The present labor situation shows to what a pretty pass things may
come because of a lack of understanding between the parties involved.
I bring in the present labor situation just to give a touch of
timeliness to this thing. Had I been writing for the Christmas number,
I should have begun as follows: "The indiscriminate giving of
Christmas presents shows to what a pretty pass things may come because
of a lack of understanding between the parties involved."
The idea to be driven home is that things may come to a pretty pass by
the parties involved in an affair of any kind if they do not come to
an understanding before commencing operations.
I hope I have made my point clear. Especially is this true, (watch out
carefully now, as the whole nub of the article will be coming along in
just a minute), especially is this true in the relations between host
and guest on week-end visits. (There, you have it! In fact, the title
to this whole thing might very well be, "The Need for a Clearer
Definition of Relations between Host and Guest on Week-end Visits,"
and not be at all overstating it, at that.)
The logic of this will be apparent to any one who has ever been a host
or a guest at a week-end party, a classification embracing practically
all Caucasians over eleven years of age who can put powder on the nose
or tie a bow-tie. Who has not wished that his host would come out
frankly at the beginning of the visit and state, in no uncertain
terms, the rules and preferences of the household in such matters as
the breakfast hour? And who has not sounded his guest to find out what
he likes in the regulation of his diet and _modus vivendi_ (mode of
living)? Collective bargaining on the part of labor unions and capital
makes it possible for employers to know just what the workers think on
matters of common interest. Is collective bargaining between host and
guest so impossible, then?
Take, for example, the matter of arising in the morning. Of course,
where there is a large house-party the problem is a simple one, for
you can always hear the others pattering about and brushing their
teeth. You can regulate your own arising by the number of people who
seem to be astir. But if you are the only guest there is apt to be a
frightful misunderstanding.
"At what time is breakfast?" you ask.
"Oh, any old time on Sundays," replies the hostess with a generous
gesture. "Sleep as late as you like. This is 'Liberty Hall.'"
The sentiment in this attitude is perfectly bully, but there is
nothing that you can really take hold of in it. It satisfies at the
time, but in the morning there is a vagueness about it that is simply
terrifying.
Let us say that you awake at eight. You listen and hear no one
stirring. Then, over on the cool pillow again until eight-twenty.
Again up on the elbow, with head cocked on one side. There is a creak
in the direction of the stairs. They may all be up and going down to
breakfast! It is but the work of a moment, to bound out of bed and
listen at the door. Perhaps open it modestly and peer out. Deathlike
silence, broken only, as the phrase goes, by the ticking of the hall
clock, and not a soul in sight. Probably they are late sleepers. Maybe
eleven o'clock is their Sunday rising hour. Some people _are_ like
that.
Shut the door and sit on the edge of the bed. More sleep is out of the
question. Let's take a look at the pictures in the guest-room, just to
pass the time. Here's one of Lorna Doone. How d'e do, Lorna? Here's a
group--taken in 1902--showing your host in evening clothes, holding a
mandolin. Probably a member of his college musical-club. Rather
unkempt looking bunch, you _must_ say. Well, how about this one? An
etching, showing suspicious-looking barges on what is probably the
Thames. Fair enough, at that.
Back to the door and listen again. Tick-tock-tick-tock. Probably, if
you started your tub, you'd wake the whole house. Let's sit down on
the edge of the bed again.
Hello, here are some books on the table. "Fifty Famous Sonnets,"
illustrated by Maxfield Parrish. Never touch a sonnet before
breakfast. "My experiences in the Alps," by a woman mountain-climber
who has written on the fly-leaf, "To my good friends the Elbridges, in
memory of many happy days together at Chamounix. October, 1907." That
settles _that_. "Essay on Compensation" in limp leather, by R.W.
Emerson, published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Oh, very well! You
suppose they thought that would be over your head, did they? Well,
we'll just show them! We'll read it just for spite. Opening, to the
red ribbon:
"Of the like nature is that expectation of change which instantly
follows the suspension of our voluntary activity. The terror of
cloudless noon--"
By the way, it must be nearly noon now! Ten minutes past nine, only!
Well, the only thing to do is get dressed and go out and walk about
the grounds. Eliminate the tub as too noisy. And so, very cautiously,
almost clandestinely, you proceed to dress.
And now, just to reverse the process. Suppose you are the host. You
have arisen at eight and listened at the guest's door. No sound.
Tip-toe back and get dressed, talking in whispers to your wife (the
hostess) and cramming flannel bears into the infant's mouth to keep
him from disturbing the sleeper.
"Bill looked tired last night. Better let him sleep a little longer,"
you suggest. And so, downstairs on your hands and knees, and look over
the Sunday papers. Then a bracing walk on the porch, resulting in a
terrific appetite.
A glance at the watch shows nine o'clock. Sunday breakfast is usually
at eight-thirty. The warm aroma of coffee creeps in from the kitchen
and, somewhere, _some one_ is baking muffins. This is awful! You
suppose it feels something like this to be caught on an ice-floe
without any food and so starve to death. Only there you can't smell
coffee and muffins. You sneak into the dining-room and steal one of
the property oranges from the side-board, but little Edgar sees you
and sets up such a howl that you have to give it to him. The hostess
suggests that your friend may have the sleeping-sickness. Weakened by
hunger, you hotly resent this, and one word leads to another.
"Oh, very well, I'll go up and rout him out," you snarl.
[Illustration: "'Hello. Bill,' you say flatly."]
Upstairs again, and poise, in listening attitude, just in front of the
guest's door. Slowly the door opens, inch by inch, and, finally his
head is edged cautiously out toward yours.
"Hello, Bill," you say flatly, "what are you getting up this time of
the morning for? Thought I told you to sleep late."
"Morning, Ed," he says, equally flatly, "hope I haven't kept you all
waiting." Then you both lie and eat breakfast.
Such a misunderstanding is apt to go to almost any length. I once knew
of a man on a week-end visit who spent an entire Sunday in his room,
listening at his door to see if the family were astir, while, in the
meantime, the family were, one by one, tip-toeing to his door to see
if they could detect any signs of life from him.
Each thought the other needed rest.
Along about three in the afternoon the family threw all hospitality
aside and ate breakfast, deadening the sound of the cutlery as much as
possible, little dreaming that their guest was looking through the "A
Prayer for Each Day" calendar for the ninth time and seriously
considering letting himself down from the window on a sheet and making
for the next train. Shortly after dark persistent rumors got abroad
that he had done away with himself, and every one went up and sniffed
for gas. It was only when the maid, who was not in on the secret,
bolted into the room to turn down his bed for the night, that she
found him tip-toeing about, packing and unpacking his bag and
listening eagerly at the wall. (Now don't ask how it happened that the
maid didn't know that his bed hadn't been made that morning. What
difference does it make, anyway? It is such questions as _that_, that
blight any attempt at individual writing in this country.)
Don't think, just because I have taken all this space to deal with the
rising-hour problem that there are no other points to be made. Oh, not
at all. There is, for instance, the question of exercise. After dinner
the host says to himself: "Something must be done. I wonder if he
likes to walk." Aloud, he says: "Well, Bill, how about a little hike
in the country?"
A hike in the country being the last thing in the world that Bill
wants, he says, "Right-o! Anything you say." And so, although walking
is a tremendous trial to the host, who has weak ankles, he bundles up
with a great show of heartiness and grabs his stick as if this were
the one thing he lived for.
After about a mile of hobbling along the country-road the host says,
hopefully: "Don't let me tire you out, old man. Any time you want to
turn back, just say the word."
The guest, thinking longingly of the fireside, scoffs at the idea of
turning back, insisting that if there is one thing in all the world
that he likes better than walking it is running. So on they jog,
hippity-hop, hippity-hop, each wishing that it would rain so that they
could turn about and go home.
Here again the thing may go to almost tragic lengths. Suppose neither
has the courage to suggest the return move. They might walk on into
Canada, or they might become exhausted and have to be taken into a
roadhouse and eat a "$2 old-fashioned Southern dinner of fried chicken
and waffles." The imagination revolts at a further contemplation of
the possibilities of this lack of coöperation between guest and host.
[Illustration: "So on they jog.... Each wishing that it would rain."]
I once visited a man who had an outdoor swimming-pool on his estate.
(Consider that as very casually said.) It was in April, long before
Spring had really understood what was expected of her. My first night
there my host said:
"Are you a morning plunger?"
Thinking that he referred to a tub plunge in a warm bathroom, I glowed
and said: "You bet."
"I'll call for you at seven in the morning, then," he said, "and we'll
go out to the pool."
It was evidently his morning custom and I wasn't going to have it said
of me that a middle-aged man could outdo me in virility. So, at seven
in the morning, in a dense fog (with now and then a slash of cold
rain), we picked our way out to the pool and staged a vivid Siberian
moving picture scene, showing naked peasants bathing in the Nevsky. My
visit lasted five days, and I afterward learned, from one to whom my
host had confided, that it was the worst five days he had ever gone
through, and that he has chronic joint-trouble as a result of those
plunges. "But I couldn't be outdone by a mere stripling," he said,
"and the boy certainly enjoyed it."
All of this might have been avoided by the posting of a sign in a
conspicuous place in my bedroom, reading as follows: "Personally, I
dislike swimming in the pool at this time of the year. Guests wishing
to do so may obtain towels at the desk." How very simple and
practical!
The sign system is the only solution I can offer. It is crude and
brutal, but it admits of no misunderstanding. A sign in each
guest-room, giving the hours of meals, political and religious
preferences of the family, general views on exercise, etc., etc., with
a blank for the guest to fill out, stating his own views on these
subjects, would make it possible to visit (or entertain) with a sense
of security thus far unknown upon our planet.
V