THE STORY OF WHAT HAPPENED TO AN AMERICAN CONSUL
In undertaking a trip to foreign parts I have had two objects in view:--
(a) To strengthen and more closely cement our friendly relations with
foreign Powers--I to furnish the cement.
(b) To reform things in general over here.
I found that there was no opening for a real reformer in the U.S.A.,
inasmuch as the magazines were upsetting municipal rings, cornering the
Beef Trust, and camping on the trail of every corporation that seemed
to be making money. I said:--"If I wish to make a ten strike as a
reformer I must seek new fields."
So I decided to flit to Europe and spend all the time I could spare
from dodging _table d'hote_ dinners to bolstering up and regulating the
consular service.
In writing to-day about the happy experiences of an American consul I
am following the advice of a friend who urged me to send some letters
back home.
"Don't put in too much about your travels," he said. "People have read
about European travel until they know Munich better than they do
Montana. Whenever the opportunity presents itself write something
entirely irrelevant--something that has nothing to do with anything in
particular. The less you say about foreign countries the better you
will please your readers, and if you can arrange to write a series of
letters in which no reference is made to either Europe or Africa who
knows but what you will score a hit?"
With no desire to boast of my accomplishments, I feel that up to date I
have followed instructions rather closely. If any dates, statistics,
or useful information have crept into these communications it is
through oversight and not by intention.
In writing from Paris the natural impulse is to describe Napoleon's
tomb and tell how the Champs Elysees runs right out to the Arc de
Triomphe and then cuts through the Bois de Boulogne. Fearing that this
subject matter had been touched upon by other visitors, I shall
disregard Paris and go straight to my task of reforming the consular
service.
To begin with, usually the American Consul is all right in his place,
but his place is at home. Overpaid, possibly, but he does his best to
earn his $800 per annum. If he kept all the money that he handled in
the course of the year, he couldn't be a really successful grafter. He
finds himself plumped down in a strange country. About the time that
he begins to learn the language and has saved up enough money to buy
evening clothes he is recalled and goes back home with a "dress suit"
on his hands. Take the case of Mr. Eben Willoughby, of Michigan. It
is a simple narrative, but it will give you a line on the shortcomings
of our consular service, and it will carry its own moral.
"Old Man" Willoughby, as he was known at home, owned and edited a
successful daily paper on the outskirts of the Michigan pine belt. He
was a wheel horse in the party and for forty years had supported the
caucus nominees. The aspiring politician who wished to go to Congress
had to go and see Willoughby with his hat in his hand. He helped to
make and unmake United States Senators and was consulted regarding
appointments. But he never had asked anything for himself. His two
boys went to college at Ann Arbor, and when the younger came home with
his degree and began to take a hand in running the paper Mr. Willoughby
found himself, for the first time in his life, relieved of wearing
responsibilities. He was well fixed financially and still in the prime
of life--not due to retire permanently, but ready to take it easy. For
years he had nursed a vague desire to travel beyond the limits of his
native land. Mrs. Willoughby, who in the home circle was known as
"Ma," was a devotee of the Chautauqua Circle, and she, too, had an
ambition born of much reading to pack up and go somewhere. The family
doctor said that a visit to some milder climate, far from the rigours
of northern winter, would be a positive benefit to her.
[Illustration: _Had to go and see Willoughby_]
So Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby began to study the atlas. One of the sons
suggested to "Old Man" Willoughby that he could take a trip to an
attractive southern country at the minimum expense by securing an
appointment as consul. And, of course, apart from the financial
advantage, there would be the glory of representing a great nation and
hoisting the flag over a benighted foreign population. The suggestion
appealed very strongly to Mr. Willoughby. He wrote to the Congressman
and the Senator, and wanted to know if there was a vacancy--salary no
object, but he would like to go into a mild and equable climate where
he could pick cocoanuts.
His friends at Washington simply overturned the State Department in
their eagerness to give him what he wanted. They discovered that there
was somewhere on the map a city called Gallivancia. It was down by the
southern seas--the abode of perpetual summer and already enjoying a
preliminary boom as a resort. The acting consul had been a British
subject. The pay was so small that no enterprising American had wanted
the job. "United States Consul at Gallivancia" reverberated pleasantly
in the imagination of Mr. Willoughby. He told his friends at
Washington to go after the place, and in less than no time his daily
paper announced that he had "accepted" the appointment.
The politicians represented to the State Department that Mr. Willoughby
was a sturdy patriot of unimpeachable character and great ability--all
of which was true. They might have added that he would be just as much
at home in Gallivancia as a polar bear would be on India's coral strand.
The news of his appointment gave one section of Michigan the trembles
for several days, and the Willoughby family was bathed in a new
importance. Mrs. Willoughby was given a formal farewell by the ladies
of the congregation assembled in the church parlours. Mr. Willoughby
was presented with a jewelled badge by the members of his lodge, and
the band serenaded him the night before he went away.
He and "ma" stood on the back platform and gazed with misty eyes at the
flutter of handkerchiefs on the station platform until the train swung
around a curve and they found themselves headed straight for
Gallivancia and glory. Both of them felt a little heart-achey and
dubious, but it was too late to back out. At New York they boarded a
ship and after several days of unalloyed misery they landed at
Gallivancia.
Now, Gallivancia is the make-believe capital of a runt of an island
having no commercial or other importance. No matter where an island
may be dropped down, some nation must grab it and hold it for fear that
some other nation will take charge of it and pay the expenses. That is
why Gallivancia had a governor general and a colonel in command, and
the Right Honourable Skipper of the gunboat and a judge and a cluster
of foreign consuls. The men had a club at which whiskey and water
could be obtained, unless the bottle happened to be empty. The women
exchanged calls and gave formal dinners and drove about in rickety
little victorias with terrified natives in livery perched upon the box.
The lines of social precedence were closely drawn. At a dinner party
the wife of the governor preceded the wife of the military commander
who, in turn, queened it over the wife of the gunboat, who looked down
upon the wife of the magistrate, and so on. The women smoked
cigarettes and gambled at bridge, while every man who had won a medal
at a shooting match pinned it on his coat when he went to a ball. It
was a third-rate copy of court life, but these small dignitaries went
through the motions and got a lot of fun out of it in one way and
another. If we cannot afford a social position that is real ivory, the
next best thing is to get one that is celluloid. It had all the
intricate vices of a true nobility without the bona fide titles to back
them up and give the glamour.
Into this nest of pretentious, ceremonious, strutting little mortals
came "Old Man" Willoughby and "Ma" Willoughby of Michigan. Of the
outward form and artificialities of a Europeanised aristocratic society
they were most profoundly ignorant. Mr. Willoughby did not even own a
"dress suit." When he got a clean shave and put on a string tie and
backed into a "Prince Albert" coat he felt that he had made a very
large concession to the mere fripperies of life. And "Ma" had her own
ideas about low-necked gowns.
Can you see Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby in Gallivancia? Can you understand
what must have been the attitude of these gold-braid pewees toward an
old-fashioned apple pie couple from the tall timber?
Mind you, I am not poking fun at the Willoughbys. In the opinion of
every real American a man of the Willoughby type is worth a ten-acre
lot full of these two-by-four titles. The Willoughbys were good
people--the kind of people one likes to meet in Michigan. But when the
ladies of the foreign colony came to call on "Ma" and said "Dyuh me!"
and looked at her through their lorgnettes, she was like a staid old
Plymouth Rock hen who suddenly finds herself among the birds of
paradise. She told Mr. Willoughby that it was the queerest lot of
"women folks" she had ever seen, and although she didn't like to talk
about people until she knew her ground, some of them did not seem any
more respectable than the law allowed. Poor Mrs. Willoughby! She did
not know it was good form for a woman to smoke and drink, but bad form
for her to be interested in her husband. She tried to apply a Michigan
training to Gallivancia conditions, and the two didn't seem to jibe.
[Illustration: "_D'yuh me!_"]
If Mrs. Willoughby amused the women, Mr. Willoughby more than amused
the men. He upset them and left them gasping.
The Acting Consul had used a small office adjoining his own place of
business on the water front. Mr. Willoughby called on the former
consul and found him to be a dignified Britisher of the gloomy and
reticent sort, with a moustache shaped like a horseshoe. The dethroned
official was courteous, but not cordial. He was saying good-by to some
easy money, and the situation was not one calculated to promote good
cheer. Mr. Willoughby's action in coming down and pulling the
Consulate from underneath him seemed to him almost unfriendly.
However, he formally turned over to Mr. Willoughby a table, four
chairs, several account books, and a letter press, all being the
property of the United States of America.
Mr. Willoughby had rented a house on the hill overlooking the town and
decided to plant the Consulate in the front room of his residence.
Inasmuch as the Consul had a business caller about once a month, there
was no need of maintaining two establishments. Already he had taken
into his employ and his warmest personal friendship a native named
Franciotto. This name seemed formal and hard to remember, so Mr.
Willoughby rechristened him "Jim." He liked this native in spite of
his colour because he was the only man in Gallivancia who seemed to be
pervaded by the simple spirit of democracy. Mr. Willoughby said that
the others put on too many "dam-lugs"--whatever that may mean.
If U.S. Consul Willoughby's social standing in Gallivancia was at all
subject to doubt that doubt vanished on the day when he and "Jim" came
down to move the office effects to the house on the hill.
Mr. Willoughby did something that day which convulsed Gallivancia as it
never had been convulsed before--not even when a neighbouring volcano
blew off. For days afterward the official set, the men at the little
club, and the women pouring tea at each other, talked of nothing else.
Many would not believe when they first heard it, but there were
witnesses--reliable witnesses--who saw the whole thing and were called
upon time and time again to testify regarding the most extraordinary
performance of the United States Consul. Other Consuls may come and go
and the years spin their weary lengths and the obliterating drift of
time may hide some of the lesser events in the history of Gallivancia,
but until time shall be no more the residents of that city will tell
the story of "Old Man" Willoughby, of Michigan.
What do you suppose he did? No effort of the imagination can carry you
within hailing distance of the horrible truth, so let the suspense be
ended. Mr. Willoughby, with his own hands, helped to move the
furniture from the old Consulate up to his new residence. He put the
table on top of his head and balanced it carefully and carried it
through the open streets of Gallivancia! An official, a representative
of a great Power, performing cheap manual labour!
[Illustration: _What do you suppose he did?_]
Words are altogether inadequate to describe the degree of obloquy which
Mr. Willoughby earned for himself by this unheard-of exhibition. In
Gallivancia it was not considered quite the thing to indulge in mental
effort, and for anyone except a menial of the lowest social order to
perform physical labour was almost inconceivable. The new consul was
set down as either a harmless imbecile or an altogether new specimen of
barbarian. In either case he was not a fit associate for well-bred
gentlemen, and Gallivancia proceeded to ignore him and "Ma." That is,
they pretended to ignore them, but as a matter of fact, they watched
them at a distance and heard daily reports of their familiarities with
servants, their fondness for outlandish American cookery, and other
eccentricities. It was all vastly diverting to the tiny aristocrats of
Gallivancia, but it was pretty hard on Mr. and Mrs.
Willoughby--homesick, hungry for spring chicken and garden truck, and
yet ashamed to pick up and go home so soon after all those elaborate
good-bys.
One morning Mr. Willoughby walked out on the veranda of his hillside
cottage and looked across the harbour and saw something that smote him
with an overpowering joy. A white cruiser, flying the Stars and
Stripes, had steamed through the narrow entrance and was bearing down
to an anchorage.
"Come here, mother!" he shouted. "Come here, if you want to see
something that's good for sore eyes!"
Mrs. Willoughby came running, and nearly careened with happiness.
There it was, an American war vessel, with real Yankees on board--boys
from home; boys who had been brought up to believe that a man's
character and his abilities give him a worth which cannot be altered by
putting a mere handle to his name. Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby were eager
to go down and call on the "folks from home." After the prolonged
boycott which had been hanging over them they were pining for white
society.
Mr. Willoughby put on his long black coat and Mrs. Willoughby got out
her flowered bonnet and together they went down to the water
front--walked instead of going as they should have gone, in one of the
decrepit local hacks. Before they could charter a humble rowboat and
go out to the ship the Governor General and the Lord High Commander of
the Scow and the Imperial Collector of Customs and all the other
residents of real importance had gone out in a launch and taken charge
of the naval officers. Dinner parties and a ball at the "Palace" were
arranged at once. The servant at the club hurried out and got another
bottle of Scotch whiskey, and the town band began to mobilise at a
cafe. Gallivancia had no use for a humble American of the Willoughby
type, but it gave hysterical welcome to the splendid war vessel and the
natty men in uniform. Over the first drink the Americans were told the
remarkable story of the new Consul and were assured that he was a
"queer sort." And the naval officers, being accustomed to hearing
United States consuls maligned, took no further interest in their
government's representative; merely shook hands with him when he came
aboard, told him to make himself at home, and then flocked away to the
high lights and the gayety which had been provided for them by the
court circles of Gallivancia.
Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby found themselves sidetracked, and they went
back home not daring to talk about what had happened. But that was the
day which caused them to decide to go back to Michigan. Mr. Willoughby
wrote to the State Department and said that the climate did not agree
with him. And when they sailed away "Jim" was the only person who came
to the dock to bid them good-by.
As the "Ex-Consul to Gallivancia" Mr. Willoughby is more than ever an
honoured figure in his own town. Doubtless he has more gray matter,
more Christian charity, and more horse sense than could be collectively
assembled by all the petty officials at Gallivancia. And yet
Gallivancia regarded him as a very poor excuse for a Consul. The naval
officers saw in him a well-meaning "jay" who was bringing discredit on
their native land because of his ignorance of social forms.
Therefore let us send out Consuls who can put up a "front." Have each
Consul wear the uniform of a drum major. Make sure that he can dance
all night, play bridge, and keep up with the naval crowd when it comes
to drinking. Let him be haughty with the serving classes, but jovial
with the military. Make sure that he is averse to all forms of labour.
Such a Consul will shed glory upon our beloved country, and will never
suffer the unhappy fate of "Old Man" Willoughby.
IN NAPLES