Walking recently by Hyde Park Corner I met a man in a comic hat.
He was an elderly man, very well set up, marching along like an old
officer--quite an impressive figure with his grey moustache and
grey hair, had not this ridiculous affair surmounted him. It was not
exactly a hat, and not exactly a cap, but something between the two,
and it was so minute as to be almost invisible and wholly absurd. Yet
there was every indication that its wearer believed that it suited
him, for he moved both with confidence and self-satisfaction.
And as I watched him, and after he had passed, swinging his stick and
surveying the world with the calm assurance of a connoisseur of most
of the branches of life I began to entertain some very serious and
disturbing doubts. For (thought I) here is quite a capable kind of
fellow, of mature age, making a perfect guy of himself under the
profound conviction that he is doing just the reverse and that that
pimple of a hat suits him. No doubt, judging by the cut of his clothes
and his general _soigné_ appearance, he stands before his glass every
morning until he is satisfied. Had he (thought I) any accuracy of
vision he would see himself the grotesque thing he is in that idiotic
little cap. But his vision is distorted.
It was then that I began to go hot and cold all over, for I suddenly
realised that my vision might be distorted too. My hat hitherto had
satisfied me; but suppose that that too was all wrong. And then I
wondered if anyone really gets a true return from the mirror, or if we
are not all bemused; and, remembering those astounding hats in which
WINSTON used to be photographed a few years ago, I asked myself,
"Where are _we_, when even the great legislators can go so wrong?"
Although all this soul-searching occurred several days ago, I am still
nervous, and I never catch sight of my reflection in a shop window
without suspicion racking me; while to see a smile on the face of an
approaching pedestrian is agony.
But (you will say) why not ask the hatter or some intimate friend to
select the hat for you? I guessed you would suggest that. But it won't
help; I'll tell you why. Some years ago I knew a fat man with a big
head--a journalist of great ability--who made himself undignified by
perching upon the top of that great and capable head a little bowler.
Its inadequacy had always annoyed me, but never more so than when, on
my arriving at our place of servitude one morning (we were on the same
paper) in a new and perfectly becoming hat, he said to me, "That hat's
all wrong. You should never choose a hat for yourself. I _never_ do.
I get my wife to choose mine for me." Remembering this I am even more
unsettled than before. I see no hope.
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[Illustration: _Mistress_. "OH, HE'S GONE INTO THE TRENCHES, HAS HE?
WELL, YOU MUSTN'T WORRY."
_Maid_. "OH, NO, MA'AM, I'VE LEFT OFF WORRYING NOW. HE CAN'T WALK OUT
WITH ANYONE ELSE WHILE HE'S THERE."]
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