When I arrived in London to-night I received a blow. A letter awaited
me saying that the landlord of the school I was taking over had decided
to sell the property. Thus all my dreams of a free school vanished in
smoke. There isn't a house to rent in London; thousands are for sale,
but I have no money to buy. If I had money I should hesitate to buy,
for if a school is a success it expands, and the ideal thing to do is
to take it out to the country where there is fresh air and space to
grow.
To-night I feel pessimistic; it is difficult to be an optimist when a
long-planned scheme suddenly falls to pieces.
I think of my capitalist friend Lindsay. He could buy me a school
to-morrow, and never miss the money, but I don't think I should accept
it. He would always have a big say in the running of it, and his
ideals are not mine. I know other people with money, but I fancy that
they have no faith in me. That is one of the disadvantages of writing
light books like _A Dominie's Log_. The adult reads it and says:
"Funny chap this!" But people have little faith in funny chaps. You
can be a funny chap if you are a magistrate or a cabinet minister, but
a teacher must be a staid dignified person. He must be a man who by
his serious demeanour will impress the children and lead them out of
the morass of original sin in which they were born. Montessori is
catching on in the educational world not entirely because of her
excellent system; part of her success is due to the fact that she never
makes a joke; she is always the dignified moral model teacher.
Poor Montessori! Here I am transferring my irritation at the landlord
who sold my school to her. I beg her pardon. Nor am I really annoyed
with the landlord; the person I am annoyed with is myself. I bungled
that school business.
Now I feel better. When I am irritated I always think of the traveller
from St. Andrews. He arrived at Leuchars Junction and had five minutes
to wait for the Edinburgh train. He entered the bar and had a drink.
He had a second drink, and then awoke to the fact that he had missed
the train. The next train was due in two hours. The barmaid shut the
bar between trains and the traveller went out on the platform. It was
a cold rainy November night. He went to the waiting room, but there
was no fire there.
"Anyway," he said, "I'll have a smoke," and he filled his pipe. Then
he found that he had but one match left. He struck it, and it went
out. He went out to the platform and found an old porter screwing down
the lamps. The porter knelt down to tie his lace and the traveller
approached him.
"Could you oblige me with a match?"
The old porter eyed him dispassionately.
"I dinna smoke. I dinna believe in smokin'. I dinna hae a match."
The traveller walked wearily forward to an automatic machine and
inserted his last penny . . . and drew out a bar of butterscotch. He
tossed it over the line, and then he threw his pipe after it. He
walked along the platform, and then he came back. The old porter was
again tying his lace. The traveller suddenly rushed at him and kicked
him as hard as he could.
"What did ye do that for?" demanded the poor old man when he picked
himself up.
The traveller turned away in disgust.
"Och, to hell wi' you; ye're ay tying your lace!" he said.
Lots of people cannot see the joke in this yarn, and I challenge anyone
to explain the point.
* * * * *
Good fortune came to rescue me from sorrowing over my lost school. It
sent me to Holland thuswise: about five hundred Famine Area children
were coming from Vienna to England, and I was invited to become one of
the escort. Then it struck me that I might go over earlier and have a
look at the Dutch schools. I hastened to get a few passport
photographs; I looked at them . . . and then I thought I shouldn't risk
going. However, on second thoughts, I decided to risk it, and went to
the passport office. There a gentleman with a big cigar looked at the
photograph; then he looked at me.
"The face of a criminal," his eyes seemed to say as he studied the
photo.
"Isn't it like me?" I asked in alarm.
"Quite a good likeness," he said brusquely, and passed me on to the
next pigeon-hole.
At last I landed in Flushing, and a kind guard found me a carriage.
There I began to learn the Dutch language. "Niet rooken." Scots
_reek_ means _smoke_: hurrah! "do not smoke!"
"Verbodden te spuwen." "It is forbidden to----" no, that wouldn't be
nice! Got it! "Do not spit!"
At this juncture a pretty Scheveningen lassie entered and greeted me.
Alas! I knew but five words of Dutch, and when I thought the matter
over I concluded that they were not very appropriate for carrying on a
mild flirtation. Still, it's wonderful how much you can do with facial
expression. Just before the train started a man entered. He knew
English, and with more kindness than knowledge of humanity he offered
to act as interpreter. The ass! as if a fellow can tell a girl through
an interpreter that her hair is just the shade he admires. This fisher
lassie was the only pretty girl I saw in Holland in ten days.
Rotterdam. My first and abiding impression was that never before had I
seen so many badly-dressed people. If I had money and a profiteering
complex I should set up a Bond Street shop in the centre of Rotterdam.
No, that's wrong; that wasn't my first impression at all: my first
impression was of a window filled with cigars at six cents each--one
and a fifth pence. From that moment I loved Holland and the Dutch.
What did it matter if their clothes were badly cut? What did anything
matter? I dived into that shop and bought twenty . . . and ten yards
farther on discovered a shop with fatter and longer cigars at five
cents each. Three days later in the Hague I walked round the cigar
shops for two hours, dying for a smoke, but not daring to buy a cigar
at five cents lest in the next street I should find a shop offering
them at four cents.
It was in Rotterdam that I discovered how bad my manners were. I was
sitting in a cafe when a gentleman entered. He swept off his hat and
bowed graciously . . . and I hastily put a protecting hand on the
pocket containing my pocket-book. But every man who entered greeted me
in the same way, and I realised that I was in a polite country. By the
end of the week I was beating the Dutch at their own game, for I swept
off my hat to every policeman, shopkeeper, tramwayman I spoke to.
On a Monday morning I walked forth to inspect the Dutch schools. I saw
a troop of little girls following a mistress, and I joined the
procession. They turned into a playground, and I followed. I
approached the lady.
"Do you speak English?"
"Engelish! Ja!" she said with a smile.
"I am an English--no, Scots teacher," I explained, "and I should like
to see the school."
"I will ask the head-mistress," she said, and entered the school, while
I stood and admired the bonny white dresses of the girls.
She returned shaking her head.
"The head-mistress says that it is not allowed to visit a school in
Holland without a permit from the Mansion House."
"A rotten country!" I growled, and went away.
In the street I ran into a group of boys led by a master who was
smoking a fat cigar.
"Speak English?" I asked, lifting my hat gracefully.
"Nichtenrichtilbricht," he said; at least that's how it sounded.
"Thank you," I said, lifted my hat again, and fell in behind the boys.
I was determined to see this thing through.