This morning I am making a tour of inspection with the Great Axilla. We
are driving in his chariot, which is a wide-seated, low-swung ox-cart
drawn by a yoke of white oxen. The Excelsior has other means of faster
locomotion, but he abhors those vehicles, while I am made nervous by
the slow speed of our ox-cart.
“Why are you so fidgety, puny one?” asked the Excelsior, “evidently the
inhabitants of your country get small enjoyment out of life, because
they do not train themselves to observe. If one travels faster than an
ox can walk, it is not possible for him to observe the indispensable
details of this world. I am going through life for the last time, my
little fellow, and I want to see all that there is. I am in no hurry.”
We rode along in frisky pomp, and I tried to sit still.
“Who lives in that great mansion?” I asked, as we jaunted past the
abode of some evidently wealthy citizen.
“His name was Missed-It.”
“Is he dead?”
“Yes, he died yesterday.”
“What a strange name;” I mused.
“No, not if you knew him,” said the Excelsior, “you know I never allow
my great folk to have permanent names until they are dead. Then I name
them. If you will go some other time to visit our cemetery you will see
by the tombstones that several important personages have passed away
this winter. You will see that I have had their names cut deep in the
stones. For instance, ‘Natural Poser’ died in November; likewise ‘Poor
Imitation.’ Then in December, we lost ‘Anybody’s Flirt,’ and a little
later ‘Sublime Assurance’ had to die. And now little old ‘Missed-It’ is
to be tucked away. He was certainly very rich.”
“How much did he leave?”
“He left everything.”
The ox-cart slowly mounted a snow-covered hill, and I kept quiet.
Presently my host said:
“There are no pockets to our shrouds; neither are there money drawers
in our burial vaults; and that man’s coffin could not hold a tithe of
what he amassed.”
“Why, how much was he worth?”
“Ninety billion buttons!” exclaimed the Excelsior, his eyes bulging in
spite of himself.
“Buttons? Are buttons the coin of your realm?” I asked, smiling.
“You need not be so supercilious, my small guest,” snapped the
Excelsior, “for I adopted our currency system from your own people.”
“How is that?”
“I sent my agents to the warm ocean lands to search out what gave
the majority of your people the greatest satisfaction. They made an
exhaustive inquiry, and reported that most of you derived satisfaction
from saying and having it said: He or she is worth so many million
dollars, francs, pounds, rubles; and that the larger the number they
could say the more glee they derived. Very well, if it be simply that
the larger the sum the more the satisfaction, why not have a coin which
can be multiplied indefinitely? Hence I decided upon buttons. Moreover,
there is a moral attaching to our form of currency, for as buttons are
used upon our clothes, and we can not use more than ten or a dozen
upon one suit, and can only wear one suit at a time, a rich man is
constantly reminded how superfluous are his other billions of buttons.
Now, let us ride along for a while in peace.”
The snow fell so fast that it balled upon the feet of our oxen, but
as we ourselves were protected by a massive parasol, our view was
unobstructed. Shortly we entered a thickly settled portion of the
city where high structures towered toward the clouds. They resembled
in architecture our great office buildings. I could not maintain my
silence any longer.
“Pray tell me what are all these high edifices jammed together here?”
“They are Sane Asylums,” answered the Excelsior, “and the inmates are
devotees of routine.”
At that moment, whistles shrieked and bells rang: and lo, behold! vast
throngs of individuals swarmed in the hallways and issued out of doors.
“Look at them,” said the Excelsior, “they are now going to crawl to
luncheon, no matter whether they are hungry or not. Yet you will find
odd specimens in that mass. You will find presidents of companies who
spend their lives poring over countless figures when they would much
prefer to study along the inclinations of their temperaments. You
will find lawyers and physicians who long to love and dream instead
of listening to petty ills and complaints. You will find bankers who
might have been philosophers. You will find clerks who conceal and are
ashamed of poetic fancies. And yet they all slave on in their voluntary
prisons, giving forth only mediocre efforts. And why? Because they
do not love their work. They work only to procure buttons, instead
of living for rational happiness. That is why this age of ours is
unfortunately a Millennium of Minnows.”
My host thought he had said enough for a while and ceased to entertain
me. He lolled back and stroked his magnificent whiskers. Again we were
jaunting down hill when the oxen drew up to water at a curved trough
which stood before a crooked building with dingy, little windows, all
arow.
“What on earth is this; who lives in here?”
“My cowards,” answered the Excelsior, “did you not know that I own the
rarest and most complete collection of cowards in the world?”
“I have never even heard of such a collection.”
“What a puny ignoramus you are!” exclaimed the Great Axilla, “where
can you have lived and not have been taught the underlying principles
of cowardice? And I, sir, have specimens to illustrate each of those
principles. Do you not even know the three grand divisions of cowards:
the Physical Coward, the Moral Coward and the Intellectual Coward?”
“Have we not time to go in and see some of them?”
The Excelsior consulted his travelling dial, and said:
“It is almost time for my afternoon siesta, but if you will make haste
and not interrupt me with your insipid questions, I can give you a
quick tour of inspection.”
We alighted and ran in through the low, grated portals.
“Here,” said the Excelsior, as we entered the first tier of cells,
“are the Physical Cowards. They are too ordinary and common to need
explanation. They are divided into two main subdivisions. Firstly, the
positive physical coward, who, having neither intellect nor morality on
his side, resorts to force. And when he defeats you by the strength of
his bull neck and coarse fists he declares that he has proved himself
in the right.
“The second subdivision, which comprises those cells on the left-hand
side, consists of the other and even more common variety. That is, a
person who will not risk his body for the chance of protecting another,
or who will not give up his cheap life for his country. A philosopher
of your country once remarked, ‘’Tis man’s perdition to be safe, when
for the Truth, he ought to die!’”
The Excelsior took me by the arm and escorted me up a flight of
winding stairs, until we reached a shaky, moving platform. The Axilla
expatiated as follows:
“On this higher level in this second tier of cells, live my Moral
Cowards. Their cowardice has to do with character. Here too, there are
subdivisions. Firstly, those who prefer to be what they are, and not
what they might be. My friend, I speak with all due reverence: your
Savior spoke of the Sin against the Holy Ghost, and here I think is
that sin’s personification. For, the Unpardonable Sin, as I understand
it, is not to struggle, not to strive to do right even though failure
faces you at every turn, but instead to give up and become satiated
with sloth, to yield to the worst elements in your nature and to grovel
in their lowness. Bah! Do not start me talking about them, for it
taints my own soul.
“The other and more open moral coward, and therefore the more simple,
is he or she who takes out his or her anger, not upon himself or
herself who is really to blame, but foists the blame upon another, as
the wolf found pretext against the lamb. Then of course, there is also
that vast class who openly attack one of their sex for having done what
they themselves would inwardly like to do. This last variety has always
struck me as being the most human of all.
“Come, now, to the third and highest level, where I maintain my
Intellectual Cowards at a great expense. They are the very costly
specimens, for they come chiefly from the places of elevated culture.”
While he was speaking, we ascended a cast-iron stairway inlaid with
arabesques. The Excelsior let down a narrow, filigree draw-bridge
which was the only means of access to the tier of intellectual cowards.
We ambled across it, and the Excelsior made a sweep with his cane,
exclaiming:
“Look at them! Are they not ludicrous? You have often heard the
adjective contemptible applied to cowardice. The application came
from this sect. These are the contemptible cowards. They lack the
courage of their convictions. And the curious fact is that these
persons are proud of their cowardice, because they call it another
name--self-preservation, which includes self-appreciation.”
Here the Excelsior turned upon me.
“Did it ever occur to you,” he asked, “that a humbug is at heart a
coward? A humbug is simply one who is afraid to be himself for fear
it may not pay. As an example, one of the oldest and most harmful
devices of the humbug is to titulate the imagination with smut
under the pretense of being outspoken. That is why you see so many
modern playwrights and novelists amongst them. If they were really
clean-minded and earnest in their work, they would not have to adopt
such false methods.”
The Excelsior took me to the other end of the balcony where a ball was
in progress.
“Here are some more humbugs,” he began, “indeed by far the majority
of humbugs are found among the so-called fashionable classes. These
specimens came from the esoteric ‘sets’ of your society folk.”
“Do you allow them to carry on their same diversions?” I asked,
noticing the luxurious furnishings and grandeur.
“Oh yes,” answered the Excelsior, “otherwise they would languish and
die. Look at that grand lady there in the gilt arm-chair. She is a
famous leader. She has composure, but nothing to compose.
“Can you see that loose-jointed male specimen, stroking his blond
mustache. How very haughty he is! He is exclusive, for fear of being
excluded.
“These are all cowards, you understand, because they are imitated
poses. Imitation is a confession that you lack the stamina to be
yourself.”
My brain was buzzing with the Excelsior’s concentrated talk. He gave me
some relief by asking me to follow him into a wing of the building. He
unlocked a suite of private apartments. In the dining-room there sat
five persons.
“Here,” he whispered, “is a family of cowards, two parents and three
children, a sister and two brothers. One of the brothers is a poet of
some ability, but his family opposes him on the ground that it is not
nice and proper to write such sentiments as he desires to give forth.
Instead of lending a word of encouragement to his feeble will, as
relatives are supposed to do, they show him their utmost contempt. And
he does not realize that contempt from certain persons is a compliment.
They are Pharisees of the purest type; and no more profound coward
exists than a Pharisee, for he or she is invariably a conscious coward,
shamming sincerity.”
The Excelsior descended to the open air, and I gladly followed him; for
the atmosphere was close and exotic within.
“Now I excuse you;” he said to me, yawning, “please do not visit me
again for at least some months.”