhimbutjusthisbones.”

Sheisindignantatfindingheisstillalive,andletshimknowit—tellshimheis a beast for turning up at his sister’s party, and pleads to him for one lastfavour: that he will go away where neither she nor anybody else of anyimportancewilleverseehimorhearofhimagain.That’sallsheasksofhim.If hemake a point of it shewill—though her costume is ill adapted to theexercise—godownuponherkneestoaskitofhim.

He brutally retorts that he doesn’t know where to “get.” The lady travelsround a good deal and seems to be inmost places. She accepts week-endinvitations to the houses of his nearest relatives. She has married his firstcousin,andisnowgettingupabazaarwiththehelpofhispresentwife.Howheistoavoidherhedoesnotquitesee.

Perhaps,by theby, that is really theProblem:where is theearlyhusband todisappearto?Evenifeverytimehesawhercomingheweretoduckunderthetable, somebodywouldbe sure tonotice it andmake remarks. Oughthe totakehimselfoutonedarknight,tieabrickroundhisneck,andthrowhimselfintoapond?

WhatisaLadytodowithaHusbandwhenshehasfinishedwithhim?

Butmen are so selfish. The ideadoesnot evenoccur to him; and the ladyherselfistoogeneroustodomorethanjusthintatit.

MaybeitisSocietythatistoblame.TherecomesaluminousmomentwhenitissuddenlyrevealedtotheHeroineoftheProblemPlaythatitisSocietythatisatthebottomofthisthing.Shehasfeltallalongtherewassomethingthematter.Whyhassheneverthoughtofitbefore?Herealltheseyearshasshebeengoingaboutblamingherpooroldfather;hermotherfordyingtoosoon;the remarkable circumstances attending her girlhood; that dear old stupidhusbandshethoughtwashers;andallthewhilethereallyculpablepartyhasbeenexistingunsuspectedunderherverynose.Sheclearsawaythefurnitureabit, and tellsSociety exactlywhat she thinksof it—she is alwaysgood atthat, telling peoplewhat she thinks of them. Other people’s failings do notescapeher, not for long. IfSocietywouldonly stepout for amoment, andlookatitselfwithhereyes,somethingmightbedone.IfSociety,nowthatthethinghasbeenpointedouttoit,hasstillanylingeringdesiretolive,letitlookather.This,thatsheis,Societyhasmadeher!LetSocietyhaveawalkroundher,andthengohomeandreflect.

Couldshe—herself—havebeentoblame?

Itliftsaloadfromus,fixingtheblameonSociety.Therewereperiodsintheplay when we hardly knew what to think. The scientific father, the deadmother, the early husband! it was difficult to grasp the fact that they aloneweretoblame.Onefelttherewassomethingtobesaidforeventhem.Uglythoughts would cross our mind that perhaps the Heroine herself was notaltogetherirreproachable—thatpossiblytherewouldhavebeenlessProblem,if,thinkingalittlelessaboutherclothes,yearningalittlelesstodonothingalldaylongandbeperfectlyhappy,shehadpulledherself together, toldherselfthat the world was not built exclusively for her, and settled down to theexistenceofanordinarydecentwoman.

Lookingatthethingallround,thatisperhapsthebestsolutionoftheProblem:itisSocietythatistoblame.Wehadbetterkeeptothat.

CHAPTERIX

CivilizationandtheUnemployed.

WhereCivilization fails is in not providingmen andwomenwith sufficientwork.IntheStoneAgemanwas,oneimagines,keptbusy.Whenhewasnotlooking forhisdinner,oreatinghisdinner,or sleepingoff theeffectsofhisdinner,hewashardatworkwithaclub,clearingtheneighbourhoodofwhatone doubts not hewould have described as aliens. The healthyPalæolithicmanwouldhavehadacontemptforCobdenrivallingthatofMr.Chamberlainhimself. Hedidnot take the incursionof the foreigner “lyingdown.” Onepictures him in themind’s eye: unscientific, perhaps, but active to a degreedifficult toconceiveinthesedegeneratedays. Nowupatreehurlingcocoa-nuts, thenextmomenton theground flinging rootsand rocks. Bothhavingtolerably hard heads, the argumentwould of necessity be long and heated.Phrases that have since come to be meaningless had, in those days, a realsignificance.

WhenaPalæolithicpoliticianclaimedtohave“crushedhiscritic,”hemeantthathehadsucceededindroppingatreeoratonofearthuponhim.Whenitwas said that one bright and intelligentmember of that early sociology had“annihilated his opponent,” that opponent’s friends and relations took nofurtherinterestinhim.Itmeantthathewasactuallyannihilated.Bitsofhimmightbefound,butthemostofhimwouldbehopelesslyscattered.WhentheadherentsofanyparticularCaveDwellerremarkedthattheirmanwaswipingthefloorwithhisrival,itdidnotmeanthathewastalkinghimselfredinthe

facetoaboredaudienceofsixteenfriendsandareporter.Itmeantthathewasdraggingthatrivalbythelegsroundtheenclosureandmakingtheplacedampanduntidywithhim.

Earlyinstancesof“Dumping.”

Maybe the Cave Dweller, finding nuts in his own neighbourhood growingscarce, would emigrate himself: for even in that age the politician was notalways logical. Thus rôles became reversed. The defender of his countrybecamethealien,dumpinghimselfwherehewasnotwanted.Thecharmofthose early political arguments lay in their simplicity. A child could havefollowedeverypoint. Therecouldneverhavebeenamoment’sdoubt,evenamonghisownfollowers,astowhataPalæolithicstatesmanreallymeanttoconvey. Atthecloseofthecontest thepartywhoconsideredithadwonthemoralvictorywouldbeclearedaway,orburiedneatlyonthespot,accordingtotaste:andthediscussion,untilthearrivalofthenextgeneration,wasvotedclosed.

All this must have been harassing, but it did serve to pass away the time.Civilizationhasbroughtintobeingasectionofthecommunitywithlittleelsetodobut to amuse itself. Foryouth toplay is natural; theyoungbarbarianplays,thekittenplays,thecoltgambols,thelambskips.Butmanistheonlyanimalthatgambolsandjumpsandskipsafterithasreachedmaturity.Werewetomeetanelderlybeardedgoat,springingabout in theairandbehaving,generallyspeaking,likeakid,weshouldsayithadgonemad.Yetwethronginourthousandstowatchelderlyladiesandgentlemenjumpingaboutafteraball,twistingthemselvesintostrangeshapes,rushing,racing,fallingoveroneanother; and present themwith silver-backed hair-brushes and gold-handledumbrellasasarewardtothemfordoingso.

Imaginesomescientific inhabitantofoneof the largerfixedstarsexaminingus throughamagnifying-glassasweexamineants. Ouramusementswouldpuzzlehim. Theballofallsortsandsizes, fromthemarble to thepushball,wouldleadtoendlessscientificargument.

“Whatisit?Whyarethesemenandwomenalwaysknockingitabout,seizingitwhereverandwhenevertheyfinditandworryingit?”

The observer from that fixed star would argue that the Ball must be somemalignant creature of fiendish power, the great enemy of the human race.Watching our cricket-fields, our tennis-courts, our golf links, he wouldconcludethatacertainsectionofmankindhadbeentoldofftodobattlewiththe“Ball”onbehalfofmankindingeneral.

“Asarule,”sohewouldreport,“itisasuperiorclassofinsecttowhichthis

specialdutyhasbeenassigned.Theyareafriskier,gaudierspeciesthantheirfellows.

Cricket,asviewedfromthefixedStars.

“Forthisonepurposetheyappeartobekeptandfed.Theydonootherwork,so far as Ihavebeenable toascertain. Carefully selectedand trained, theirmissionistogoabouttheworldlookingforBalls.WhenevertheyfindaBallthey set towork to kill it. But the vitality of these Balls is extraordinary.Thereisamedium-sized,reddishspeciesthat,onanaverage,takesthreedaysto kill. When one of these is discovered, specially trained champions aresummonedfromeverycornerofthecountry.Theyarriveinhothaste,eagerforthebattle,whichtakesplaceinthepresenceoftheentireneighbourhood.The number of champions for some reason or another is limited to twenty-two. Eachoneseizingin turna largepieceofwood,rushesat theBallas itfliesalongtheground,or throughtheair,andstrikesat itwithallhisforce.When, exhausted, he can strike no longer, he throws down hisweapon andretires into a tent,wherehe is restored to strengthby copiousdraughts of adrugthenatureofwhichIhavebeenunabletodiscover.Meanwhile,anotherhas picked up the fallen weapon, and the contest is continued without amoment’s interruption. The Ball makes frantic efforts to escape from itstormentors, but every time it is captured and flung back. So far as can beobserved,itmakesnoattemptatretaliation,itsonlyobjectbeingtogetaway;though,occasionally—whetherbydesignoraccident—itsucceedsininflictinginjury upon one or other of its executioners, ormore often upon one of thespectators, striking him either on the head or about the region of thewaist,which,judgingbyresults,wouldappear,fromtheBall’spointofview,tobethe better selection. These small reddish Balls are quickened into lifeevidentlyby theheatof thesun; in thecoldseasontheydisappear,and theirplaceistakenbyamuchlargerBall.ThisBallthechampionskillbystrikingitwith their feet andwith their heads. But sometimes theywill attempt tosuffocateitbyfallingonit,somedozenofthematatime.

“Anotherof theseseeminglyharmlessenemiesof thehuman race isa smallwhiteBallofgreatcunningandresource. It frequentssandydistrictsby thesea coast and open spaces near the large towns. It is pursued withextraordinaryanimositybyaflorid-facedinsectoffierceaspectandrotundityoffigure.Theweaponheemploysisalongstickloadedwithmetal.Withoneblow he will send the creature through the air sometimes to a distance ofnearlyaquarterofamile;yetsovigorousistheconstitutionoftheseBallsthatitwillfalltoearthapparentlybutlittledamaged.Itisfollowedbytherotundmanaccompaniedbyasmallerinsectcarryingspareclubs.Thoughhamperedbytheprominentwhitenessofitsskin,theextremesmallnessofthisBalloften

enables it todefy re-discovery,andat such times the furyof the little roundmanis terrible tocontemplate. Hedancesroundthespotwhere theballhasdisappeared, making frenzied passes at the surrounding vegetation with hisclub, uttering the while the most savage and bloodcurdling growls.Occasionallystrikingat thesmallcreature in fury,hewillmiss italtogether,and,havingstruckmerelytheair,willsitdownheavilyupontheground,or,strikingthesolidearth,willshatterhisownclub.Thenacuriousthingtakesplace:all theother insects standing roundplace their righthandbefore theirmouth,and,turningawaytheirfaces,shaketheirbodiestoandfro,emittingastrangecracklingsound.Whetherthisistoberegardedasamereexpressionof their grief that the blow of their comrade should have miscarried, orwhetheronemayassumeittobeaceremoniousappealtotheirgodsforbetterlucknexttime,Ihavenotasyetmadeupmymind.Thestriker,meanwhile,raisesbotharms, thehands tightlyclenched, towards theheavens,andutterswhatisprobablyaprayer,preparedexpresslyfortheoccasion.”

TheHeirofallAges.HisInheritance.

Insimilarmannerhe,theCelestialObserver,proceedstodescribeourbilliardmatches,our tennis tournaments,ourcroquetparties. MaybeitneveroccurstohimthatalargesectionofourracesurroundedbyEternity,woulddevoteitsentire spanof life tosheerkillingof time. Amiddle-aged friendofmine,acultured gentleman, a M.A. of Cambridge, assured me the other day that,notwithstanding all his experiences of life, the thing that still gave him thegreatest satisfaction was the accomplishment of a successful drive to leg.Ratheraquaintcommentaryonourcivilization,isitnot?“Thesingershavesung,andthebuildershavebuilded.Theartistshavefashionedtheirdreamsof delight.” The martyrs for thought and freedom have died their death;knowledge has sprung from the bones of ignorance; civilization for tenthousand years has battled with brutality to this result—that a specimengentlemanoftheTwentiethCentury,theheirofalltheages,findshisgreatestjoyinlifethestrikingofaballwithachunkofwood!

Humanenergy,humansuffering,hasbeenwasted.Suchcrownofhappinessfor amanmight surely have been obtained earlier and at less cost. Was itintended?Areweontherighttrack?Thechild’splayiswiser.Thebattereddoll is a princess. Within the sand castle dwells an ogre. It is withimaginationthatheplays.Hisgameshavesomerelationtolife.Itisthemanonly who is content with this everlasting knocking about of a ball. Themajorityofmankind isdoomed to laboursoconstant,soexhausting, thatnoopportunity isgiven it tocultivate itsbrain. Civilizationhasarrangedthatasmall privileged minority shall alone enjoy that leisure necessary to thedevelopmentofthought.Andwhatistheanswerofthisleisuredclass?Itis:

“Wewilldonothingfortheworldthatfeedsus,clothesus,keepsusinluxury.We will spend our whole existence knocking balls about, watching otherpeopleknockingballsabout,arguingwithoneanotherastothebestmeansofknockingballsabout.”

Isit“PlayingtheGame?”

Isit—tousetheirownjargon—“playingthegame?”

Andthequeerthingisthisover-workedworld,thatstintsitselftokeeptheminidleness,approvesoftheanswer.“Theflannelledfool,”“Themuddiedoaf,”isthepetofthepeople;theirhero,theirideal.

But maybe all this is mere jealousy. Myself, I have never been clever atknockingballsabout.

CHAPTERX

PatienceandtheWaiter.

TheslowestwaiterIknowistheBritishrailwayrefreshment-roomwaiter.

Hisverybreathing—regular,harmonious,penetrating,instinctasitiswithallthe better attributes of a well-preserved grandfather’s clock—conveyssuggestion of dignity and peace. He is a huge, impressive person. Thereemanates fromhimanatmosphereofLotusland. Theotherwiseunattractiverefreshment-room becomes an oasis of repose amid the turmoil of a fretfulworld.Allthingsconspiretoaidhim:theancientjoints,rangedsidebysidelike corpses in a morgue, each one decently hidden under its white muslinshroud, whispering of death and decay; the dish of dead flies, thoughtfullyplaced in the centre of the table; the framed advertisements extolling thevirtues of heavy beers and stouts, of weird champagnes, emanating fromhaunted-lookingchâteaux,situate—ifonemayjudgefromtheillustration—inthemidstofdesertlands;thesleep-invitingbuzzofthebluebottles.

Thespiritoftheplacestealsoveryou.Onentering,withaquarterofanhourto spare, your idea was a cutlet and a glass of claret. In the face of therefreshment-roomwaiter,thenotionappearsfrivolous,nottosayun-English.Youordercoldbeefandpickles,withapintofbitterinatankard.TowintheBritish waiter’s approval, you must always order beer in a tankard. TheBritish waiter, in his ideals, is mediæval. There is a Shakespearean touch

aboutatankard.Asoapypotatowill,ofcourse,beadded.Afterwardsatonofcheeseandabasinofrabbit’sfoodfloatinginwater(theBritishsalad)willbeplacedbeforeyou.Youwillworksteadilythroughthewhole,anticipatingthesomnolence that will subsequently fall upon you with a certain amount ofsatisfaction.Itwillservetodispelthelastlingeringregretatthereflectionthatyouwillmissyourappointment, and suffer thereby serious inconvenience ifnot positive loss. These things are of theworld—the noisy, tiresomeworldyouhaveleftwithout.

TotheEnglishtraveller,theforeignwaiterintheearlierstagesofhiscareerisaburdenandatrial.Whenheiscomplete—whenhereallycantalkEnglishIrejoice inhim. When Iobject tohim iswhenhisEnglish isworse thanmyFrenchorGerman,andwhenhewill,forhisowneducationalpurposes,insist,nevertheless, that the conversation shall be entirely in English. I would hecametomesomeothertime.Iwouldsomuchrathermakeitafterdinneror,say,thenextmorning.Ihategivinglessonsduringmealtimes.

Besides,toamanwithfeebledigestion,thissortofthingcanleadtotrouble.OnewaiterImetatanhotelinDijonknewverylittleEnglish—aboutasmuchasapollparrot. Themoment I entered thesalle-à-manger he started tohisfeet.

“Ah!YouEnglish!”hecried.

“Well,whataboutus?”Ianswered.ItwasduringtheperiodoftheBoerWar.ItookithewasabouttodenouncetheEnglishnationgenerally.Iwaslookingforsomethingtothrowathim.

“YouEnglish—youEnglishman,yes,”herepeated.

AndthenIunderstoodhehadmerelyintendedaquestion.IownedupthatIwas, and accused him in turn of being a Frenchman. He admitted it.Introductions,asitwere,thusover,IthoughtIwouldorderdinner.IordereditinFrench.IamnotbraggingofmyFrench,IneverwantedtolearnFrench.Evenasaboy,itwasmoretheideaofothersthanofmyself.Ilearntaslittleaspossible. But I have learnt enough to live inplaceswhere they can’t, orwon’t, speak anything else. Left to myself, I could have enjoyed a verysatisfactorydinner. Iwastiredwithalongday’sjourney,andhungry.Theycookwellatthishotel.Ihadbeenlookingforwardtomydinnerforhoursandhours.Ihadsatdowninmyimaginationtoaconsommébisque,sôleaugratin,apouletsauté,andanomeletteaufromage.

Waiterkindinthemaking.

Itiswrongtoletone’sminddwelluponcarnaldelights;Iseethatnow.Atthe

timeIwasmadaboutit.Thefoolwouldnotevenlistentome.Hehadgotitintohisgarlic-soddenbrainthatallEnglishmenliveonbeef,andnothingbutbeef. He swept aside all my suggestions as though they had been theprattlingsofafoolishchild.

“Youhafnicebiftek.Notatalldone.Yes?”

“No,Idon’t,”Ianswered.“Idon’twantwhatthecookofaFrenchprovincialhotel calls a biftek. I want something to eat. I want—” Apparently, heunderstoodneitherEnglishnorFrench.

“Yes,yes,”heinterruptedcheerfully,“withpottitoes.”

“Withwhat?” I asked. I thought for themoment hewas suggesting pottedpigs’feetinthenearestEnglishhecouldgettoit.

“Pottito,”herepeated;“boilpottito.Yes?Andpellhell.”

Ifelt liketellinghimtogothere;Isupposehemeant“paleale.” It tookmeabout fiveminutes to get that beefsteakout of his head. By the time I haddoneit,IdidnotcarewhatIhadfordinner.Itookpôt-du-jourandveal.Headded,onhisowninitiative,athingthatlookedlikeapoultice.Ididnottrythetasteofit.Heexplaineditwas“plumpoodeen.”Ifancyhehadmadeithimself.

This fellowis typical;youmeethimeverywhereabroad. He translatesyourbillintoEnglishforyou,callstencentimesapenny,calculatestwelvefrancstothepound,andpressesahandfulofsousaffectionatelyuponyouaschangeforanapoleon.

Thecheatingwaiteriscommontoallcountries,thoughinItalyandBelgiumhe flourishes, perhaps, more than elsewhere. But the British waiter, whendetected, becomes surly—does not take it nicely. The foreign waiter isamiableabout it—bearsnomalice. He isgrieved,maybe,atyour language,butthatisbecauseheisthinkingofyou—thepossibleeffectofituponyourfuture.Totryandstopyou,heoffersyouanotherfoursous.ThestoryistoldofaFrenchmanwho,notknowing the legal fare,adopted theplanofdolingout pennies to a London cabman one at a time, continuing until the manlookedsatisfied.Myself,Idoubtthestory.FromwhatIknowoftheLondoncabman, Icanseehimleaningdownstill,without-stretchedhand, thehorsebetweentheshafts longsincedead, thecabchockfullofcoppers,andyetnoexpressionofsatietyuponhisface.

But the story would appear to have crossed the Channel, and to havecommended itself to the foreign waiter—especially to the railway

refreshment-roomwaiter. He doles out sous to the traveller, one at a time,with theairofamanwhoisgivingawaythesavingsofa lifetime. If,afterfiveminutesorso,youstillappeardiscontentedhegoesawayquitesuddenly.Youthinkhehasgonetoopenanotherchestofhalf-pence,butwhenaquarterof an hour has passed and he does not reappear, you inquire about himamongsttheotherwaiters.

Agloomatoncefallsuponthem.Youhavespokenoftheverythingthathasbeentroublingthem.Heusedtobeawaiterhereonce—onemightalmostsayuntilquiterecently.Astowhathasbecomeofhim—ah!thereyouhavethem.Ifinthecourseoftheirchequeredcareertheyevercomeacrosshim,theywillmentiontohimthatyouarewaitingforhim.Meanwhileastentorian-voicedofficial is shouting that your train is on the point of leaving. You consoleyourself with the reflection that it might have beenmore. It alwaysmighthavebeenmore;sometimesitis.

HisLittleMistakes.

AwaiterattheGareduNord,inBrussels,ononeoccasionpresseduponmeafive-francpiece,asmallTurkishcointhevalueofwhichwasunknowntome,andremainssotothisday,adistinctlybadtwofrancs,andfromaquarterofapound to six ounces of centimes, as change for a twenty-franc note, afterdeducting the price of a cup of coffee. He put it downwith the air of onesubscribing to a charity. We looked at one another. I suppose Imust haveconveyedtohimtheimpressionofbeingdiscontented.Hedrewapursefromhis pocket. The action suggested that, for the purpose of satisfying myinordinate demands, he would be compelled to draw upon his privateresources; but it did not move me. Abstracting reluctantly a fifty-centimepiece,headdedittotheheapuponthetable.

Isuggestedhistakingaseat,asatthisrateitseemedlikelyweshouldbedoingbusinesstogetherforsometime.IthinkhegatheredIwasnotafool.Hithertohehadbeenjudging,Isuppose,purelyfromappearances.Buthewasnotintheleastoffended.

“Ah!” he cried,with a cheery laugh, “Monsieur comprend!” He swept thewholenonsensebackintohisbagandgavemetherightchange.Islippedmyarm through his and insisted upon the pleasure of his society, until I hadexamined each and every coin. Hewent away chuckling, and told anotherwaiterallaboutit.TheybothofthembowedtomeasIwentout,andwishedmeapleasantjourney.Ileftthemstillchuckling.ABritishwaiterwouldhavebeensulkyalltheafternoon.

ThewaiterwhoinsistsuponmistakingyoufortheheirofalltheRothschilds

usedtocostmedearwhenIwasyounger.Ifindthebestplanistotakehiminhandatthebeginninganddisillusionhim;sweepasidehistalkof’84PerrierJouet,followedbya’79ChâteauLafite,andaskhim,asmantoman,ifhecanconscientiously recommend the Saint Julien at two-and-six. After that hesettlesdowntohisworkandtalkssense.

The fatherly waiter is sometimes a comfort. You feel that he knows best.Your instinct is to address him as “Uncle.” But you remember yourself intime.Whenyouarediningalady,however,andwishtoappearimportant,heisapttobeintheway.Itseems,somehow,tobehisdinner.Youhaveasensealmostofbeingdetrop.

Thegreatest insultyoucanofferawaiter is tomistakehimforyourwaiter.Youthinkheisyourwaiter—there is thebaldhead, theblackside-whiskers,theRomannose.Butyourwaiterhadblueeyes,thismansofthazel.Youhadforgotten to notice the eyes. You bar his progress and ask him for the redpepper.Thehaughtycontemptwithwhichheregardsyouispainfultobear.Itisasifyouhadinsultedalady.Heappearstobesayingthesamething:

“I think you have made a mistake. You are possibly confusing me withsomebodyelse;Ihavenotthehonourofyouracquaintance.”

Howtoinsulthim.

IdonotwishittobeunderstoodthatIaminthehabitofinsultingladies,butoccasionallyIhavemadeaninnocentmistake,andhavemetwithsomesuchresponse. The wrong waiter conveys to me precisely the same feeling ofhumiliation.

“Iwillsendyourwaitertoyou,”heanswers.Histoneimpliesthattherearewaiters and waiters; some may not mind what class of person they serve:others, thoughpoor,havetheirself-respect. It iscleartoyounowwhyyourwaiter iskeepingawayfromyou; themanisashamedofbeingyourwaiter.Heiswatching,probably,foranopportunitytoapproachyouwhennobodyislooking.Theotherwaiterfindshimforyou.Hewashidingbehindascreen.

“Tableforty-twowantsyou,”theothertellshim.Thetoneofvoiceadds:

“Ifyouliketoencouragethisclassofcustomerthatisyourbusiness;butdon’taskmetohaveanythingtodowithhim.”

Eventhewaiterhashisfeelings.

CHAPTERXI

TheeverlastingNewnessofWoman.

AnOrientalvisitorwasreturningfromourshorestohisnativeland.

“Well,” asked the youthful diplomatist who had been told off to show himround, as on the deck of the steamer they shook hands, “what do you nowthinkofEngland?”

“Too much woman,” answered the grave Orientalist, and descended to hiscabin.

Theyoungdiplomatistreturnedtotheshorethoughtful,andlaterinthedayafewof us discussed thematter in a far-off, dimly-lighted corner of the clubsmoking-room.

Hasthependulumswungtoofartheotherway?CouldtherebetruthinourOriental friend’s terse commentary? The eternal feminine! The Westernworldhasbeenhandedovertoher.ThestrangerfromMarsorJupiterwoulddescribeusasahiveofwomen,thesober-cladmalebeingretainedapparentlyonconditionofitsdoingallthehardworkandmakingitselfgenerallyuseful.Formerlyitwas themanwhoworethefineclotheswhowent to theshows.To-day it is thewomangorgeouslyclad forwhomtheshowsareorganized.Theman dressed in a serviceable and unostentatious, not to say depressing,suitofblackaccompaniesherforthepurposeofcarryinghercloakandcallinghercarriage.Amongtheworkingclasseslife,ofnecessity,remainsprimitive;thelawofthecaveisstill,withslightmodification,thelawoftheslum.Butinupperandmiddle-classcirclesthemanisnowthewoman’sservant.

I remember beingpresentwhile amother ofmy acquaintancewas instillingintothemindofherlittlesontheadvantagesofbeingbornaman.Alittlegirlcousinwasabouttospendaweekwithhim.Itwasimpresseduponhimthatifsheshowedalikingforanyofhistoys,hewasatoncetogivethemuptoher.

“Butwhy,mamma?”hedemanded,evidentlysurprised.

“Because,mydear,youarealittleman.”

Should she break them, he was not to smack her head or kick her—as hisinstinctmightprompthimtodo.Hewasjusttosay:

“Oh,itisofnoconsequenceatall,”andtolookasifhemeantit.

Doctorsayssheisnottobebothered.

Shewasalways tochoose thegame—tohave thebiggest apple. Therewasmuchmoreofasimilarnature.Itwasallbecausehewasalittlemanandshewasalittlewoman.Attheendhelookedup,puzzled:

“Butdon’tshedoanything,’cosshe’salittlegirl?”

Itwasexplainedtohimthatshedidn’t.Byrightofbeingbornalittlegirlshewasexemptfromallduty.

Womannowadays is not taking anyduty. Sheobjects tohousekeeping; shecallsitdomesticslavery,andfeelsshewasintendedforhigherthings.Whathigher things shedoesnotcondescend toexplain. Oneor twowivesofmyacquaintancehavepersuaded their husbands that thesehigher things are all-important.Thehomehasbeengivenup.Incompanywithotherstriversafterhigher things, they live now in dismal barracks differing but little from aglorified Bloomsbury lodging-house. But they call them “Mansions” or“Courts,”andseemproudoftheaddress.Theyarenotbotheredwithservants—withhousekeeping.Theideaofthemodernwomanisthatsheisnottobebotheredwithanything.Irememberthewordswithwhichoneoftheseladiesannouncedherdeparturefromherbotheringhome.

“Oh,well, I’mtiredof trouble,”sheconfidedtoanother lady,“soI’vemadeupmymindnottohaveanymoreofit.”

ArtemusWard tells us of amanwho had been in prison for twenty years.Suddenlyabright ideaoccurredtohim;heopenedthewindowandgotout.Herehavewepoor,foolishmortalsbeenimprisonedinthistroublesomeworldforLordknowshowmanymillionsofyears.Wehavegotsousedtotroublewethoughttherewasnohelpforit.Wehavetoldourselvesthat“Manisborntotroubleasthesparksflyupwards.”Weimaginedtheonlythingtobedonewastobearitphilosophically. Whydidnot thisbrightyoungcreaturecomealong before—show us theway out. All we had to dowas to give up thebothering home and the bothering servants, and go into a “Mansion” or a“Court.”

It seems that you leave trouble outside—in charge of the hall-porter, onesupposes.HetiesitupforyouastheCommissionaireoftheArmyandNavyStorestiesupyourdog.Ifyouwantitagain,youaskforitasyoucomeout.Smallwonderthatthe“Court”and“Mansion”aregrowinginpopularityeveryday.

That“HigherLife.”

Theyhavenothingtodonowalldaylong,thesesoaringwivesofwhomIamspeaking. Theywould scorn to sew on a shirt-button even. Are there not

otherwomen—ofaninferiorbreed—speciallyfashionedbyProvidenceforthedoingofsuchslavishtasks? Theyhavenomorebothersofanykind. Theyare free to lead the higher life. What I amwaiting for is a glimpse of thehigherlife.Oneofthem,itistrue,hastakenuptheviolin.Anotherofthemisdevotingheremancipation topokerwork. Athird is learningskirt-dancing.Arethesethe“higherthings”forwhichwomenareclaimingfreedomfromallduty?And,ifso,istherenotdangerthattheclosingofourhomesmayleadtothecrowdingupoftheworldwithtoomuchhigherthings?

Maytherenot,bythetimeallbothershavebeenremovedfromwoman’spath,betoomanyamateurviolinistsintheworld,toomanyskirt-dancers,toomuchpokerwork?Ifnot,whatarethey?these“higherthings,”forwhichsomanywomenaredemandingtwenty-fourhoursadayleisure.Iwanttoknow.

OneladyofmyacquaintanceisaPoorLawGuardianandsecretarytoalabourbureau. But then she runs a house with two servants, four children, and ahusband,andappearstobesousedtobothersthatshewouldfeelherselflostwithout them. Youcando thiskindofworkapparently evenwhenyouarebotheredwithahome.Itistheskirt-dancingandthepokerworkthatcannotbrookrivalry.Themodernwomanhasbeguntofindchildrenanuisance;theyinterferewithherdevelopment. Themereman,whohaswrittenhispoems,paintedhispictures,composedhismelodies,fashionedhisphilosophies,inthemidst of life’s troubles and bothers, grows nervous thinking what this newwomanmustbewhosemind isso tremendous that thewholeworldmustbeshutup,sotospeak,senttodoitsbusinessoutofhersightandhearing,lestherattentionshouldbedistracted.

Anoptimisticfriendofmine tellsmenot toworrymyself; tellsmethat it isgoing to come out all right in the end. Woman just now, he contends, ispassingthroughhercollegeperiod.Theschoollifeofstrictsurveillanceisforeverdonewith. She isnowtheyoungFreshwoman. Thebothering lessonsareover, thebothering schoolmaster shehas saidgood-bye to. Shehasherlatchkeyandis“onherown.”Therearestillsomebotheringrulesaboutbeingin at twelve o’clock, and somany attendances each term at chapel. She isindignant.Thisinterfereswithherideathatlifeistobeonelongorgieofself-indulgence, of pleasure. The college periodwill pass—is passing. Womanwillgooutintotheworld,takeherplacethere,discoverthatbotherswerenotleft behind in the old schoolhouse, will learn that life has duties,responsibilities, will take up her burden side by side with man, willaccomplishherdestiny.

Isthereanythingleftforhertolearn?

Meanwhile,however,sheishavingagoodtime—somepeoplethinktoogood

a time. Shewants thebestofboth. Shedemands the joysof independencetogetherwith freedomfromallwork—slaveryshecalls it. Theservantsarenot tobeallowed tobotherher, thechildrenarenot tobeallowed tobotherher,herhusbandisnottobeallowedtobotherher.Sheistobefreetoleadthehigherlife.Mydearlady,weallwanttoleadthehigherlife.Idon’twanttowritethesearticles.Iwantsomebodyelsetobotheraboutmyratesandtaxes,my children’s boots, while I sit in an easy-chair and dream about thewonderfulbooks I amgoing towrite, if only a stupidpublicwould letme.Tommy Smith of Brixton feels that hewas intended for higher things. Hedoesnotwanttobewastinghistimeinanofficefromninetosixaddingupfigures.HisproperplaceinlifeisthatofPrimeMinisterorFieldMarshal:hefeels it. Doyou think themanhas noyearning for higher things? Doyouthinkweliketheoffice,theshop,thefactory?Weoughttobewritingpoetry,painting pictures, thewholeworld admiring us. You seem to imagine yourmangoesoff everymorning to a sortofCitypicnic,has eighthours’ fun—whichhecallswork—andthencomeshometoannoyyouwithchatteraboutdinner.

Itistheoldfablereversed;mansaidwomanhadnothingtodoalldaybuttoenjoyherself.Makingapotatopie!Whatsortofworkwasthat?Makingapotatopiewasalark;anybodycouldmakeapotatopie.

Sothewomansaid,“Tryit,”andtooktheman’sspadeandwentoutintothefield,andlefthimathometomakethatpie.

The man discovered that potato pies took a bit more making than he hadreckoned—foundthatrunningthehouseandlookingafterthechildrenwasnotquitethemerrypastimehehadargued.Manwasafool.

Nowitisthewomanwhotalkswithoutthinking.Howdidshelikehoeingthepotatopatch?Hardwork,wasitnot,mydearlady?Madeyourbackache?Itcameontorainandyougotwet.

I don’t see that it very much matters which of you hoes the potato patch,whichofyoumakesthepotatopie.Maybethehoeingofthepatchdemandsmoremuscle—ismoresuitedtotheman.Maybethemakingofthepiemaybemoreinyourdepartment.But,asIhavesaid,Icannotseethatthismatteris of importance. The patch has to be hoed, the pie to be cooked; the onecannotdotheboth. Settleitbetweenyou,and,havingsettledit,agreetodoeachyourownworkfreefromthiseverlastingnagging.

Iknow,personally,threeladieswhohaveexchangedthewoman’sworkfortheman’s.Onewasdesertedbyherhusband,andleftwithtwoyoungchildren.She hired a capable woman to look after the house, and joined a ladies’

orchestra as pianist at two pounds aweek. She now earns four, andworkstwelvehoursaday.Thehusbandofthesecondfellill.Shesethimtowritelettersandrunerrands,whichwaslightworkthathecoulddo,andstartedadressmaker’sbusiness.Thethirdwasleftawidowwithoutmeans.Shesenther threechildren toboarding-school,andopeneda tea-room. Idon’tknowhowtheytalkedbefore,butIknowthattheydonottalknowasthoughearningtheincomewasasortofroundgame.

Whentheyhavetriedittheotherwayround.

OntheContinenttheyhavegonedeliberatelytowork,onewouldimagine,toreversematters. Abroadwoman isalwayswheremanought tobe,andmanwheremostladieswouldprefertomeetwithwomen.Theladiesgarde-robeissuperintendedbyasuperannuatedsergeantofartillery. WhenIwant tocurlmy moustache, say, I have to make application to a superb golden-hairedcreature,whostandsbyandwatchesmewithaninterestedsmile.Iwouldbemuchhappierwaitedonbythesuperannuatedsergeant,andmywifetellsmeshecouldverywellsparehim.Butitisthelawoftheland.IrememberthefirsttimeItravelledwithmydaughterontheContinent.InthemorningIwasawakenedbyapiercingscreamfromherroom.Istruggledintomypyjamas,andrushed toherassistance. Icouldnotseeher. Icouldseenothingbutamuscular-lookingman in ablueblousewith a canofhotwater inonehandandapairofboots in theother. Heappeared tobeequallybewilderedwithmyselfatthesightoftheemptybed.Fromacupboardinthecornercameawailofdistress:

“Oh,dosendthathorridmanaway.What’shedoinginmyroom?”

Iexplainedtoherafterwardsthatthechambermaidabroadisalwaysanactiveand willing young man. The foreign girl fills in her time bricklaying andgroomingdownthehorses.Itisayoungandcharmingladywhoservesyouwhen you enter the tobacconist’s. She doesn’t understand tobacco, isunsympathetic;withMr. FredericHarrison, regards smoking as a degradingand unclean habit; cannot see, herself, any difference between shag andMayblossom,seeingthattheyareboththesameprice;thinksyoufussy.ThecorsetshopisrunbyamostpresentableyoungmaninaVandyckbeard.Thewiferunstherestaurant;themandoesthecooking,andyetthewomanhasnotreachedfreedomfrombother.

Abrutalsuggestion.

It sounds brutal, but perhapswomanwas not intended to live free from allbothers.Perhapseventhehigherlife—theskirt-dancingandthepokerwork—hasitsbothers.Perhapswomanwasintendedtotakehershareoftheworld’s

work—oftheworld’sbothers.

CHAPTERXII

WhyIhateHeroes.

WhenIwasyounger,readingthepopularnovelusedtomakemesad.Ifinditvexesothersalso.Iwastalkingtoabrightyounggirluponthesubjectnotsoverylongago.

“Ijusthatethegirlinthenovel,”sheconfessed.“Shemakesmefeelrealbad.If Idon’t thinkofherI feelpleasedwithmyself,andgood;butwhenI readabouther—well, I’mcrazy. Iwouldnotmindherbeing smart, sometimes.Wecanallofussaytherightthing,nowandthen.Thisgirlsaysthemstraightaway,allthetime.Shedon’thavetodigforthemeven;theycomecrowdingoutofher. Thereneverhappensa timewhenshestands there feeling likeafoolandknowingthatshelooksit.Asforherhair:’ponmyword,therearedayswhenIbelieveitisawig.I’dliketogetbehindherandgiveitjustonepull.Itcurlsofitsownaccord.Shedon’tseemtohaveanytroublewithit.Lookatthismopofmine.I’vebeenworkingatitforthree-quartersofanhourthis morning; and now I would not laugh, not if you were to tell me thefunniestthing,you’deverheard,forfearitwouldcomedownagain. Asforherclothes,theymakemetired.Shedon’tpossessafrockthatdoesnotfithertoperfection;shedoesn’thavetothinkaboutthem.Youwouldimagineshewentintothegardenandpickedthemoffatree.Shejustslipsitonandcomesdown,andthen—mystars!Alltheotherwomenintheroommayjustaswellgotobedandgetagoodnight’srestforallthechancethey’vegot.Itisn’tthatshe’s beautiful. Fromwhat they tell you about her, youmight fancy her afreak.Looksdon’tappeartomattertoher;shegetsthereanyhow.Itellyoushejustmakesmeboil.”

Allowingforthedifferencebetweenthemasculineandfeminineoutlook,thisispreciselyhowIusedtofeelwhenreadingofthehero.Hewasnotalwaysgood; sometimeshehit thevillainharder thanhehad intended, and thenhewas sorry—when it was too late, blamed himself severely, and subscribedtowards the wreath. Like the rest of us, he made mistakes; occasionallymarried thewronggirl. Buthowwellhedideverything!—doesstill for thematterofthat,Ibelieve.Takeitthathecondescendstoplaycricket!Heneverscoreslessthanahundred—doesnotknowhowtoscorelessthanahundred,wonders how it could be done, supposing, for example, you had an

appointmentandwantedtocatchanearlytrain.Iusedtoplaycricketmyself,butIcouldalwaysstopattenortwenty.TherehavebeentimeswhenIhavestoppedatevenless.

Itisthesamewitheverythingheputshishandto.Eitherhedoesnotcareforboatingatall,or,asamatterofcourse,hepullsstrokeintheUniversityBoat-race; and then takes the trainon toHenleyandwins theDiamondSculls soeasily that it hardly seemsworthwhile for theother fellow tohave started.Were I living in Novel-land, and had I entered for the Diamond Sculls, Ishouldputittomyopponentbeforethewordwasgiventoustogo.

“Oneminute!” I should have called out to him. “Are you the hero of thisnovel,or,likemyself,onlyoneoftheminorcharacters?Because,ifyouarethe hero you go on; don’t you wait for me. I shall just pull as far as theboathouseandgetmyselfacupoftea.”

BecauseitalwaysseemstobehisDay.

Thereisnosenseofhappymediumabouttheheroofthepopularnovel.Hecannot get astride a horsewithout its going off andwinning a steeplechaseagainstthefavourite. ThecrowdinNovel-landappearstohavenopowerofobservation. It worries itself about the odds, discusses records, reads thenonsense published by the sporting papers. Were I to find myself on aracecourseinNovel-landIshouldnot troubleabout theunessential;Ishouldgouptothebookiewholookedasifhehadthemostmoney,andshouldsaytohim:

“Don’t shout so loud; you are making yourself hoarse. Just listen to me.Who’stheheroofthisnovel?Oh,that’she,isit?Theheavy-lookingmanonthe little brown horse that keeps coughing and is suffering apparently frombonespavin?Well,whataretheoddsagainsthiswinningbytenlengths?Athousand toone! Verywell! Haveyougot abag?—Good. Here’s twenty-sevenpoundsingoldandeighteenshillingsinsilver.Coatandwaistcoat,sayanothertenshillings.Shirtandtrousers—it’sallright,I’vegotmypyjamasonunderneath—saysevenandsix.Boots—wewon’tquarrel—makeitfivebob.That’s twenty-nine pounds and sixpence, isn’t it? In addition here’s amortgageonthefamilyestate,whichI’vehadmadeoutinblank,anIOUforfourteen poundswhich has been owing tome now for some time, and thisbundle of securitieswhich, strictly speaking, belong tomyAunt Jane. Youkeepthat little lot tillafter therace,andwewillcall it inroundfigures,fivehundredpounds.”

Thatsingleafternoonwouldthusbringmeinfivehundredthousandpounds—providedthebookiedidnotblowhisbrainsout.

BackersinNovel-landdonotseemtometoknowtheirwayabout.Iftheheroofthepopularnovelswimsatall,itisnotlikeanordinaryhumanbeingthathedoes it. Younevermeethiminaswimming-bath;heneverpaysninepence,like the rest of us, for amachine. Hegoesout at uncannyhours, generallyaccompaniedbyaladyfriend,withwhomthewhileswimminghetalkspoetryandcracksjokes.Someofus,whenwetrytotalkinthesea,fillourselvesupwith saltwater. This chap lies onhis back and carols, and thewildwaves,seeing him, go round the other way. At billiards he can give the averagesharperfortyinahundred.Hedoesnotreallywanttoplay;hedoesittoteachthesebadmenalesson.Hehasnothandledacueforyears.HepickedupthegamewhenayoungmaninAustralia,anditseemstohavelingeredwithhim.

Hedoesnothave togetupearlyandworrydumb-bells inhisnightshirt;hejustliesonasofainanelegantattitudeandmusclecomestohim.Ifhishorsedeclinestojumpahedge,heslipsdownofftheanimal’sbackandthrowsthepoor thingover; itsavesargument. Ifhegetscrossandputshisshoulder tothemassiveoakendoor,weknowthereisgoingtobeworknextmorningforthecarpenter.MaybeheisapartybelongingtotheMiddleAges.ThenwhenhereluctantlychallengesthecrackfencerofEuropetoaduel,ourinstinctistocalloutandwarnhisopponent.

“Yousillyfool,”onefeelsonewantstosay;“why,itistheheroofthenovel!Youtakeafriend’sadvicewhileyouarestillalive,andgetoutofitanyway—anyhow.Apologize—hireahorseandcart,dosomething.You’renotgoingtofightaduel,you’regoingtocommitsuicide.”

If the hero is a modern young man, and has not got a father, or has onlysomething not worth calling a father, then he comes across a library—anybody’slibrarydoesforhim.HepassesSirWalterScottandthe“ArabianNights,”andmakesabee-lineforPlato;itseemstobeaninstinctwithhim.ByhelpofadictionaryheworriesitoutintheoriginalGreek.ThisgiveshimapassionforGreek.

When he has romped through theGreek classics he plays about among theLatins.Hespendsmostofhissparetimeinthatlibrary,andforgetstogototea.

Becausehealways“getsthere,”withoutanytrouble.

Thatisthesortofboyheis.HowIusedtohatehim!Ifhehasapropersortoffather,thenhegoestocollege.Hedoesnowork:thereisnoneedforhimtowork: everything seems to come to him. Thatwas another grievance ofmineagainsthim.Ialwayshadtoworkagooddeal,andverylittlecameofit.Hefoolsarounddoingthingsthatothermenwouldbesentdownfor;butin

hiscasetheprofessorslovehimforitallthemore.Heisthesortofmanwhocan’tdowrong.Afortnightbeforetheexaminationhetiesawettowelroundhishead.Thatisallwehearaboutit. Itseemstobethetowelthatdoesit.Maybe, if the towel is not quite up to its work, he will help things on bydrinkinggallonsofstrongtea.Theteaandthetowelcombinedareirresistible:theresultisalwaystheseniorwranglership.

Iusedtobelieveinthatwettowelandthatstrongtea.Lord!thethingsIusedtobelievewhenIwasyoung.TheywouldmakeanEncyclopædiaofUselessKnowledge. I wonder if the author of the popular novel has ever triedworkingwithawettowelroundhisorherhead:Ihave.Itisdifficultenoughtomove a yard, balancing a dry towel. A heathenTurkmay have it in hisblood to do so: the ordinaryChristian has not got the trick of it. To carryabout awet towel twisted round one’s head needs a trained acrobat. Everyfewminutesthewretchedthingworksloose.Indarknessandinmisery,youstruggletogetyourheadoutofaclammytowelthatclingstoyoualmostwithpassion. Brain power is wasted in inventing names for that towel—namesexpressiveofyourfeelingswithregardtoit.Furthertimeistakenupbeforetheglass,fixingthethingafresh.

Youreturn toyourbooks in thewrong temper, thewater tricklesdownyournose,runsinrivuletsdownyourback.Untilyouhavefinallyflungthetoweloutofthewindowandrubbedyourselfdry,workisimpossible.Thestrongteaalways gaveme indigestion, andmademe sleepy. Until I hadgot over theeffectsofthetea,attemptsatstudywereuseless.

Becausehe’ssodamnedclever.

Butthethingthatstillirritatesmemostagainsttheheroofthepopularnovelistheeasewithwhichhelearnsamodernforeignlanguage.WereheaGermanwaiter,aSwissbarber,oraPolishphotographer,Iwouldnotenvyhim;thesepeople do not have to learn a language. My idea is that they boil down adictionary,and take two table-spoonsfuleachnightbeforegoing tobed. Bythetimethebottleisfinishedtheyhavethelanguagewellintotheirsystem.Butheisnot.HeisjustanordinaryAnglo-Saxon,andIdon’tbelieveinhim.Iwalkabout foryearswithdictionaries inmypocket. Weird-looking ladiesandgentlemengesticulateandraveatmeformonths.Ihidemyselfinlonelyplaces, repeating idioms tomyself out loud, in the hope that by thismeanstheywillcomereadilytomeifeverIwantthem,whichIneverdo.And,afterall this, Idon’tseemtoknowverymuch. This irritatingass,whohasneverlefthisnativesuburb,suddenlymakesuphismindtotravelontheContinent.Ifindhiminthenextchapterengagedincomplicatedpsychologicalargumentwith French or Germansavants. It appears—the author had forgotten tomentionitbefore—thatonesummeraFrench,orGerman,orItalianrefugee,

asthecasemayhappentobe,cametoliveinthehero’sstreet:thusitisthattheheroisabletotalkfluentlyinthenativelanguageofthatunhappyrefugee.

I rememberamelodramavisitinga country townwhere Iwas staying. Theheroineandchildweresleepingpeacefullyinthecustomaryattic. Forsomereasonnotquitecleartome,thevillainhadsetfiretothehouse.Hehadbeencomplainingthroughthethreeprecedingactsoftheheroine’scoldness;maybeitwaswith some ideaofwarmingher. Escapebywayof the staircasewasimpossible. Each time the poor girl opened the door a flame came in andnearlyburnedherhairoff.Itseemedtohavebeenwaitingforher.

“ThankGod!”saidthelady,hastilywrappingthechildinasheet,“thatIwasbroughtupawirewalker.”

Without a moment’s hesitation she opened the attic window and took thenearesttelegraphwiretotheoppositesideofthestreet.

In the sameway, apparently, the hero of the popular novel, finding himselfstrandedinaforeignland,suddenlyrecollectsthatonceuponatimehemetarefugee, and at once begins to talk. I havemet refugeesmyself. The onlythingtheyhaveevertaughtmeisnottoleavemybrandyflaskabout.

And,finally,becauseIdon’tbelievehe’strue.

Idon’tbelieveintheseheroesandheroinesthatcannotkeepquietinaforeignlanguagetheyhavetaughtthemselvesinanold-worldlibrary.Myfixedideais that they muddle along like the rest of us, surprised that so few peopleunderstand them,beggingeveryone theymeetnot to talk soquickly. Thesebrilliantconversationswithforeignphilosophers!Thesepassionateinterviewswithforeigncountesses!Theyfancytheyhavehadthem.

I crossed once with an English lady from Boulogne to Folkestone. AtFolkestone a little French girl—anxious about her train—asked us a simplequestion. My companion replied to itwith an ease that astonished herself.ThelittleFrenchgirlvanished;mycompanionsighed.

“It’ssoodd,”saidmycompanion,“butIseemtoknowquitealotofFrenchthemomentIgetbacktoEngland.”

CHAPTERXIII

HowtobeHealthyandUnhappy.

“Theydosay,”remarkedMrs.Wilkins,asshetookthecoveroffthedishandgaveafinishingpolishtomyplatewiththecleanestcornerofherapron,“that’addicks, leastways inMay, ain’t, strictly speaking, the safest of food. Butthen,ifyoulistentoalltheysay,itseemstome,we’dhavetogiveupvictualsaltogether.”

“Thehaddock,Mrs.Wilkins,”Ireplied,“isasavouryandnourishingdish,the‘poorman’ssteak’Ibelieveitiscommonlycalled.WhenIwasyounger,Mrs.Wilkins,theywerecheaper.Fortwopenceonecouldsecureasmallspecimen,for fourpence one of generous proportions. In the halcyon days of youth,when one’s lexicon contained not the word failure (it has crept into latereditions,Mrs.Wilkins, theword itwasfoundwasoccasionallyneedful), thehaddockwasofmuchcomfortandsupporttome,averypresenthelpintimeof trouble. In thosedays akind friend,without intending it, nearlybroughtaboutmydeathbyslowstarvation.Ihadleftmyumbrellainanomnibus,andtheseasonwasrainy.Thekindrichfriendgavemeanewumbrella;itwasarichman’s umbrella;wemade an ill-assorted pair. Its handlewas of ivory,imposinginappearance,ornamentedwithagoldensnake.

TheunsympatheticUmbrella.

“FollowingmyownjudgmentIshouldhavepawnedthatumbrella,purchasedone more suited to my state in life, and ‘blued’ the difference. But I wasfearfulofoffendingmyonerespectableacquaintance,andforweeksstruggledon,hamperedbythisplutocraticappendage.Thehumblehaddockwasdeniedtome.Tiedtothisimposingumbrella,howcouldIhagglewithfishmongersforhaddocks.Atfirstsightofme—or,rather,ofmyumbrella—theyflewtoicy cellars, brought up for my inspection soles at eighteenpence a pound,recommendedmeprimepartsofsalmon,whichmylandladywouldhavefriedinapanreekingwiththemixedremainsofporkchops,rashersofbaconandcheese.Itwasclosedtome,thehumblecoffeeshop,whereforthreepenceIcould have strengthened my soul with half a pint of cocoa and four“doorsteps”—satisfactory slices of bread smearedwith a yellow grease thatbeforethedaysofCountyCouncilinspectorstheycalledbutter.Youknowofthem,Mrs.Wilkins? At sight of suchnowadays I should turnupmy jadednose. But thosewere the days ofmy youth,Mrs.Wilkins. The scent of athousandhopeswasinmynostrils:sotheysmeltgoodtome.Thefourpennybeefsteakpie,satisfyingtothevergeofrepletion;thesucculentsaveloy,werenotfortheowneroftheivory-handledumbrella.OnMondaysandTuesdays,perhaps,Icouldenjoylifeattherateoffivehundredayear—cleanservietteapenny extra, and twopence to the waiter, whose incomemust have been atleastfourtimesmyown.ButfromWednesdaytoSaturdayIhadtowanderinthewildernessofbackstreetsandsilentsquaresdinnerless,wheretherewere

noteventobefoundlocustsandwildhoney.

“Itwas, as I have said, a rainy season, and anumbrella of some sortwas anecessity.Fortunately—orImightnotbesittinghere,Mrs.Wilkins,talkingtoyounow—myonerespectableacquaintancewascalledawaytoforeignlands,andthatumbrellaIpromptlyput‘upthespout.’Youunderstandme?”

Mrs.Wilkinsadmittedshedid,butwasofopinionthattwenty-fivepercent.,to say nothing of the halfpenny for the ticket every time, was a wickedimposition.

“Itdidnottroubleme,Mrs.Wilkins,”Ireplied,“inthisparticularinstance.Itwas my determination never to see that umbrella again. The young manbehindthecounterseemedsuspicious,andaskedwhereIgot it from. I toldhimthatafriendhadgivenittome.”

“‘Didheknowthathehadgivenittoyou?”demandedtheyoungman.

“UponwhichIgavehimapieceofmymindconcerningthecharacterofthosewhothinkevilofothers,andhegavemefiveandsix,andsaidheshouldknowmeagain;andIpurchasedanumbrellasuitedtomyrankandstation,andasfineahaddockasIhaveevertastedwiththebalance,whichwassevenpence,forIwasfeelinghungry.

“The haddock is an excellent fish, Mrs. Wilkins,” I said, “and if, as youobserve, we listened to all that was said we’d be hungrier at forty, with abalancetoourcreditatthebank,thaneverwewereattwenty,with‘noeffects’beyondasounddigestion.”

AMartyrtoHealth.

“TherewasagentinMiddleTempleLane,”saidMrs.Wilkins,“asIusedtodo for. It’smybelief as ’ekilled ’imselfworrying twenty-fourhours adayoverwhat ’ecalled’is ’ygiene. Leastways’e’sdeadandburiednow,whichmustbeacomfortto’imself,feelingasatlast’e’soutofdanger.All’istime’espenttakingcareof’imself—didn’tseemto’avealeisuremomentinwhichtolive.For’alfanhoureverymorning’e’dlieon’isbackonthefloor,whichisadraughtyplace,Ialways’old,atthebestoftimes,withnothingonbut’ispyjamas, waving ’is arms and legs about, and twisting ’imself into shapesunnaturaltoaChristian.Then’efoundoutthateverything’e’dbeendoingon’isbackwasjustallwrong,so’eturnedoveranddidtrickson’isstomach—beggingyourpardonforusingtheword—thatyou’d’avethoughtmorefitandpropertoawormthantoaman.Thenallthatwasdiscoveredtobeamistake.Theredon’tseemnothingcertaininthesematters.That’stheawkwardpartofit,soitseemstome.’Egot’imselfamachine,bymeansofwhich’e’d’ang

’imself up to thewall, andbehave for all theworld like abeetlewith apinstuckthrough’im,poorthing.Itusedtogivemetheshudderstocatchsightof’imthroughthe’alf-opendoor.Forthatwaspartofthegame:you’adto’aveacurrentofairthroughtheroom,theresultofwhichwasthatforsixmonthsoutoftheyear’e’dbecoughingandblowing’isnosefrommorningtonight.Itwasthenewtreatment,so’e’dexplaintome.Yougotyourselfaccustomedtodraughtssothattheydidn’t’urtyou,andifyoudiedintheprocessthatonlyprovedthatyouneveroughtto’avebeenborn.

“ThentherecameinthisnewJapanesebusiness,and’e’d’irealittlesmiling’eathen to chuck ’im about ’is room for ’alf an hour every morning afterbreakfast.Itgotonmynervesafterawhile’earing’imbeingbumpedontheflooreveryminute,or flungwith ’is ’ead into the fire-place. But ’ealwayssaiditwasdoing’imgood.’E’darguethatitfreshenedup’isliver.Itwas’isliver that ’e seemed to live for—didn’t appear to ’ave any other interest inlife. Itwasthesamewith’isfood. Oneyear itwouldbenothingbutmeat,and next door to raw at that. One of them medical papers ’ad suddenlydiscoveredthatwewereintendedtobeasortofwildbeast.Thewondertomeisthat’edidn’tgoout’untingchickenswithaclub,andbring’em’omeandeat ’emon thematwithout any further fuss. For drink itwould be boilingwaterthatburntmyfingersmerely’andlingtheglass.Thensomeothercrankcame out with the information that every other crank was wrong—which,taken by itself, sounds natural enough—that meat was fatal to the ’umansystem. Upon that ’e becomes all at once a raging, tearing vegetarian, andtroubleenoughI’adlearningtwentydifferentwaysofcookingbeans,whichdidn’tmake, so far as I could ever see, the slightest difference—beans theywere,andbeanstheytastedlike,whetheryoucalledthemragoûtàlamaison,orcutletsàlaPompadour.Butitseemedtoplease’im.

Hewasneverpig-headed.

“Thenvegetarianismturnedouttobethemistakeofourlives.Itseemedwemadeanerrorgivingupmonkeys’food. Thatwasournaturalvictuals;nutswithoccasionalbananas.AsIusedtotell’im,ifthatwasso,thenforallwe’adgotoutofitwemightjustaswellhavestoppedupatree—savedrentandshoeleather.But’ewasoneofthatsortthatdon’tseemableto’elpbelievingeverythingtheyreadinprint.Ifoneofthosepapers’adtold’imtoliveontheshellsandthrowawaythenuts,’e’dhavemadeaconscientiousendeavourtodo so, contending that ’is failure to digest them was merely the result ofvicious training—didn’t seem to ’ave any likes or dislikes of ’is own. Youmight ’ave thought ’e was just a bit of public property made to beexperimentedupon.

“Oneofthedailypapersinterviewedanoldgent,assaid’ewasa’undred,and

Iwillsayfrom’ispictureasany’ow’elookedit.’Esaiditwasalltheresultofnever’avingswallowedanything’ot,uponwhichmygentlemanforaweeklives on coldporridge, if you’ll believeme; althoughmyself I’d rather ’avediedat fiftyandgot itover. Thenanotherpaperdugup fromsomewhereasort of animated corpse that saidwas a ’undred and two, and attributed theunfortunatefactto’isalways’aving’ad’isfoodas’otas’ecouldswallowit.Abitofsensedidbegintodawnupon’imthen,buttoolateintheday,Itakeit.’E’dplayedaboutwith’imselftoolong.’Ediedatthirty-two,lookingtoallappearancesixty,andyoucan’tsayas’owitwas theresultofnot takingadvice.”

Onlyjustintime.

“Onthissubjectofhealthwearemuchtooreadytofollowadvice,”Iagreed.“Acousinofmine,Mrs.Wilkins,hadawifewhosufferedoccasionallyfromheadache.Nomedicinerelievedherofthem—notaltogether.Andonedaybychanceshemetafriendwhosaid:‘ComestraightwithmetoDr.Blank,’whohappened to be a specialist famous for having invented a new disease thatnobodyuntiltheyearbeforehadeverheardof.SheaccompaniedherfriendtoDr.Blank,andinlessthantenminuteshehadpersuadedherthatshehadgotthisnewdisease,andgotitbadly;andthatheronlychancewastolethimcuther open and have it out. She was a tolerably healthy woman, with theexceptionoftheseoccasionalheadaches,butfromwhatthatspecialistsaiditwasdoubtfulwhethershewouldgethomealive,unlessshelethimoperateonher thenand there,andher friend,whoappeareddelighted,urgedhernot tocommitsuicide,asitwere,bymissingherturn.

“Theresultwassheconsented,andafterwardswenthomeina four-wheeledcab,andputherselftobed.Herhusband,whenhereturnedintheeveningandwas told,wasfurious. Hesaid itwasallhumbug,andby this timeshewasreadytoagreewithhim.Heputonhishat,andstartedtogivethatspecialistabitofhismind.Thespecialistwasout,andhehadtobottleuphisrageuntilthemorning.Bythen,hiswifenowreallyillforthefirsttimeinherlife,hisindignationhadreachedboilingpoint.Hewasatthatspecialist’sdoorathalf-pastnineo’clock. Athalf-pastelevenhecameback,also ina four-wheeledcab, andday andnight nurses for both of themwerewired for. He also, itappeared,hadarrivedatthatspecialist’sdooronlyjustintime.

“There’s this appendy—whatever they call it,” commented Mrs. Wilkins,“whyadozenyearsagoonepoorcreatureoutof ten thousandmaypossibly’ave’adsomethingwrongwith’isinnards.To-dayyouain’t’ardlyconsideredrespectableunlessyou’vegot it,or’ave’adit. I’avenopatiencewiththeirtalk.Tolistentosomeofthemyou’dthinkasNature’adn’tmadeaman—notyet:wouldneverunderstandtheprincipleofthethingtillsomeoftheseyoung

chaps’adshown’er’owtodoit.”

HowtoavoidEverything.

“Theyhavenowdiscovered,Mrs.Wilkins,”Isaid,“thegermofoldage.Theyare going to inoculate us for it in early youth,with the result that the onlychanceofevergettingridofourfriendswillbetogivethemamotor-car.Andmaybe itwill notdo to trust to that for long. Theywill discover that somemen’stendencytowardsgettingthemselvesintotroubleisduetosomesortofagerm. Themanof the future,Mrs.Wilkins,will be inoculatedagainst allchance of gas explosions, storms at sea, bad oysters, and thin ice. Sciencemay eventually discover the germ prompting to ill-assorted marriages,pronenesstoinvestinthewrongstock,uncontrollabledesiretorecitepoetryatevening parties. Religion, politics, education—all these things are somuchwastedenergy.Tolivehappyandgoodforeverandever,allwehavetodoistohuntoutthesevariousgermsandwringtheirnecksforthem—orwhateverthe proper treatment may be. Heaven, I gather from medical science, ismerelyaplacethatisfreefromgerms.”

“Wetalkalotaboutit,”thoughtMrs.Wilkins,“butitdoesnotseemtomethatwe are verymuch better off than beforewe took toworrying ourselves fortwenty-four ’ours a day about ’owwe are going to live. Lord! to read theadvertisements in the papers you would think as ’ow flesh and blood wasnever intended to ’ave any natural ills. ‘Do you ever ’ave a pain in yourback?’because,ifso,there’sapictureofakindgentwho’swillingforoneandsixpencehalfpennytotakeitquiteawayfromyou—makeyoulookforwardtoscrubbingfloors,andstandingoverthewash-tubsix’oursatastretchliketoabeanfeast.‘Doyoueverfeelasthoughyoudon’twanttogetoutofbedinthemorning?’ that’s all to be cured by a bottle of their stuff—or two at theoutside.Fourchildrentokeep,andasick’usbandonyour’andsusedtogetmeoveritwhenIwasyounger.IusedtofancyitwasjustbecauseIwastired.

TheoneCure-All.

“There’s someof themseem to think,” continuedMrs.Wilkins, “that ifyoudon’t get all you want out of this world, and ain’t so ’appy as you’vepersuadedyourselfyouought tobe, that it’sallbecauseyouain’t taking therightmedicine.Appearstomethere’sonlyonedoctorascandoforyou,alltheotherstalkasthoughtheycould,and’eonlycomestoeachofusonce,andthen’emakesnocharge.”

CHAPTERXIV

EuropeandthebrightAmericanGirl.

“Howdoesshedoit?”

ThatiswhattheEuropeangirlwantstoknow.TheAmericangirl!Shecomesoverhere,and,asaBritishmatron,reducedtoslangbyforceofindignation,onceexclaimedtome:“You’dthinkthewholeblessedshowbelongedtoher.”TheEuropeangirl ishamperedbyher relatives. Shehas toaccount forherfather: to explain away, if possible, her grandfather. The American girlsweepsthemaside:

“Don’t you worry about them,” she says to the Lord Chamberlain. “It’sawfullygoodofyou,butdon’tyou fussyourself. I’m lookingaftermyoldpeople.That’smydepartment.WhatIwantyoutodoisjusttolistentowhatI am saying and then hustle around. I can fill up your time all right bymyself.”

Herfathermaybeasoap-boiler,hergrandmothermayhavegoneoutcharing.

“That’sallright,”shesaystoherAmbassador:“They’renotcoming.YoujusttakemycardandtelltheKingthatwhenhe’sgotafewminutestospareI’llbepleasedtoseehim.”

And the extraordinary thing is that, a day or two afterwards, the invitationarrives.

Amodernwriterhassaidthat“I’mMurrican”istheCivisRomanussumofthepresent-daywoman’sworld.ThelateKingofSaxony,did,Ibelieve,ononeoccasionmake a feeble protest at being asked to receive the daughter of aretailbootmaker.Theyounglady,nonplussedforthemoment,telegraphedtoher father in Detroit. The answer came back next morning: “Can’t call itselling—practically giving them away. SeeAdvertisement.” The ladywaspresentedasthedaughterofaneminentphilanthropist.

It is due to her to admit that, taking her as a class, the American girl is adistinctgaintoEuropeanSociety.Herinfluenceisagainstconventionandinfavourofsimplicity.Oneofhergreatestcharms,intheeyesoftheEuropeanman, is that she listens tohim. I cannot saywhether itdoesheranygood.Maybeshedoesnotrememberitall,butwhileyouaretalkingshedoesgiveyou her attention. The English woman does not always. She greets youpleasantlyenough:

“I’vesooftenwantedtomeetyou,”shesays,“mustyoureallygo?”

Itstrikesyouassudden:youhadnointentionofgoingforhours.Butthehintis too plain to be ignored. You are preparing to agree that you reallymustwhen,lookinground,yougatherthatthelastremarkwasnotaddressedtoyou,buttoanothergentlemanwhoisshakinghandswithher:

“Now,perhapsweshallbeable to talkforfiveminutes,”shesays. “I’vesooften wanted to say that I shall never forgive you. You have been simplyhorrid.”

Again you are confused, until you jump to the conclusion that the latterportionofthespeechisprobablyintendedforquiteanotherpartywithwhom,at the moment, her back towards you, she is engaged in a whisperedconversation. When he is gone she turns again to you. But the variedexpressions that pass across her facewhile you are discussingwith her thedisadvantages of Protection, bewilder you. When, explaining your owndifficulty in arriving at a conclusion, you remark that Great Britain is anisland, she roguishly shakes her head. It is not that she has forgotten hergeography, it is thatsheisconductingaconversationbysignswithaladyattheotherendoftheroom.Whenyouobservethattheworkingclassesmustbefed,shesmilesarchlywhilemurmuring:

“Oh,doyoureallythinkso?”

Youareabouttosaysomethingstrongonthesubjectofdumping.Apparentlyshehasdisappeared.Youfindthatsheisreachingroundbehindyoutotapanewarrivalwithherfan.

ShehastheArtofListening.

Now, theAmerican girl looks at you, and just listens to youwith her eyesfixedonyouallthetime.Yougatherthat,asfarassheisconcerned,therestofthecompanyarepassingshadows.ShewantstohearwhatyouhavetosayaboutBi-metallism:hertroubleislestshemaymissawordofit.Fromatalkwith an American girl one comes away with the conviction that one is abrilliantconversationalist,whocanholdacharmingwomanspell-bound.Thismaynotbegoodforone:butwhileitlasts,thesensationispleasant.

Even the American girl cannot, on all occasions, sweep from her path thecobwebsofold-worldetiquette. TwoAmerican ladies toldmea sad taleofthingsthathadhappenedtothemnotlongagoinDresden.Anofficerofrankandstandinginvitedthemtobreakfastwithhimontheice.Damesandnoblesoftheplushauttonwouldbethere. It isasocialfunctionthatoccurseverySundaymorninginDresdenduringtheskatingseason.ThegreatlakeintheGrosserGarteniscoveredwithallsortsandconditionsofpeople.Princeandcommonercircleandrecircleroundoneanother. But theydonotmix. The

girlswerepleased.Theysecuredtheservicesofanelderlylady,thewidowofananalyticalchemist:unfortunately, shecouldnotskate. Theywrappedherupandputherinasledge.Whiletheywereinthegarderobeputtingontheirskates,aGermangentlemancameupandbowedtothem.

Hewasaniceyoungmanofprepossessingappearanceandamiablemanners.They could not call to mind his name, but remembered having met him,somewhere, and on more than one occasion. The American girl is alwayssociable:theybowedandsmiled,andsaiditwasafineday.Herepliedwithvolubility,andhelpedthemdownontotheice.Hewasreallymostattentive.Theysawtheirfriend,theofficerofnoblefamily,and,withtheassistanceofthe German gentleman, skated towards him. He glided past them. Theythoughtthatmaybehedidnotknowenoughtostop,sotheyturnedandskatedafterhim.Theychasedhimthreetimesroundthepondandthen,feelingtired,easedupandtookcounseltogether.

“I’msurehemusthaveseenus,”saidtheyoungergirl.“Whatdoeshemeanbyit?”

“Well,Ihavenotcomedownheretoplayforfeits,”saidtheother,“addedtowhich Iwantmybreakfast. Youwaithereaminute, I’llgoandhave itoutwithhim.”

He was standing only a dozen yards away. Alone, though not a goodperformerontheice,shecontrivedtocoverhalfthedistancedividingthem.The officer, perceiving her, came to her assistance and greeted her witheffusion.

TheRepublicanIdeainpractice.

“Oh,”saidthelady,whowasfeelingindignant,“Ithoughtmaybeyouhadleftyourglassesathome.”

“Iamsorry,”saidtheofficer,“butitisimpossible.”

“What’simpossible?”demandedthelady.

“ThatIcanbeseenspeakingtoyou,”declaredtheofficer,“whileyouareincompanywiththat—thatperson.”

“Whatperson?”Shethoughtmaybehewasalludingtotheladyinthesledge.Thechaperonwasnotshowy,but,whatisbetter,shewasgood.And,anyhow,itwasthebestthegirlshadbeenabletodo.Sofarastheywereconcerned,theyhadnouseforachaperon.TheideahadbeenathoughtfulconcessiontoEuropeanprejudice.

“Thepersoninknickerbockers,”explainedtheofficer.

“Oh,that,”exclaimed the lady, relieved:“he justcameupandmadehimselfagreeablewhilewewereputtingonourskates.Wehavemethimsomewhere,butIcan’texactlyfixhimforthemoment.”

“YouhavemethimpossiblyatWiesman’s, in thePragerstrasse:he isoneoftheattendantsthere,”saidtheofficer.

The American girl is Republican in her ideas, but she draws the line athairdressers.Intheoryitisabsurd:thehairdresserisamanandabrother:butwearenoneofuslogicalalltheway.Itmadehermad,thethoughtthatshehadbeenseenbyallDresdenSocietyskatingwithahairdresser.

“Well,”shesaid,“Idocallthatimpudence.Why,theywouldn’tdothateveninChicago.”

And she returned towhere the hairdresserwas illustrating to her friend theDutchroll,determinedtoexplaintohim,aspolitelyaspossible,thatalthoughthefreeandenlightenedWesternerhasabolishedsocialdistinctions,hehasnotyetabolishedthemtothatextent.

HadhebeenacommonplaceGermanhairdresserhewouldhaveunderstoodEnglish, and all might have been easy. But to the “classy” Germanhairdresser,Englishisnotsonecessary,andtheAmericanladieshadreached,as regards theirGerman,only the“improving”stage. Inherexcitement sheconfusedthesubjunctiveandtheimperative,andtoldhimthathe“might”go.Hehadnowishtogo;heassuredthem—sotheygathered—thathisintentionwastodevotethemorningtotheirservice.Hemusthavebeenastupidman,butitisatypeoccasionallyencountered.Twoprettywomenhadgreetedhisadvanceswithapparentdelight.TheywereAmericans,andtheAmericangirlwas notoriously unconventional. He knew himself to be a good-lookingyoung fellow. It did not occur to him that in expressing willingness todispensewithhisattendancetheycouldbeinearnest.

Therewasnothingforit,soitseemedtothegirls,buttorequesttheassistanceof theofficer,whocontinuedtoskateroundandroundthematadistanceofabouttenyards.Soagaintheelderyounglady,seizingheropportunity,madeappeal.

WhattheSoldierdarednotdo.

“I cannot,” persisted the officer, who, having been looking forward to amorningwith twoof theprettiestgirls inDresden,wasalsofeelingmad. “Idarenotbeseenspeakingtoahairdresser.Youmustgetridofhim.”

“Butwecan’t,”saidthegirl.“WedonotknowenoughGerman,andhecan’t,orhewon’t,understandus. Forgoodnesssakecomeandhelpus. We’llbespendingthewholemorningwithhimifyoudon’t.”

TheGermanofficersaidhewasdesolate.Stepswouldbetaken—laterintheweek—theresultofwhichwouldprobablybetorenderthatyounghairdresserprematurelybald.But,meanwhile,beyondskatingroundandroundthem,forwhich they did not even feel theywanted to thank him, theGermanofficercould do nothing for them. They tried being rude to the hairdresser: hemistook it for American chic. They tried joining hands and running awayfromhim,buttheywerenotgoodskaters,andhethoughttheyweretryingtoshowhimthecakewalk.Theybothfelldownandhurtthemselves,anditisdifficulttobeangrywithaman,evenahairdresser,whenheisdoinghisbesttopickyouupandcomfortyou.

The chaperon was worse than useless. She was very old. She had beenpromisedherbreakfast,butsawnosignsofit.ShecouldnotspeakGerman;and remembered somewhat late in the day that two young ladies had nobusinesstoacceptbreakfastatthehandsofGermanofficers:and,iftheydid,atleasttheymightseethattheygotit.Sheappearedtobewillingtotalkaboutdecadence of modern manners to almost any extent, but the subject of thehairdresser,andhowtogetridofhim,onlyboredher.

Their first stroke of luck occurred when the hairdresser, showing them the“droppedthree,”felldownandtemporarilystunnedhimself. Itwasnotkindof them,but theyweredesperate. Theyflewfor thebank justanyhow,and,scramblingoverthegrass,gainedtherestaurant.Theofficer,overtakingthemat the door, led them to the table that had been reserved for them, thenhastenedback tohunt for thechaperon. Thegirls thought their troublewasover.Hadtheyglancedbehindthemtheirjoywouldhavebeenshorter-livedthanevenwasthecase.Thehairdresserhadrecoveredconsciousnessintimetoseethemwaddlingoverthegrass. Hethoughttheywererunningtofetchhim brandy. When the officer returned with the chaperon he found thehairdressersittingoppositetothem,explainingthathereallywasnothurt,andsuggestingthat,astheywerethere,perhapstheywouldlikesomethingtoeatanddrink.

Thegirlsmadeonelastfranticappealtothemanofbuckramandpipeclay,buttheetiquetteof theSaxonArmywas inexorable. It transpired thathemightkill the hairdresser, but nothing else: he must not speak to him—not evenexplaintothepoordevilwhyitwasthathewasbeingkilled.

HerpathofUsefulness.

Itdidnotseemquiteworth it. Theyhadsomesandwichesandcoffeeat thehairdresser’s expense, and went home in a cab: while the chaperon hadbreakfastwiththeofficerofnoblefamily.

TheAmericangirlhassucceededinfreeingEuropeansocialintercoursefrommanyofitshide-boundconventions.Thereisstillmuchworkforhertodo.ButIhavefaithinher.

CHAPTERXV

MusicandtheSavage.

Inevervisitamusic-hallwithoutreflectingconcerningthegreatfuturetheremustbebeforethehumanrace.

Howyoungweare,howveryyoung!Andthinkofallwehavedone!Manisstill amereboy. Hehasonly justwithin the lasthalf-centurybeenput intotrousers.Twothousandyearsagoheworelongclothes—theGrecianrobe,theRomantoga.ThenfollowedtheLittleLordFauntleroyperiod,whenhewentaboutdressedinavelvetsuitwithlacecollarandcuffs,andhadhishaircurledfor him. The late lamentedQueenVictoria put him into trousers. What awonderfullittlemanhewillbewhenheisgrownup!

Aclergyman friendofmine toldmeofaGermanKurhaus towhichhewassent for his sins and his health. Itwas a resort, for some reason, speciallypatronized by the more elderly section of the higher English middle class.Bishopswere there,sufferingfromfattydegenerationof theheartcausedbytoo close application to study; ancient spinsters of good family subject tospasms;gouty retiredgenerals. Cananybody tellmehowmanymen in theBritish Army go to a general? Somebody once assured me it was fivethousand,butthatisabsurd,onthefaceofit.TheBritishArmy,inthatcase,would have to be counted bymillions. There are a goodish fewAmericancolonels still knocking about. TheAmerican colonel is still to bemetwithhereand thereby thecurious traveller,butcomparedwith theretiredBritishgeneral he is an extinct species. In Cheltenham and Brighton and otherfavoured towns there are streets of nothing but retired British generals—squares of retired British generals—whole crescents of British generals.AbroadtherearepensionswithaspecialscaleofchargesforBritishgenerals.In Switzerland there has even been talk of reserving railway compartments“ForBritishGeneralsOnly.”InGermany,whenyoudonotsaydistinctlyand

emphaticallyonbeing introduced thatyouarenotaBritishgeneral,youareassumed,asamatterofcourse,tobeaBritishgeneral.DuringtheBoerWar,whenIwasresidinginasmallgarrisontownontheRhine,Germanmilitarymenwoulddrawmeasideandaskofmemyownprivatepersonalviewsastotheconductofthecampaign.Iwouldgivethemmyviewsfreely,explaintothemhowIwouldfinishthewholethinginaweek.

“Buthowinthefaceoftheenemy’stactics—”oneofthemwouldbegin.

“Bothertheenemy’stactics,”Iwouldreply.“Whocaresfortactics?”

“But surely a British general—” they would persist. “Who’s a Britishgeneral?”Iwouldretort,“Iamtalkingtoyoumerelyasaplaincommonsenseman,withaheadonmyshoulders.”

Theywouldapologizefortheirmistake.ButthisisleadingmeawayfromthatGermanKurhaus.

RecreationfortheHigherclergy.

Myclergymanfriendfoundlifetheredull.Thegeneralsandthespinstersleftto themselvesmighthaveplayedcards,but theythoughtof thepoorbishopswhowouldhavehadtolookonenvious.Thebishopsandthespinstersmighthave sung ballads, but the British general after dinner does not care forballads,andhadmentionedit.Thebishopsandthegeneralsmighthavetoldeachotherstories,butcouldnotbeforetheladies.Myclergymanfriendstoodthe awful solemnity of three evenings, then cautiously felt hisway towardsrevelry.Hestartedwithanintellectualgamecalled“Quotations.”Youwritedownquotationsonapieceofpaper,andtheplayershavetoaddtheauthor’sname. It roped in four old ladies, and the youngest bishop. One or twogeneralstriedaround,butnotbeingfamiliarwithquotationsvotedthegameslow.

Thenextnightmyfriendtried“Consequences.”“SaucyMissA.metthegayGeneralB.in”—mostunlikelyplaces.“Hesaid.”ReallyitwasfortunatethatGeneralB.remainedtooengrossedinthedaybeforeyesterday’sStandard tooverhear,orMissA.couldneverhaveagainfacedhim. “Andshereplied.”Thesuppressedgigglesexcitedthecuriosityofthenon-players. Mostofthebishopsandhalf thegeneralsaskedtobeallowedto join. Thegigglesgrewintoroars. Thosestandingoutfoundthattheycouldnotreadtheirpapersincomfort.

From “Consequences” the descent was easy. The tables and chairs werepushedagainstthewalls,thebishopsandthespinstersandthegeneralswouldsitinaringuponthefloorplayinghunttheslipper.Musicalchairsmadethe

twohoursbetweenbedanddinnerthetimeofthedaytheyalllookedforwardto: the steady trot with every nerve alert, the ear listening for the suddenstoppageof themusic, theeyeseekingwithartfulness the likeliestchair, thevolcanicsilence,themadscramble.

The generals felt themselves fighting their battles over again, the spinstersblushedandpreenedthemselves,thebishopstookinterestinprovingthateventheChurchcouldbepromptofdecisionandswiftofmovement. Before theweekwasouttheywereplayingPuss-in-the-corner;ladiesfeelingyoungagainwere archly beckoning to stout deans, to whom were returning all thesensations of a curate. The swiftnesswithwhich the gouty generals foundtheycouldstillhobblesurprisedeventhemselves.

Whyarewesoyoung?

But it is in themusic-hall,asIhavesaid, thatIammost impressedwith theyouthfulnessofman. Howdelightedwearewhen the longman in the littleboy’shat,havingaskedhisshortbrotherariddle,andbeforehecanfindtimetoanswerit,hitshimoverthestomachwithanumbrella! Howweclapourhandsandshoutwithglee!Itisn’treallyhisstomach:itisabolstertiedroundhiswaist—weknowthat;butseeingthelongmanwhackatthatbolsterwithanumbrellagivesusalmostasmuchjoyasifthebolsterwerenotthere.

Ilaughattheknockaboutbrothers,Iconfess,solongastheyareonthestage;buttheydonotconvinceme. Reflectingontheperformanceafterwards,mydramaticsenserevoltsagainst the“plot.” Icannotaccept the theoryof theirbeingbrothers.Thedifferenceinsizealoneisastrainuponmyimagination.Itisnotprobablethatoftwochildrenofthesameparentsoneshouldmeasuresixfootsix,andtheotherfivefootfour.Evenallowingforafreakofnature,andacceptingthefactthattheymightbebrothers,Idonotbelievetheywouldremainsoinseparable.Theshortbrotherwouldhavesucceededbeforenowinlosingthelongbrother.Thosecontinualbangingsovertheheadandstomachwould haveweakenedwhatever affection the short brothermight originallyhavefelttowardshislongrelation.Atleast,hewouldinsistupontheumbrellabeingleftathome.

“Iwillgoforawalkwithyou,”hemightsay,“IwillstandstockstillwithyouinTrafalgarSquareinthemidstofthetrafficwhileyouaskmesillyriddles,butnotifyoupersistinbringingwithyouthatabsurdumbrella.Youaretoohandywithit.Putitbackintherackbeforewestart,orgooutbyyourself.”

Besides,my sense of justice is outraged. Why should the short brother bebanged and thumped without reason? The Greek dramatist would haveexplained to us that the shorter brother had committed a crime against the

gods.AristophaneswouldhavemadethelongerbrothertheinstrumentoftheFuries. The riddles he asked would have had bearing upon the shorterbrother’s sin. In this way the spectator would have enjoyed amusementcombinedwith the satisfactory sense thatNemesis is ever present in humanaffairs. I present the idea, for what it may be worth, to the concoctors ofknockaboutturns.

WhereBrotherly(andSisterly)Lovereignssupreme.

Thefamilytieisalwaysstrongonthemusic-hallstage.Theacrobatictroupeisalwaysa“Family”:Pa,Ma,eightbrothersandsisters,andthebaby.Amoreaffectionate family one rarely sees. Pa and Ma are a trifle stout, but stillactive.Baby,dearlittlefellow,isfullofhumour.Ladiesdonotcaretogoonthemusic-hallstageunlesstheycantaketheirsisterwiththem.Ihaveseenaperformancegivenbyelevensisters,all thesamesizeandapparentlyall thesameage. Shemust havebeen awonderfulwoman—themother. They allhad golden hair, and all wore precisely similar frocks—a charmingbut décolletée arrangement—in claret-coloured velvet over blue silkstockings. So far as I could gather, they all had the same youngman. Nodoubthefounditdifficultamongstthemtomakeuphismind.

“Arrangeitamongyourselves,”henodoubthadsaid,“itisquiteimmaterialtome. Youaresomuchalike, it is impossible thata fellowlovingoneshouldnotlovethelotofyou.SolongasImarryintothefamilyIreallydon’tcare.”

When a performer appears alone on the music-hall stage it is easy tounderstandwhy. Hisorherdomestic lifehasbeena failure. I listenedoneeveningtosixsongsinsuccession.Thefirsttwoweresungbyagentleman.Heenteredwithhisclotheshanginguponhiminshreds.Heexplainedthathehadjustcomefromanargumentwithhiswife.Heshowedusthebrickwithwhichshehadhithim,andthebumpatthebackofhisheadthathadresulted.Thefunnyman’smarriageisneverasuccess.Butreallythisseemstobehisownfault.“Shewassuchalovelygirl,”hetellsus,“withaface—well,you’dhardly call it a face, itwasmore like a gas explosion. Then she had thosewonderfulsortofeyes thatyoucansee twowaysatoncewith,oneof themlooksdownthestreet,whiletheotheroneiswatchingroundthecorner.Canseeyoucominganyway.Andhermouth!”

Itappearsthatifshestandsanywherenearthecurbandsmiles,carelesspeoplemistakeherforapillar-box,anddroplettersintoher.

“Andsuchavoice!”Wearetolditisaperfectimitationofamotor-car.Whenshelaughspeoplespringintodoorwaystoescapebeingrunover.

Ifhewillmarrythatsortofwoman,whatcanheexpect?Themanisasking

forit.

The ladywhofollowedhimalso toldusasadstoryofmisplaced trust. Shealsowascomic—sotheprogrammeassuredus.Thehumoristappearstohavenoluck.Shehadlentherlovermoneytobuythering,andthelicence,andtofurnishtheflat.Hedidbuythering,andhefurnishedtheflat,butitwasforanotherlady. Theaudienceroared. Ihavehearditsooftenasked,“Whatishumour?”Fromobservation,Ishoulddescribeitasotherpeople’stroubles.

Amaleperformerfollowedher.Hecameondressedinanight-shirt,carryingababy. Hiswife, it seemed,hadgoneout for the eveningwith the lodger.Thatwashisjoke.Itwasthemostsuccessfulsongofthewholesix.

TheonesureJoke.

Aphilosopherhasputitonrecordthathealwaysfeltsadwhenhereflectedonthe sorrows of humanity. Butwhen he reflected on its amusements he feltsadderstill.

Whywasitsofunnythatthebabyhadthelodger’snose?Welaughedforafullminutebytheclock.

WhydoIlovetoseeaflabby-facedmangobehindcurtains,and,emerginginawigandafalsebeard,saythatheisnowBismarckorMr.Chamberlain?IhavefeltresentmentagainsttheLightningImpersonatoreversincethedaysofQueen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. During that summer every LightningImpersonatorendedhisshowbyshouting,whilethebandplayedtheNationalAnthem,“QueenVictoria!”HewasnotabitlikeQueenVictoria.Hedidnoteven, tomythinking, looka lady;butatonceIhadtostandupinmyplaceandsing“GodsavetheQueen.”Itwasatimeofenthusiasticloyalty;ifyoudidnotspringupquicklysomepatrioticoldfoolfromthebackwouldreachacross andhit youover the headwith the first thinghe could layhis handsupon.

Othermusic-hallperformerscaughtattheidea.Byendingupwith“Godsavethe Queen” any performer, however poor, could retire in a whirlwind ofapplause. Niggers, having bored us with tiresome songs about coons andhoneysandSwaneeRivers,would,asalastresource,strikeup“GodsavetheQueen”onthebanjo.Thewholehousewouldhavetoriseandcheer.ElderlySistersTrippet,havingfailedtoarouseourenthusiasmbyallowingusabriefglimpseofanankle,wouldputasideall frivolity,and tellusofahero lovernamed George, who had fought somebody somewhere for his Queen andcountry. “He fell!”—bang from the big drum and blue limelight. In arecumbentpositionheappearstohaveimmediatelystartedsinging“GodsavetheQueen.”

HowAnarchistsaremade.

Sleepymembersoftheaudiencewouldbehastilyawakenedbytheirfriends.Wewould stagger to our feet. The Sisters Trippet, with eyes fixed on thechandelier,wouldleadus:tothebestofourabilitywewouldsing“GodsavetheQueen.”

TherehavebeeneveningswhenIhavesung“GodsavetheQueen”sixtimes.Anotherseasonofit,andIshouldhavebecomeaRepublican.

The singer of patriotic songs is generally a stout and puffy man. Theperspirationpoursfromhisfaceastheresultoftheviolentgesticulationswithwhichhetellsushowhestormedthefort.Hemusthavereacheditveryhot.

“Thereweretentooneaginus,boys.”Wefeelthatthiswasamiscalculationon the enemy’s part. Ten to one “agin” suchwildly gesticulatingBritisherswasinvitingdefeat.

It seems tohavebeena terriblebattlenotwithstanding. Heshowsuswitharealswordhowitwasdone.Nothingcouldhavelivedwithinadozenyardsofthatsword.Theconductoroftheorchestralooksnervous.Ourfearislesthewillendbycuttingoffhisownhead.Hisrecollectionsarecarryinghimaway.Thenfollows“Victory!”

Thegasmenandtheprogrammesellerscheerwildly. Weconcludewiththeinevitable“GodsavetheKing.”

CHAPTERXVI

TheGhostandtheBlindChildren.

Ghostsareintheair.Itisdifficultatthismomenttoavoidtalkingofghosts.Thefirstquestionyouareaskedonbeingintroducedthisseasonis:

“Doyoubelieveinghosts?”

Iwouldbesogladtobelieveinghosts.Thisworldismuchtoosmallforme.Uptoacenturyortwoagotheintellectualyoungmanfounditsufficientforhis purposes. It still contained the unknown—the possible—within itsboundaries.Newcontinentswerestilltobediscovered:wedreamtofgiants,Liliputians,desert-fencedUtopias.Wesetoursail,andWonderlandlayeverjust beyond our horizon. To-day the world is small, the light railway runs

throughthedesert,thecoastingsteamercallsattheIslandsoftheBlessed,thelast mystery has been unveiled, the fairies are dead, the talking birds aresilent.Ourbaffledcuriosityturnsforreliefoutwards.Wecalluponthedeadtorescueusfromourmonotony.Thefirstauthenticghostwillbewelcomedasthesaviourofhumanity.

Buthemustbealivingghost—aghostwecanrespect,aghostwecanlistento.Thepoorspiritlessaddle-headedghostthathashithertohauntedourbluechambers is of no use to us. I remember a thoughtfulmanonce remarkingduringargumentthatifhebelievedinghosts—thesilly,childishspooksaboutwhichwehadbeentellinganecdotes—deathwouldpossessforhimanaddedfear: the idea that his next dwelling-place would be among such a pack ofdismalidiotswouldsaddenhisdepartinghours.Whatwashetotalktothemabout? Apparently theironly interest lay in recalling their earthly troubles.Theghostof the ladyunhappilymarriedwhohadbeenpoisoned,orhadherthroat cut, who every night for the last five hundred years had visited thechamberwhereithappenedfornootherpurposethantoscreamaboutit!whatatiresomepersonshewouldbetomeet!Allherconversationduringthelongdayswouldbearoundherearthlywrongs.Theotherghosts,inallprobability,wouldhaveheardaboutthathusbandofhers,whathesaid,andwhathedid,till theywere sick of the subject. A newcomerwould be seized uponwithavidity.

A ladyof reputewrites toamagazine thatsheonceoccupied foraseasonawainscottedroominanoldmanorhouse.Onseveraloccasionssheawokeinthenight:eachtimetowitnessthesameghostlyperformance.Fourgentlemensatroundatableplayingcards.Suddenlyoneofthemsprangtohisfeetandplungedadaggerintothebackofhispartner.Theladydoesnotsayso:onepresumes it was his partner. I have,myself, when playing bridge, seen anexpressiononmypartner’sfacethatsaidquiteplainly:

“Iwouldliketomurderyou.”

Ihavenotthememoryforbridge.Iforgetwhoitwasthat,lasttrickbutseven,playedthetwoofclubs.Ithoughtitwashe,mypartner.IthoughtitmeantthatIwastotakeanearlyopportunityofforcingtrumps.Idon’tknowwhyIthoughtso,ItrytoexplainwhyIthoughtso.Itsoundsasillyargumenteventomyself;IfeelIhavenotgotitquiteright. Addedtowhichitwasnotmypartner who played the two of clubs, it was Dummy. If I had onlyremembered this,andhadconcludedfromit—asIought tohavedone—thatmypartnerhadtheaceofdiamonds—asotherwisewhydidhepassmyknave?—wemighthavesavedtheoddtrick.Ihavenottheheadforbridge.Itisonlyanordinaryhead—mine.Ihavenobusinesstoplaybridge.

Whynot,occasionally,acheerfulGhost.

Buttoreturntoourghosts.Thesefourgentlemenmustnowandagain,duringtheirearthlyexistence,havesatdowntoamerrygameofcards.Theremusthave been eveningswhen nobodywas stabbed. Why choose an unpleasantoccasion toharp exclusivelyupon it? Whydoghostsnevergive a cheerfulshow?Theladywhowaspoisoned!theremusthavebeenothereveningsinherlife.Whydoesshenotshowus“Thefirstmeeting”:whenhegavehertheviolets and said theywere like her eyes? Hewasn’t always poisoning her.There must have been a period before he ever thought of poisoning her.Cannottheseghostsdosomethingoccasionallyinwhatistermed“thelightervein”?Iftheyhauntaforestglade,itistoperformadueltothedeath,oranassassination. Whycannot they,forachange,giveusanold-timepicnic,or“The hawking party,” which, in Elizabethan costume, shouldmake a prettypicture? Ghostland would appear to be obsessed by the spirit of theScandinaviandrama:murders,suicides,ruinedfortunes,andbrokenheartsaretheonlymaterialmadeuseof.Whyisnotadeadhumoristallowednowandthentowritethesketch?Theremustbeplentyofdeadcomiclovers;whyaretheyneverallowedtogiveaperformance?

WherearethedeadHumorists?

Acheerfulpersoncontemplatesdeathwithalarm.Whatishetodointhislandof ghosts? there is no place for him. Imagine the commonplace liver of ahumdrumexistence being received into ghost land. He enters nervous, shy,feelingagainthenewboyatschool.Theoldghostsgatherroundhim.

“Howdoyoucomehere—murdered?”

“No,atleast,Idon’tthinkso.”

“Suicide?

“No—can’trememberthenameofitnow.Beganwithachillontheliver,Ithink.”

Theghostsaredisappointed.Butahappysuggestionismade.Perhapshewasthe murderer; that would be even better. Let him think carefully; can herecollecteverhavingcommittedamurder?Herackshisbrainsinvain,notasinglemurdercomestohisrecollection.Heneverforgedawill.Doesn’tevenknow where anything is hid. Of what use will he be in ghostland? Onepictures him passing the centuries among a moody crowd of uninterestingmediocrities,broodingperpetuallyovertheirwastedlives.Onlytheghostsofladiesandgentlemenmixedupincrimehaveany“show”inghostland.

TheSpiritdoesnotshineasaConversationalist.

Ifeelanequaldissatisfactionwiththespiritswhoaresupposedtoreturntousandcommunicatewithusthroughthemediumofthree-leggedtables.Idonotdeny thepossibility that spiritsexist. I amevenwilling toallow them theirthree-leggedtables.Itmustbeconfesseditisaclumsymethod.Onecannothelpregrettingthatduringalltheagestheyhavenotevolvedamoredignifiedsystem. One feels that the three-legged tablemust hamper them. One canimagine an impatient spirit getting tiredof spellingout a lengthy storyonathree-leggedtable.But,asIhavesaid,Iamwillingtoassumethat,forsomespiritual reason unfathomable to my mere human intelligence, that three-leggedtableisessential.Iamwillingalsotoacceptthehumanmedium.Sheis generally an unprepossessing lady running somewhat to bulk. If agentleman,hesooftenhasdirtyfinger-nails,andsmellsofstalebeer.Ithinkmyself itwouldbesomuchsimpler if thespiritwouldtalk tomedirect;wecouldgetonquicker. But there is that about themedium, I am told,whichappealstoaspirit.Well,itishisaffair,notmine,andIwaivetheargument.My real stumbling-block is the spirit himself—the sort of conversation that,whenhedoestalk,heindulgesin.Icannothelpfeelingthathisconversationisnotworththeparaphernalia.Icantalkbetterthanthatmyself.

The lateProfessorHuxley,who tooksome troubleover thismatter,attendedsomehalf-dozenséances,andthendeterminedtoattendnomore.

“I have,” he said, “formy sins to submit occasionally to the society of livebores.Irefusetogooutofmywaytospendaneveninginthedarkwithdeadbores.”

Thespiritualiststhemselvesadmitthattheirtable-rappingspooksarepreciousdulldogs; itwouldbedifficult, in faceof the communications recorded, forthem to deny it. They explain to us that they have not yet achievedcommunicationwith the higher spiritual Intelligences. Themore intelligentspirits—forsomereasonthatthespiritualiststhemselvesareunabletoexplain—donotwanttotalktothem,appeartohavesomethingelsetodo.Atpresent—soIamtold,andcanbelieve—itisonlythespiritsoflowerintelligencethatcaretoturnupontheseevenings.Thespiritualistsarguethat,bycontinuing,thehigher-classspiritswilllateronbeinducedto“comein.”Ifailtofollowtheargument. It seems tome thatweare frightening themaway. Anyhow,myselfIshallwaitawhile.

Whenthespiritcomesalongthatcantalksense,thatcantellmesomethingIdon’tknow,Ishallbegladtomeethim.Theclassofspiritthatwearegettingjustatpresentdoesnotappealtome.Thethoughtofhim—thereflectionthatI shall die and spend the rest of eternity in his company—does not comfort

me.

SheisnowaBeliever.

A ladyofmyacquaintance tellsme it ismarvelloushowmuch these spiritsseem to know. On her very first visit, the spirit, through the voice of themedium—anelderlygentlemanresidingobscurelyinClerkenwell—informedher without a moment’s hesitation that she possessed a relative with theChristiannameofGeorge. (Iamnotmakingthisup—it isreal.) Thisgaveheratfirsttheideathatspiritualismwasafraud.ShehadnorelativenamedGeorge—at least, so she thought. But amorning or two later her husbandreceivedaletterfromAustralia.“ByJove!”heexclaimed,asheglancedatthelastpage,“Ihadforgottenallaboutthepooroldbeggar.”

“Whomisitfrom?”sheasked.

“Oh,nobodyyouknow—haven’tseenhimmyselffortwentyyears—athirdorfourthcousinofmine—George—”

Sheneverheardthesurname,shewastooexcited.Thespirithadbeenrightfrom the beginning; she had a relative named George. Her faith inspiritualismisnowasarock.

There are thousands of folk who believe in Old Moore’s Almanac. Mydifficulty would be not to believe in the old gentleman. I see that for themonth of January last he foretold us that theGovernmentwouldmeetwithdeterminedandpersistentopposition.Hewarnedusthattherewouldbemuchsicknessabout,andthatrheumatismwoulddiscoveritsoldvictims.Howdoesheknowthesethings?Isitthatthestarsreallydocommunicatewithhim,ordoeshe“feelitinhisbones,”asthesayingisupNorth?

During February, he mentioned, the weather would be unsettled. Heconcluded:

“ThewordTaxationwillhaveaterriblesignificanceforbothGovernmentandpeoplethismonth.”

Really,itisquiteuncanny.InMarch:

“Theatreswilldobadlyduringthemonth.”

There seems to be no keeping anything fromOldMoore. In April “muchdissatisfactionwillbeexpressedamongPostOfficeemployees.”Thatsoundsprobable,onthefaceofit.Inanyevent,Iwillanswerforourlocalpostman.

InMay“awealthymagnate isgoing todie.” InJune there isgoing tobea

fire.InJuly“OldMoorehasreasontofeartherewillbetrouble.”

Idohopehemaybewrong,andyetsomehowIfeelaconvictionthathewon’tbe.Anyhow,oneisgladithasbeenputofftillJuly.

InAugust“oneinhighauthoritywillbeindangerofdemise.”InSeptember“zeal”onthepartofpersonsmentioned“willoutstripdiscretion.”InOctoberOldMooreisafraidagain.Hecannotavoidahauntingsuspicionthat“Certainpeoplewillbevictimizedbyextensivefraudulentproceedings.”

InNovember“thepublicPresswillhaveitscolumnsfullofimportantnews.”Theweatherwillbe“adverse,”and“adeathwilloccurinhighcircles.”Thismakesthesecondinoneyear.IamgladIdonotbelongtothehighercircles.

Howdoeshedoit?

InDecemberOldMooreagainforeseestrouble,justwhenIwashopingitwasallover.“Fraudswillcometolight,anddeathwillfinditsvictims.”

Andallthisinformationisgiventousforapenny.

Thepalmist examinesour hand. “Youwill go a journey,” he tells us. It ismarvellous!HowcouldhehaveknownthatonlythenightbeforewehadbeendiscussingtheadvisabilityoftakingthechildrentoMargatefortheholidays?

“There is trouble in store foryou,”he tellsus, regretfully, “butyouwillgetoverit.”Wefeelthatthefuturehasnosecrethiddenfromhim.

Wehave “presentiments” that peoplewe love,who are climbingmountains,whoarefondofballooning,areindanger.

The sister of a friend ofminewhowent out to the SouthAfricanWar as avolunteer had three presentiments of his death. He came home safe andsound,butadmittedthatonthreedistinctoccasionshehadbeeninimminentdanger.Itseemedtothedearladyaproofofeverythingshehadeverread.

Anotherfriendofminewaswakedinthemiddleofthenightbyhiswife,whoinsisted that he should dress himself and walk three miles across a moorbecause she had had a dream that something terrible was happening to abosom friend of hers. The bosom friend and her husband were ratherindignantatbeingwakedattwoo’clockinthemorning,buttheirindignationwasmildcomparedwiththatofthedreameronlearningthatnothingwasthematter.Fromthatdayforwardacoldnesssprangupbetweenthetwofamilies.

I would give much to believe in ghosts. The interest of life would bemultipliedby its own squarepower couldwe communicatewith themyriad

deadwatchingusfromtheirmountainsummits.Mr.Zangwill,inapoemthatshould live, draws for us a pathetic picture of blind children playing in agarden, laughing, romping. All their lives theyhave lived indarkness; theyare content. But, the wonder of it, could their eyes by some miracle beopened!

BlindChildrenplayinginaWorldofDarkness.

May not we be but blind children, suggests the poet, living in a world ofdarkness—laughing,weeping,loving,dying—knowingnothingofthewonderroundus?

The ghosts about us, with their god-like faces, it might be good to look atthem.

Butthesepoor,pale-facedspooks,thesedull-witted,table-thumpingspirits:itwouldbesadtothinkthatofsuchwasthekingdomoftheDead.

CHAPTERXVII

ParentsandtheirTeachers.

Myhearthasbeenmuchtornoflate,readingofthewrongsofChildren.IthaslatelybeendiscoveredthatChildrenarebeinghamperedandharassedintheircareerbycertainbrutalandignorantpersonscalled,forwantofabettername,parents. The parent is a selfish wretch who, out of pure devilment, andwithout consulting theChild itself upon the subject, lures innocentChildreninto the world, apparently for the purpose merely of annoying them. Theparent does not understand the Child when he has got it; he does notunderstandanything,notmuch.TheonlypersonwhounderstandstheChildisthe young gentleman fresh fromCollege and the elderlymaiden lady,who,betweenthem,producemostoftheliteraturethatexplainstoustheChild.

TheparentdoesnotevenknowhowtodresstheChild.Theparentwillpersistin dressing theChild in a long and trailing garment that prevents theChildfromkicking.TheyounggentlemanfreshfromCollegegrowsalmostpoeticalin his contempt. It appears that the one thing essential for the health of ayoungchildisthatitshouldhaveperfectfreedomtokick.LaterontheparentdressestheChildinshortclothes,andleavesbitsofitslegbare.TheelderlymaidenUnderstanderofChildren,quotingmedicalopinion,denouncesusascriminals for leavinganyportionof thatprecious leguncovered. It appears

that the partially uncovered leg of childhood is responsible formost of thediseasethatfleshisheirto.

Thenweputitintoboots.We“crushitsdelicatelyfashionedfeetintohideousleatherinstrumentsoftorture.”Thatisthesortofphrasethatishurledatus!Thepictureconjuredupisthatofsomefiendinhumanshape,callingitselfafather, seizing some helpless cherub by the hair, and, while drowning itspatheticwailsformercybeneathroarsofdemonlaughter,proceedingtobindabout its tender bones some ancient curiosity dug from the dungeons of theInquisition.

If theyounggentlemanfreshfromCollegeor themaiden ladyUnderstandercouldbe,ifonlyforamonthortwo,afather!Ifonlyheorshecouldguesshowgladlythefatheroflimitedincomewouldreply,

“Mydear,youarewronginsayingthatthechildrenmusthaveboots.Thatisanexplodedtheory.Thechildrenmustnothaveboots.Irefusetobeapartytocrushingtheirdelicatelyfashionedfeetintohideousleatherinstrumentsoftorture. The young gentleman fresh from College and the elderly maidenUnderstanderhavedecidedthatthechildrenmustnothaveboots.Donotletmehearagainthatout-of-dateword—boots.”

IftherewereonlyoneyounggentlemanfreshfromCollege,onemaidenladyUnderstander teaching us our duty, lifewould be simpler. But there are somanyyounggentlemenfromCollege,somanymaidenladyUnderstanders,onthejob—ifImaybepermittedavulgarism;andasyettheyarenotallagreed.Itisdistractingfortheparentanxioustodoright.Weputthelittledearsintosandals,andthenatonceotheryounggentlemenfromCollege,othermaidenladyUnderstanders,pointtousaswould-bemurderers.Longclothesarefatal,shortclothesaredeadly,bootsareinstrumentsoftorture,toallowchildrentogoaboutwithbarefeetshowsthatweregardthemasIncumbrances,and,withlowcunning,areseekingtoberidofthem.

Theirfirstattempt.

Iknewapairofparents.Iamconvinced,inspiteofallthatcanbesaidtothecontrary,theywerefondoftheirChild;itwastheirfirst.Theywereanxioustodotherightthing.TheyreadwithavidityallbooksandarticleswrittenonthesubjectofChildren.TheyreadthataChildshouldalwayssleeplyingonitsback,andtookitinturnstositawakeo’nightstomakesurethattheChildwasalwaysrightsideup.

ButanothermagazinetoldthemthatChildrenallowedtosleeplyingontheirbacksgrewup tobe idiots. Theyweresad theyhadnot readof thisbefore,andstartedtheChildonitsrightside.TheChild,onthecontrary,appearedto

haveapredilectionfortheleft,theresultbeingthatneithertheparentsnorthebabyitselfforthenextthreeweeksgotanysleepworthspeakingof.

Lateron,bygoodfortune,theycameacrossatreatisethatsaidaChildshouldalwaysbeallowedtochooseitsownpositionwhilesleeping,andtheirfriendspersuaded them to stop at that—told them they would never strike a betterarticleiftheysearchedthewholeBritishMuseumLibrary.Ittroubledthemtofind that Child sometimes sleeping curled upwith its toe in itsmouth, andsometimes flat on its stomachwith its head underneath the pillow. But itshealthandtemperweredecidedlyimproved.

TheParentcandonoright.

Thereisnothingtheparentcandoright.Youwouldthinkthatnowandthenhemight,ifonlybymereaccident,blunderintosense.But,no,thereseemstobealawagainstit.Hebringshomewoollyrabbitsandindiarubberelephants,and expects the Child to be contented “forsooth” with suchlike aids to itseducation.Asamatteroffact,theChildiscontent:itbangsitsownheadwiththewoollyrabbitanddoes itselfnoharm;it tries toswallowtheindiarubberelephant;itdoesnotsucceed,butcontinuestohope.WiththatwoollyrabbitandthatindiarubberelephantitwouldbeashappyasthedayislongifonlytheyounggentlemanfromCambridgewouldleaveitalone,andnotputnewideasintoitshead. ButthegentlemanfromCambridgeandthemaidenladyUnderstanderareconvincedthat thefutureof theracedependsuponleavingthe Child untrammelled to select its own amusements. A friend of mine,duringhiswife’sabsenceonceonavisittohermother,triedtheexperiment.

TheChildselectedafrying-pan.Howitgotthefrying-panremainstothisdayamystery. Thecooksaid“frying-pansdon’twalkupstairs.” Thenursesaidsheshouldbesorrytocallanyonealiar,butthattherewascommonsenseineverything.Thescullery-maidsaidthatifeverybodydidtheirownworkotherpeoplewould not be driven beyond the limits of human endurance; and thehousekeepersaidthatshewassickandtiredoflife.Myfriendsaiditdidnotmatter.TheChildclungtothefrying-panwithpassion.Thebookmyfriendwas reading said that was how the human mind was formed: the Child’sinstinctpromptedittoseizeuponobjectstendingtodevelopitsbrainfaculty.Whattheparenthadgottodowastostandasideandwatchevents.

TheChildproceededtoblackeverythingaboutthenurserywiththebottomofthefrying-pan.Itthensettoworktolickthefrying-panclean.Thenurse,awomanofnarrowideas,hadapresentimentthatlateronitwouldbeill.Myfriend explained to her the error the world had hitherto committed: it hadimaginedthattheparentknewathingortwothattheChilddidn’t.Infuturethe Children were to do their bringing up themselves. In the house of the

futuretheparentswouldbeallottedtheatticswheretheywouldbeoutoftheway.Theymightoccasionallybealloweddowntodinner,say,onSundays.

The Child, having exhausted all the nourishment the frying-pan contained,sought todevelop itsbrainfacultyby thumpingitselfover theheadwith theflatofthething.Withtheselfishnessoftheaverageparent—thinkingchieflyofwhattheCoronermightsay,andindifferenttothefutureofhumanity,myfriendinsisteduponchangingthegame.

Hisfoolishtalk.

Theparentdoesnotevenknowhow to talk tohisownChild. TheChild isyearning to acquire a correct anddignifiedmodeof expression. Theparentsays:“Didums.Didnaughtytablehurtickletootsiepootsies?Babysay:‘’Oonaughtytable.Menolove’oo.’”

TheChilddespairsofeverlearningEnglish.WhatshouldwethinkourselveswerewetojoinaFrenchclass,andweretheInstructortocommencetalkingtous French of this description? What theChild, according to the gentlemanfromCambridge,saystoitselfis,

“Ohforonehour’sintelligentconversationwithahumanbeingwhocantalkthelanguage.”

WillnottheyounggentlemanfromCambridgedescendtodetail?Willhenotgiveusaspecimendialogue?

A celebrated ladywriter,who hasmade herself themouthpiece of feminineindignation againstmale stupidity, tookup the cudgels a littlewhile ago onbehalfofMrs.Caudle.SheadmittedMrs.Caudleappearedtobeasomewhatfoolish lady. “But what had Caudle ever done to improve Mrs. Caudle’smind?” Had he ever sought, with intelligent illuminating conversation, todirect her thoughts towards other topics than lent umbrellas and red-headedminxes?

Itismycomplaintagainstsomanyofourteachers.Theyscoldusforwhatwedo,butsorarelytelluswhatweoughttodo.Tellmehowtotalktomybaby,and Iamwilling to try. It isnotas if I tookapersonalpride in thephrase:“Didums.”Ididnoteveninventit.Ifoundit,sotospeak,whenIgothere,andmyexperienceisthatitsoothestheChild.Whenheishowling,andIsay“Didums”withsympatheticintonation,hestopscrying.Possiblyenoughitisastonishmentattheineptitudeoftheremarkthatsilenceshim.Maybeitisthatminortroublesarelostsightoffacetofacewiththereflectionthatthisisthesort of fatherwithwhich fate has provided him. Butmay not even this beusefultohim?Hehasgottomeetwithstupidpeopleintheworld.Lethim

beginbycontemplatingme.Itwillmakethingseasierforhimlateron.Iputforward the idea in the hope of comforting the young gentleman fromCambridge.

WeinjurethehealthoftheChildbyenforcingonitsilence.Wehaveastupidformulathatchildrenshouldbeseenandnotheard.Wedenyitexercisetoitslungs. We discourage its natural and laudable curiosity by telling it not toworryus—nottoasksomanyquestions.

Won’t somebody lend the young gentleman from Cambridge a small andhealthychildjustforaweekorso,andletthebargainbethatheliveswithitallthetime?TheyounggentlemanfromCambridgethinks,whenwecallupthestairstosaythatifwehearanothersoundfromthenurseryduringthenexttwohourswewill comeupanddo things to thatChild themere thoughtofwhichshouldappalit,thatissilencingtheChild.Itdoesnotoccurtohimthattwominutes later that Child is yelling again at the top of its voice, havingforgottenallweeversaid.

TheChildofFiction.

IknowthesortofChildtheweeperoverChildren’swrongshasinhismind.Ithasdeep,soulful,yearningeyes.Itmovesaboutthehousesoftly,sheddinganatmosphere of patient resignation. It says: “Yes, dear papa.” “No, dearmamma.” Ithasbutoneambition—tobegoodanduseful. Ithasbeautifulthoughtsaboutthestars. Youdon’tknowwhetherit is inthehouseorisn’t:youfinditwithitslittlefacepressedcloseagainstthewindow-panewatchingthegoldensunset.Nobodyunderstandsit.Itblessestheoldpeopleanddies.OneofthesedaystheyounggentlemanfromCambridgewill,onehopes,haveaBabyofhisown—arealChild:andservehimdarn-wellright.

Atpresentheislabouringunderawrongconceptionofthearticle.Hesaysweover-educateit.Weclogitswonderfulbrainwithamassofuninterestingfactsandfoolishformulasthatwecallknowledge.HedoesnotknowthatallthistimetheChildisaliveandkicking.HeisunderthedelusionthattheChildistakingallthislyingdown.WetelltheChildithasgottobequiet,orelsewewill wring its neck. The gentleman from Cambridge pictures the Child asfromthatmomentasilentspiritmovingvoicelesstowardsthegrave.

WecatchtheChildinthemorning,andcleanitup,andputalittlesatchelonitsback,andpackitofftoschool;andthemaidenladyUnderstanderpicturesthat Childwasting the all too brief period of youth crowding itself upwithknowledge.

MydearMadam,youtakeitfrommethatyourtearsarebeingwasted.Youwipe your eyes and cheer up. The dear Child is not going to be

overworked:heisseeingtothat.

Asamatterofthefact,theChildofthepresentdayishaving,ifanything,toogoodatime.Ishallbeconsideredabruteforsayingthis,butIamthinkingofitsfuture,andmyopinionisthatwearegivingitswelledhead.TheargumentjustnowintheairisthattheparentexistsmerelyfortheChildren.Theparentdoesn’tcount.Itisasifagardenerweretosay,

“Bother the flowers, let them rot. The sooner they are out of the way thebetter.Theseedistheonlythingthatinterestsme.”

Youcan’tproducerespectableseedbutfromcarefullycultivatedflowers.Thephilosopher, clamouring for improvedChildren,will latergrasp the fact thattheparentisofimportance.Thenhewillchangehistactics,andaddresstheChildren,andweshallhaveourtime.Hewillimpressonthemhownecessaryitisfortheirownsakesthattheyshouldbecarefulofus.Weshallhavebookswrittenaboutmisunderstoodfatherswhowereworriedintoearlygraves.

ThemisunderstoodFather.

FreshAir Fundswill be started for sending parents away to the seaside onvisitstokindbachelorslivingindetachedhouses,milesawayfromChildren.Bookswillbespeciallywrittenforuspicturingaworldwhereschoolfeesareneverdemandedandbabiesneverhowlo’nights.SocietiesforthePreventionofCrueltytoParentswillarise. Littlegirlswhoget theirhairentangledandmislayall theirclothes justbefore theyarestartingfor theparty—littleboyswhokickholesintheirbestshoeswillbespankedatthepublicexpense.

CHAPTERXVIII

MarriageandtheJokeofit.

Marriagesaremade inheaven—“but solely,” ithasbeenaddedbyacynicalwriter, “for export.” There is nothingmore remarkable in human sociologythanourattitudetowardstheinstitutionofmarriage.Soitcamehometometheother evening as I sat on a cane chair in the ill-lighted schoolroomof asmallcountrytown.TheoccasionwasaPennyReading.Wehadlistenedtotheusual overture fromZampa, played by the lady professor and the eldestdaughterof thebrewer; to“PhilBlood’sLeap,” recitedby thecurate; to theviolinsolobytheprettywidowaboutwhomgossipiswhispered—onehopesitisnottrue.Thenapale-facedgentleman,withadroopingblackmoustache,

walkedon to theplatform. Itwas the local tenor. He sang tous a songoflove.Misunderstandingshadarisen;bitterwords,regrettedassoonasuttered,had pierced the all too sensitive spirit. Parting had followed. The broken-heartedonehaddiedbelievinghis affectionunrequited. But theangelshadsincetoldhim;heknewshelovedhimnow—theaccentonthenow.

Iglancedaroundme.Weweretheusualcrowdofmixedhumanity—tinkers,tailors,soldiers,sailors,withourcousins,andoursisters,andourwives.Somanyofoureyeswerewetwithtears.MissButchercouldhardlyrepresshersobs.YoungMr.Tinker,hisfacehiddenbehindhisprogramme,pretendedtobe blowing his nose. Mrs.Apothecary’s large bosom heavedwith heartfeltsighs. The retiredColonel sniffedaudibly. Sadness restedonour souls. Itmighthavebeensodifferentbutfor thosefoolish,hastywords! Thereneedhavebeennofuneral.Instead,thechurchmighthavebeendeckedwithbridalflowers.Howsweetshewouldhavelookedbeneathherorangewreath!Howproudly, gladly, hemight have responded “I will,” take her for his weddedwife,tohaveandtoholdfromthisdayforward,forbetterforworse,forricherforpoorer,insicknessandinhealth,toloveandtocherish,tilldeathdidthempart.Andtheretohemighthaveplightedhistroth.

In the silence which reigned after the applause had subsided the beautifulwordsof theMarriageService seemed tobe stealing through the room: thattheymighteverremaininperfectloveandpeacetogether.Thywifeshallbeas the fruitful vine. Thy children like the olive branches round about thytable.Lo!thusshallamanbeblessed.Soshallmenlovetheirwivesastheirownbodies,andbenotbitteragainstthem,givinghonouruntothemasuntotheweakervessel. Let thewifeseethatshereverenceherhusband,wearingtheornamentofameekandquietspirit.

LoveandtheSatyr.

Allthestoriessungbythesweetsingersofalltimewereechoinginourears—stories of true love that would not run smoothly until the last chapter; ofgallant lovers strong and brave against fate; of tender sweethearts, waiting,trusting, till love’sgoldencrownwaswon; so theymarriedand livedhappyeverafter.

Thensteppedbrisklyon theplatformastout,bald-headedman. Wegreetedhim with enthusiasm—it was the local low comedian. The piano tinkledsaucily.Theself-confidentmanwinkedandopenedwidehismouth.Itwasafunnysong;howweroaredwithlaughter!Thelastlineofeachversewasthesame:

“Andthat’swhatit’slikewhenyou’remarried.”

“Before itwas ‘duckie,’ and ‘darling,’ and ‘dear.’ Now it’s ‘Takeyourcoldfeetaway,Brute!can’tyouhear?’

“Once theywalked hand in hand: ‘Me loves ickle ’oo.’ Nowhe strides onahead” (imitation with aid of umbrella much appreciated; the bald-headedman,inhisenthusiasmandowingtothesmallnessoftheplatform,sweepingtheladyaccompanistoffherstool),“bawling:‘Comealong,do.’”

The bald-headedman interspersed side-splitting patter. The husband comeshomelate;thewifeiswaitingforhimatthetopofthestairswithabroom.Hekissestheservant-girl.SheretaliatesbydiscoveringacousinintheGuards.

The comic man retired to an enthusiastic demand for an encore. I lookedaroundmeat the laughing faces. MissButcherhadbeencompelled to stuffherhandkerchiefintohermouth.Mr.Tinkerwaswipinghiseyes;hewasnotashamedthistime,theyweretearsofmerriment.Mrs.Apothecary’smotherlybosomwasshakinglikeajelly.TheColonelwasgrinningfromeartoear.

Later on, as I noticed in the programme, the schoolmistress, an unmarriedlady,wasdowntosing“DarbyandJoan.”Shehasasympatheticvoice.Her“DarbyandJoan”isalwayspopular.Thecomicmanwouldalsoagainappearinthesecondpart,andwouldobligewith(byrequest)“HisMother-in-Law.”

Sothequaintcomedycontinues:To-nightwewillenjoyRomeoandJuliet,forto-morrowwehaveseatsbookedforThePinkDomino.

WhattheGipsydidnotmention.

“Won’t the pretty lady let the poor old gipsy tell her fortune?” Blushes,giggles,protestations.Gallantgentlemanfriendinsists.Adarkmanisinlovewithprettylady.Gipsyseesamarriagenotsoveryfarahead.Prettyladysays“What nonsense!” but looks serious. Pretty lady’s pretty friends must, ofcourse,beteasing.Gallantgentlemanfriend,bycuriouscoincidence,happenstobedark.Gipsygrinsandpasseson.

Isthatallthegipsyknowsofprettylady’sfuture?Therheumy,cunningeyes!Theywere bonny and blackmany years ago,when the parchment skinwassmooth and fair. They have seen somany a passing show—do they see inprettylady’shandnothingfurther?

Whatwould thewicked old eyes foresee did it pay them to speak:—Prettylady crying tears into a pillow. Pretty lady growing ugly, spite and angerspoilingprettyfeatures.Darkyoungmannolongerloving.Darkyoungmanhurlingbitterwordsatprettylady—hurling,maybe,thingsmoreheavy.Darkyoungmanandprettyladylisteningapprovinglytocomicsinger,havingboth

discovered:“That’swhatit’slikewhenyou’remarried.”

MyfriendH.G.Wellswroteabook,“TheIslandofDr.Moreau.”IreaditinMS. one winter evening in a lonely country house upon the hills, windscreamingtowindinthedarkwithout.Thestoryhashauntedmeeversince.Ihearthewind’sshrilllaughter.Thedoctorhadtakenthebeastsoftheforest,apes,tigers,strangecreaturesfromthedeep,hadfashionedthemwithhideouscrueltyintotheshapesofmen,hadgiventhemsouls,hadtaughttothemthelaw. In all things else were they human, but their original instincts theircreator’sskillhad failed toeliminate. All their liveswereone long torture.TheLawsaid, “Wearemenandwomen; thiswe shalldo, thiswe shallnotdo.”Buttheapeandtigerstillcriedaloudwithinthem.

Civilizationlaysherlawsuponus;theyarethelawsofgods—ofthementhatoneday,perhaps,shallcome.Buttheprimevalcreatureofthecavestillcrieswithinus.

AfewrulesforMarriedHappiness.

Thewonder is thatnotbeinggods—beingmeremenandwomen—marriageworksoutaswellasitdoes. Wetaketwocreatureswiththeinstinctsoftheape still stirring within them; two creatures fashioned on the law ofselfishness; two self-centred creatures of opposite appetites, of desiresopposedtooneanother,ofdifferingmoodsandfancies;twocreaturesnotyettaughtthelessonofself-control,ofself-renunciation,andbindthemtogetherforlifeinanunionsoclosethatonecannotsnoreo’nightswithoutdisturbingtheother’srest;thatonecannot,withoutrisktohappiness,haveasingletasteunshared by the other; that neither, without danger of upsetting the wholeapplecart, so to speak, can have an opinion with which the other does notheartedlyagree.

Could two angels exist together on such termswithout ever quarrelling? Idoubt it. Tomakemarriage the idealwe love to picture it in romance, theelimination of human nature is the first essential. Supreme unselfishness,perfect patience, changeless amiability, we should have to start with, andcontinuewith,untiltheend.

TherealDarbyandJoan.

Idonotbelieveinthe“DarbyandJoan”of thesong. Theybelongtosong-land.ToacceptthemIneedapiano,asympatheticcontraltovoice,afirelighteffect,andthatsentimentalmoodinmyself,thefoundationofwhichisagooddinnerwelldigested.ButthereareDarbysandJoansofrealfleshandbloodtobemetwith—Godbless them,andsendmore forourexample—wholesomelivingmenandwomen,brave,struggling,soulswithcommon-sense.Ah,yes!

they have quarrelled; had their dark house of bitterness, of hate, when hewishedtoheavenhehadnevermether,andtoldherso.Howcouldhehaveguessed those sweet lips couldutter suchcruelwords; those tender eyes,helovedtokiss,flashwithscornandanger?

Andshe,hadsheknownwhatlaybehind;thosedayswhenhekneltbeforeher,sworethathisonlydreamwastosaveherfromallpain.Passionliesdead;itisaflamethatburnsoutquickly.Themostbeautifulfaceintheworldgrowsindifferent to us when we have sat opposite it every morning at breakfast,everyeveningat supper, forabriefyearor two. Passion is the seed. Lovegrows from it, a tender sapling, beautiful to look upon, butwondrous frail,easilybroken,easilytrampledonduringthosefirstyearsofweddedlife.Onlybymuchnursing,by longcaring-for,wateredwith tears,shall itgrowintoasturdy tree, defiant of the winds, ’neath which Darby and Joan shall sitshelteredinoldage.

Theyhadcommonsense,bravehearts.Darbyhadexpectedtoomuch.Darbyhad not made allowance for human nature which he ought to have done,seeinghowmuchhehadofithimself.Joanknowshedidnotmeanit.Joanhas a nasty temper; she admits it. Joanwill try,Darbywill try. They kissagainwithtears.Itisaworkadayworld;DarbyandJoanwilltakeitasitis,willdotheirbest.Alittlekindness,alittleclaspingofthehandsbeforenightcomes.

ManywaysofLove.

Youthdeemsitheresy,butIsometimeswonderifourEnglishspeakingwayisquite the best. I discussed the subject oncewith an old French lady. TheEnglishreaderformshisideaofFrenchlifefromtheFrenchnovel;itleadstomistakennotions.ThereareFrenchDarbys,FrenchJoans,manythousandsofthem.

“Believeme,” saidmy old French friend, “your Englishway iswrong; ourwayisnotperfect,butitisthebetter,Iamsure.Youleaveitentirelytotheyoungpeople. Whatdo theyknowof life,of themselves,even. Hefalls inlovewithaprettyface.She—hedancedsowell!hewassoagreeablethatdayofthepicnic!Ifmarriagewereonlyforamonthorso;couldbeendedwithoutharmwhen thepassionwasburntout. Ah,yes! thenperhapsyouwouldberight. I loved at eighteen, madly—nearly broke my heart. I meet himoccasionally now. My dear”—her hair was silvery white, and I was onlythirty-five;shealwayscalledme“mydear”; it ispleasantat thirty-fivetobetalkedtoasachild.“Hewasaperfectbrute,handsomehehadbeen,yes,butall that was changed. He was as stupid as an ox. I never see his poorfrightened-lookingwifewithoutshudderingthinkingofwhatIhaveescaped.

Theytoldmeallthat,butIlookedonlyathisface,anddidnotbelievethem.Theyforcedmeintomarriagewiththekindestmanthateverlived.Ididnotlovehimthen,butIlovedhimforthirtyyears;wasitnotbetter?”

“But,mydearfriend,”Ianswered;“thatpoor,frightened-lookingwifeofyourfirst love! Hermarriagealsowas, I take it, the resultofparentalchoosing.The love marriage, I admit, as often as not turns out sadly. The childrenchooseill.Parentsalsochooseill.Ifearthereisnosurereceiptforthehappymarriage.”

“Youarearguingfrombadexamples,”answeredmysilver-hairedfriend;“itisthesystemthatIamdefending.Ayounggirlisnojudgeofcharacter.Sheiseasilydeceived,iswishfultobedeceived.AsIhavesaid,shedoesnotevenknowherself. She imagines themoodof themomentwill remainwithher.Only thosewhohavewatchedoverherwith loving insight fromher infancyknowherrealtemperament.

“Theyoungmanisblindedbyhispassion.Natureknowsnothingofmarriage,of companionship. She has only one aim. That accomplished, she isindifferenttothefutureofthoseshehasjoinedtogether.Iwouldhaveparentsthinkonlyoftheirchildren’shappiness,givingtoworldlyconsiderationstheirtruevalue,butnothingbeyond,choosing for theirchildrenwith lovingcare,withsenseoftheirgreatresponsibility.”

Whichisit?

“I fear our young people would not be contented with our choosing,” Isuggested.

“Aretheysocontentedwiththeirown,thehoneymoonover?”sherespondedwithasmile.

Weagreeditwasadifficultproblemviewedfromanypoint.

But I still think it would be better were we to heap less ridicule upon theinstitution.Matrimonycannotbe“holy”andridiculousatthesametime.Wehavebeenfamiliarwithitlongenoughtomakeupourmindsinwhichlighttoregardit.

CHAPTERXIX

ManandhisTailor.

What’swrongwiththe“Made-upTie”?Igatherfromthefashionablenovelistthatnomancanwearamade-uptieandbeagentleman.Hemaybeaworthyman,clever,well-to-do,eligiblefromeveryotherpointofview;butShe,therefinedheroine, cannever get over the fact that hewears amade-up tie. Itcausesashudderdownherhigh-bredspinewhenevershethinksofit.Thereisnothingelse tobe saidagainsthim. There isnothingworseabouthim thanthis—hewearsamade-uptie.Itisallsufficient.Notruewomancouldevercareforhim,noreallyclassysocietyeveropenitsdoorstohim.

I amworried about this thing because, to confess the horrid truth, Iwear amade-uptiemyself.OnfoggyafternoonsIstealoutofthehousedisguised.TheyaskmewhereIamgoing inahat thatcomesdownovermyears,andwhyIamwearingbluespectaclesandafalsebeard,butIwillnottellthem.Icreep along the wall till I find a common hosier’s shop, and then, in anassumed voice, I tell the man what it is I want. They come to fourpencehalfpennyeach;bytakingthehalf-dozenIgetthemforatrifleless.Theyareputoninamoment,and,tomyvulgareye,lookneatandtasteful.

Ofcourse,IknowIamnotagentleman.Ihavegivenuphopesofeverbeingone.Yearsago,whenlifepresentedpossibilities,IthoughtthatwithpainsandintelligenceImightbecomeone.Ineversucceeded.Italldependsonbeingabletotieabow.Roundthebed-post,ortheneckofthewater-jug,Icouldtiethewretchedthingtoperfection. Ifonlythebed-postorthewater-jugcouldhavetakenmyplaceandgonetothepartyinsteadofme,lifewouldhavebeensimpler.Thebed-postandthewater-jug,initsneatwhitebow,lookedlikeagentleman—thefashionablenovelist’sideaofagentleman.Uponmyselftheresult was otherwise, suggesting always a feeble attempt at suicide bystrangulation. I could never understand how it was done. There weremomentswhen it flashed acrossme that the secret lay in being able to turnone’s self inside out, coming up with one’s arms and legs the other wayround.Standingonone’sheadmighthavesurmountedthedifficulty;butthehighergymnasticsNaturehasdenied tome. “TheBonelessWonder”or the“ManSerpent”could, I felt,beagentlemansoeasily. Toone towhomhasbeengivenonlythecommonordinaryjointsgentlemanlinessisapparentlyanimpossibleideal.

It isnotonly the tie. Inever read thefashionablenovelwithoutmisgiving.Somehopelessbounderisbeingdescribed:

“Ifyouwanttoknowwhatheislike,”saysthePeeroftheRealm,throwinghimselfbackinhisdeepeasy-chair,andpuffinglazilyathiscigarofdelicatearoma,“heisthesortofmanthatwearsthreestudsinhisshirt.”

ThedifficultyofbeingaGentleman.

Mercifulheavens!Imyselfwearthreestudsinmyshirt.Ialsoamahopelessbounder,andIneverknewit.Itcomesuponmelikeathunderbolt.Ithoughtthreestudswerefashionable.Theidiotattheshoptoldmethreestudswereallthe rage, and Iordered twodozen. I can’t afford to throw themaway. Tillthesetwodozenshirtsarewornout,Ishallhavetoremainahopelessbounder.

Why have we not a Minister of the Fine Arts? Why does not a paternalGovernment fixnoticesat the street corners, telling thewould-begentlemanhowmanystudsheoughttowear,whatstyleofnecktienowdistinguishesthenoble-mindedmanfromthebase-hearted?Theyarepromptenoughwiththeirpolice regulations, their vaccination orders—the higher things of life theyneglect.

IselectatrandomanothermasterpieceofEnglishliterature.

“Mydear,”saysLadyMontresor,withherlightaristocraticlaugh,“yousurelycannot seriously think of marrying a man who wears socks with yellowspots?”

LadyEmmelinasighs.

“Heisverynice,”shemurmurs,“butIsupposeyouareright.Isupposethatsortofmandoesgetonyournervesafteratime.”

“Mydearchild,”saysLadyMontresor,“heisimpossible.”

InacoldsweatIrushupstairsintomybedroom.

I thought so: I am alwayswrong. Allmy best socks have yellow spots. Iratherfanciedthem.Theywereexpensive,too,nowIcometothinkofit.

WhatamItodo?IfIsacrificethemandgetredspots,thenredspots,forallIknow,maybewrong.Ihavenoinstinct.Thefashionablenovelistneverhelpsone. He tells uswhat iswrong, but he does not tell uswhat is right. It iscreativecriticismthatIfeeltheneedof.WhydoesnottheLadyMontresorgoon? Tellmewhatsortof socks the ideal loverought towear. Therearesomanyvarietiesofsocks.Whatisawould-be-gentlemantodo?Woulditbeofanyusewritingtothefashionablenovelist:—

Howwemight,allofus,beGentlemen.

“DearMr.FashionableNovelist(orshoulditbeMiss?),—Beforegoingtomytailor,Iventuretowritetoyouonasubjectofsomeimportance.Iamfairlywell educated, of good family and address, and, so my friends tell me, ofpassableappearance.Iyearntobecomeagentleman.Ifitisnottroublingyoutoomuch,wouldyoumind tellingmehowtosetabout thebusiness? What

socksandtiesoughtI towear? DoIwearaflowerinmybutton-hole,or isthatasignofacoarsemind? Howmanybuttonsonamorningcoatshowabeautifulnature?Doesastand-upcollarwithatennisshirtprovethatyouareofnobledescent,or,on thecontrary,stampyouasaparvenu? Ifansweringthesequestionsimposestoogreatataxonyourtime,perhapsyouwouldnotmindtellingmehowyouyourselfknowthesethings.Whoisyourauthority,andwhenisheathome?IshouldapologizeforwritingtoyoubutthatIfeelyouwillsympathizewithmyappeal.Itseemsapitythereshouldbesomanyvulgar, ill-bred people in theworldwhen a little knowledge on these trivialpoints would enable us all to become gentlemen. Thanking you inanticipation,Iremain...”

Wouldheor she tell us? Orwould the fashionablenovelist reply as I onceoverheardaharassedmotherretortupononeofherinquiringchildren.Mostoftheafternoonshehadbeenrushingoutintothegarden,wheregameswereinprogress,totell thechildrenwhattheymustnotdo:—“Tommy,youknowyoumustnotdothat.Haven’tyougotanysenseatall?”“Johnny,youwickedboy, how dare you do that; howmanymore times do you want me to tellyou?”“Jane,ifyoudothatagainyouwillgostraighttobed,mygirl!”andsoon.

At length the door was opened from without, and a little face peeped in:“Mother!”

“Now,whatisit?can’tIevergetamoment’speace?”

“Mother,pleasewouldyoumindtellingussomethingwemightdo?”

Theladyalmostfellbackonthefloorinherastonishment.Theideahadneveroccurredtoher.

“Whatmayyoudo!Don’taskme.Iamtiredenoughoftellingyouwhatnottodo.”

ThingsaGentlemanshouldneverdo.

I remember when a young man, wishful to conform to the rules of goodsociety,Iboughtabookofetiquetteforgentlemen.Itsfaultwasjustthis.Ittoldmethroughmanypageswhatnottodo.Beyondthatitseemedtohavenoidea. Imade a list of things it said a gentleman shouldnever do: it was alengthylist.

Determined to do the job completely while I was about it, I bought otherbooksofetiquetteandaddedontheirlistof“Nevers.”Whatonebookleftoutanothersupplied.Theredidnotseemmuchleftforagentlemantodo.

IconcludedbythetimeIhadcometotheendofmybooks,thattobeatruegentlemanmysafestcoursewouldbetostopinbedfortherestofmylife.BythismeansonlycouldIhopetoavoideverypossiblefauxpas,everysolecism.Ishouldhavelivedanddiedagentleman.Icouldhavehaditengraveduponmytombstone:

“Heneverinhislifecommittedasingleactunbecomingtoagentleman.”

Tobeagentlemanisnotsoeasy,perhaps,asafashionablenovelistimagines.One is forced to the conclusion that it is not a question entirely for theoutfitter. My attention was attracted once by a notice in the window of aWest-Endemporium,“Gentlemensupplied.”

ItistosuchlikeUniversalProvidersthatthefashionablenovelistgoesforhisgentleman.Thegentlemanissuppliedtohimcompleteineverydetail.Ifthereaderbenotsatisfied,thatisthereader’sfault.Heisoneofthosetiresome,discontentedcustomerswhodoesnotknowagoodarticlewhenhehasgotit.

Iwastoldtheotherdayofthewriterofamusicalfarce(orisitcomedy?)whowasmostdesirous thathis leadingcharacter shouldbeaperfectgentleman.During the dress rehearsal, the actor representing the part had to open hiscigarette case and request another perfect gentleman to help himself. Theactordrewforthhiscase.Itcaughtthecriticaleyeoftheauthor.

“Goodheavens!”hecried,“whatdoyoucallthat?”

“Acigarettecase,”answeredtheactor.

“But,mydearboy,”exclaimedtheauthor,“surelyitissilver?”

“Iknow,”admittedtheactor,“itdoesperhapssuggestthatIamlivingbeyondmymeans,butthetruthisIpickeditupcheap.”

Theauthorturnedtothemanager.

“This won’t do,” he explained, “a real gentleman always carries a goldcigarettecase.Hemustbeagentleman,orthere’snopointintheplot.”

“Don’tletusendangeranypointtheplotmayhappentopossess,forgoodnesssake,”agreedthemanager,“lethimbyallmeanshaveagoldcigarettecase.”

HowonemayknowtheperfectGentleman.

So,regardlessofexpense,agoldcigarettecasewasobtainedandputdowntoexpenses. Andyeton the firstnightof thatmusicalplay,when that leadingpersonage smashed a tray over a waiter’s head, and, after a row with thepolice, camehomedrunk to hiswife, even that gold cigarette case failed to

convinceonethatthemanwasagentlemanbeyondalldoubt.

The old writers appear to have been singularly unaware of the importanceattaching to these socks, and ties, and cigarette-cases. They told usmerelywhatthemanfeltandthought.Whatreliancecanweplaceuponthem?Howcould they possibly have known what sort of man he was underneath hisclothes?Tweedorbroadclothisnottransparent.Evencouldtheyhavegotridof his clothes therewould have remained his flesh and bones. Itwas pureguess-work.Theydidnotobserve.

Themodernwriter goes towork scientifically. He tells us that the creatureworeamade-uptie.Fromthatweknowhewasnotagentleman;itfollowsasthenighttheday.Thefashionablenovelistnoticestheyoungman’ssocks.Itrevealstouswhetherthemarriagewouldhavebeensuccessfulorafailure.Itis necessary to convince us that the hero is a perfect gentleman: the authorgiveshimagoldcigarettecase.

A well-known dramatist has left it on record that comedy cannot existnowadays, for the simple reason that gentlemen have given up taking snuffandwearingswords.Howcanonehavecomedyincompanywithfrock-coats—withoutits“Las”andits“OddsBobs.”

Theswordmayhavebeenhelpful. IhavebeentoldthatatlevéesCitymen,unaccustomedtothething,have,withitshelp,providedcomedyfortherestofthecompany.

ButItakeitthisisnotthecomedyourdramatisthadinmind.

WhynotanExhibitionofGentlemen?

It seems a pity that comedy should disappear from among us. If it dependentirely on swords and snuff-boxes,would it not beworth thewhile of theSocietyofAuthors tokeepafewgentlemenspecially trained? Maybesomesympathetic theatrical manager would lend us costumes of the eighteenthcentury. Wemightprovide themwithswordsandsnuff-boxes. Theymightmeet,say,onceaweek,inaQueenAnnedrawing-room,especiallypreparedbyGillow, and go through their tricks. Authors seeking high-class comedymightbeadmittedtoagallery.

Perhapsthisexplainswhyold-fashionedreaderscomplainthatwedonotgivethem human nature. How canwe? Ladies and gentlemen nowadays don’tweartheproperclothes.Evidentlyitalldependsupontheclothes.

CHAPTERXX

Womanandherbehaviour.

Shouldwomensmoke?

The question, in four-inch letters, exhibited on a placard outside a smallnewsvendor’s shop,caught recentlymyeye. Thewanderer throughLondonstreets is familiarwith such-like appeals to his decision: “Should shortmenmarry tall wives?” “Ought we to cut our hair?” “Should second cousinskiss?”Life’sproblemsappeartobeendless.

Personally,Iamnotworryingmyselfwhetherwomenshouldsmokeornot.Itseemstomeaquestionfortheindividualwomantodecideforherself.Ilikewomenwhosmoke;Icanseenoobjectiontotheirsmoking.Smokingsoothesthenerves. Women’snervesoccasionallywantsoothing.Thetiresomeidiotwho argues that smoking is unwomanly denounces the drinking of tea asunmanly.Heisawooden-headedpersonwhoderivesallhisideasfromcheapfiction. Themanlymanof cheap fiction smokesapipeanddrinkswhisky.Thatishowweknowheisaman.Thewomanlywoman—well,IalwaysfeelI couldmake a betterwomanmyself out of anold clothes shop and a hair-dresser’sblock.

But,as Ihavesaid, thequestiondoesnot impressmeasonedemandingmyparticularattention.Ialsolikethewomanwhodoesnotsmoke.Ihavemetinmytimesomeverycharmingwomenwhodonotsmoke.Itmaybeasignofdegeneracy, but I am prepared to abdicate my position of woman’s god,leavingherfreetoleadherownlife.

Woman’sGod.

Candidly,theresponsibilityoffeelingmyselfanswerableforallawomandoesordoesnotdowouldweighuponme.Therearemenwhoarewillingtotakethisburdenuponthemselves,anda largenumberofwomenarestillanxiousthat theyshouldcontinue tobear it. I spokequiteseriously toayoung ladynotlongagoonthesubjectoftightlacing;undoubtedlyshewasinjuringherhealth.Sheadmitteditherself.

“Iknowallyoucansay,”shewailed;“Idaresayalotofitistrue.Thoseawfulpictures where one sees—well, all the things one does not want to thinkabout.Iftheyarecorrect,itmustbebad,squeezingitalluptogether.”

“Thenwhycontinuetodoso?”Iargued.

“Oh,it’seasyenoughtotalk,”sheexplained;“afewoldfogieslikeyou”—Ihad been speaking very plainly to her, and she was cross with me—“maypretendyoudon’tlikesmallwaists,buttheaveragemandoes.”

Poor girl! Shewas quite prepared to injure herself for life, to damage herchildren’sfuture,tobeuncomfortableforfifteenhoursaday,alltoobligetheaverageman.

It isacompliment toour sex. Whatmanwouldsuffer injuryand torture topleasetheaveragewoman?Thisfrenzieddesireofwomantoconformtoouridealsistouching.Afewdaringspiritsoflateyearshaveexhibitedatendencyto seek for other gods—for ideals of their own. We call them the unsexedwomen.Thewomanlywomenliftuptheirhandsinhorrorofsuchblasphemy.

When I was a boy no womanly woman rode a bicycle—tricycles werepermitted.Onthreewheelsyoucouldstillbewomanly,butontwoyouwere“acreature”! Thewomanlywoman,seeingherapproach,woulddrawdownthe parlour blind with a jerk, lest the children looking out might catch aglimpseofher,andtheiryoungsoulsbesmirchedforalleternity.

Nowomanlywomanrodeinsideahansomoroutsidea’bus.Irememberthedaymyowndearmotherclimbedoutsidea’busforthefirsttimeinherlife.Shewasexcited,andcriedalittle;butnobody—heavenbepraised!—sawus—that is, nobodyof importance. And afterwards she confessed the airwaspleasant.

“Be not the first bywhom the new is tried, Nor yet the last to lay the oldaside,” isasafe rule for thosewhowouldalwaysretain thegoodopinionofthatall-powerful,butsomewhatunintelligent, incubus,“theaverageperson,”but the pioneer, the guide, is necessary. That is, if the world is to moveforward.

The freedom-lovinggirlof to-day,whocanenjoyawalkbyherselfwithoutlosing her reputation, who can ride down the street on her “bike” withoutbeing hooted at, who can play a mixed double at tennis without beingcompelledbypublic opinion tomarryher partner,who can, in short, lead ahumancreature’slife,andnotthatofalap-dogledaboutattheendofastring,mightpausetothinkwhatsheowestothe“unsexedcreatures”whofoughtherbattleforherfiftyyearsago.

ThoseunsexedCreatures.

Cantheworkingwomanofto-day,whomayearnherownliving,ifshewill,withoutlossoftheelementaryrightsofwomanhood,thinkofthebachelorgirlofashortgenerationagowithoutadmirationofherpluck?Therewereladies

in those day too “unwomanly” to remain helpless burdens on overworkedfathersandmothers,too“unsexed”tomarrythefirstmanthatcamealongforthesakeoftheirbreadandbutter.Theyfoughttheirwayintojournalism,intotheoffice, into theshop. The reformer isnotalways thepleasantestman toinvite to a tea-party. Maybe thesewomenwhowent forwardwith the flagwerenotthemostcharmingoftheirsex.The“DoraCopperfield”typewillforsometimeremaintheyoungman’sideal,themodeltheyounggirlputsbeforeherself. Myself, I think Dora Copperfield charming, but a world of DoraCopperfields!

The working woman is a new development in sociology. She has manylessonstolearn,butonehashopesofher.Itissaidthatsheisunfittingherselfto be a wife and mother. If the ideal helpmeet for a man be an animatedDresden china shepherdess—something that looks pretty on the table,somethingtobeshownroundtoone’sfriends,something thatcanbe lockedupsafelyinacupboard,thatasksnoquestions,and,therefore,needbetoldnolies—thenawomanwhohaslearntsomethingoftheworld,whohasformedideasofherown,willnotbetheidealwife.

Referencesgiven—andrequired.

Maybetheaveragemanwillnotbeheridealhusband.EachMichaelmasatalittle town in theThamesValleywithwhich I amacquainted there isheldahiringfair.Afarmeroneyearlaidhishandonalively-lookinglad,andaskedhimifhewantedajob.Itwaswhattheboywaslookingfor.

“Gotacharacter?”askedthefarmer.Theboyrepliedthathehadforthelasttwo years beenworking forMr.Muggs, the ironmonger—felt sure thatMr.Muggswouldgivehimagoodcharacter.

“Well, go and askMr.Muggs to come across and speak tome, I will waithere,”directedthewould-beemployer.Fiveminuteswentby—tenminutes.NoMr.Muggsappeared.Laterintheafternoonthefarmermettheboyagain.

“Mr.Muggsnevercamenearmewiththatcharacterofyours,”saidthefarmer.

“No,sir,”answeredtheboy,“Ididn’taskhimto.”

“Whynot?”inquiredthefarmer.

“Well,Itoldhimwhoitwasthatwantedit”—theboyhesitated.

“Well?”demandedthefarmer,impatiently.

“Well,then,hetoldmeyours,”explainedtheboy.

Maybe the working woman, looking for a husband, and not merely alivelihood,may endby formulating standardsof her own. Shemay endbydemanding themanlymanandmovingabout theworld,knowingsomethingof life,mayarriveat theconclusion that somethingmore isneeded than thesmoking of pipes and the drinking of whiskies and sodas. We must bepreparedforthis.Theshelteredwomanwholearntherlifefromfairystoriesisadreamofthepast.Womanhasescapedfromher“shelter”—sheisontheloose.Forthefuturewemenhavegottoaccepttheemancipatedwomanasanaccomplishedfact.

TheidealWorld.

Manyofusareworriedabouther.Whatisgoingtobecomeofthehome?Iadmitthereisamoreidealexistencewheretheworkingwomanwouldfindnoplace;itisinaworldthatexistsonlyonthecomicoperastage.Thereeverypicturesquevillagecontainsanequalnumberof ladiesandgentlemennearlyallthesameheightandweight,toallappearanceofthesameage.EachJackhashis Jill, anddoesnotwant anybodyelse’s. Therearenocomplications:one presumes they draw lots and fall in love themoment they unscrew thepaper.Theydanceforawhileongrasswhichisneverdamp,andthenintotheconvenientlysituated ivy-coveredchurch they troop inpairsandareweddedoffhandbyawhite-hairedclergyman,whoisamarriedmanhimself.

Ah, if theworldwere but a comic opera stage, therewould be no need forworkingwomen!Asamatteroffact,sofarasonecanjudgefromthefrontofthehouse,therearenoworkingmeneither.

Butoutside theoperahouse in themuddystreetJackgoeshometohis thirdfloorback,orhischambersintheAlbany,accordingtohiscaste,andwonderswhen the timewill comewhen hewill be able to support awife. And Jillclimbsonapenny’bus,orstepsintothefamilybrougham,anddreamswithregretofalostgarden,wheretherewasjustonemanandjustonewoman,andclothesgrewonafigtree.

With the progress of civilization—utterly opposed as it is to all Nature’sintentions—thenumberofworkingwomenwill increase. WithsomefriendstheotherdayIwasdiscussingmotor-cars,andonegentlemanwithsorrowinhis voice—he is the type of Conservative who would have regretted thepassingawayoftheglacialperiod—opinedthatmotor-carshadcometostay.

“Youmean,” said another, “they have come to go.” The working woman,howevermuchwemayregretit,hascometogo,andsheisgoingit.Weshallhavetoacceptherandseewhatcanbedonewithher.Onethingiscertain,weshallnotsolve theproblemof the twentiethcenturybyregretting thesimple

sociologyoftheStoneAge.

ALover’sView.

Speakingasalover,Iwelcometheopeningsthatarebeinggiventowomentoearntheirownlivelihood.Icanconceiveofnomoredegradingprofessionforawoman—noprofessionmorecalculatedtounfitherforbeingthatwifeandmotherwetalksomuchaboutthantheprofessionthatuptoafewyearsagowastheonlyoneopentoher—theprofessionofhusband-hunting.

Asaman,Iobjecttobeingregardedaswoman’slastrefuge,heroneandonlyalternative to theworkhouse. I cannotmyself seewhy thewomanwhohasfacedthedifficultiesofexistence,learntthelessonoflife,shouldnotmakeasgoodawifeandmotherastheignorantgirltakendirect,onemightalmostsay,from the nursery, and,without the slightest preparation, put in a position ofresponsibilitythattoathinkingpersonmustbealmostappalling.

Ithasbeensaidthatthedifferencebetweenmenandwomenisthis:Thatthemangoes about theworldmaking it ready for the children, that thewomanstops at homemaking the children ready for theworld. Will not she do itmuchbetter forknowingsomethingof theworld, forknowingsomethingofthetemptations,thedifficulties,herownchildrenwillhavetoface,forhavinglearnt by her own experience to sympathize with the struggles, the sordidheart-breakingcaresthatmanhasdailytocontendwith?

Civilization is ever undergoing transformation, but human nature remains.Thebachelorgirl, inherbed-sittingroom,inherstudio, inherflat,willstillsee in the shadows the vision of the home,will still hear in the silence thesoundofchildren’svoices,willstilldreamofthelover’skissthatistoopenupnew life to her. She is not quite so unsexed as you may think, my dearwomanlymadame.AmalefriendofminewastellingmeofacatastrophethatonceoccurredatastationintheEastIndies.

NotimetothinkofHusbands.

Afirebrokeoutatnight,andeverybodywasinterrorlestitshouldreachthemagazine.Thewomenandchildrenwerebeinghurriedtotheships,andtwoladieswerehasteningpastmyfriend.Oneofthempaused,and,claspingherhands,demandedofhim ifheknewwhathadbecomeofherhusband. Hercompanionwasindignant.

“Forgoodness’sake,don’tdawdle,Maria,”shecried;“thisisnotimetothinkofhusbands.”

Thereisnoreasontofearthattheworkingwomanwilleverceasetothinkof

husbands. Maybe, as I have said, shewill demand a better article than themerehusband-hunterhasbeenable tostandout for. Maybesheherselfwillhave something more to give; maybe she will bring to him broadersympathies,higherideals.Thewomanwhohasherselfbeendownamongthepeople,whohasfacedlifeintheopen,willknowthatthehomeisbutonecellofthevasthive.

We shall, perhaps, hear less of the woman who “has her own home andchildrentothinkof—reallytakesnointerestinthesematters”—thesemattersof right and wrong, these matters that spell the happiness or misery ofmillions.

TheWifeoftheFuture.

Maybethebridegroomofthefuturewillnotsay,“Ihavemarriedawife,andthereforeIcannotcome,”but“Ihavemarriedawife;wewillbothcome.”

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