difficulties before she becomes accustomed to her new environment.
Neither American people nor English people expect any difficulties at
all when their children intermarry. And yet they do occur, and are
either humourous or tragic, quite often the latter. So I would say to
the Britisher, if you ever marry an American girl, look out. She will
either be the very best sort of wife a man could possibly have, or she
will be the other thing. It will be necessary for you to humour her as
much as possible. Like a horse with a delicate mouth, she requires good
hands. Don't marry her unless you love her. Don't marry her for her
money, or you will regret it. She is no fool and she will expect full
value for all she gives. The terrible thing is that she may believe you
to be a member of the aristocracy, and she will expect to go about in
the very best society in London. If you are not a member of the smart
set and take her to live in the country she may like it all right, but
the chances are that she will cry a good deal, get a bad cold, which
will develop into consumption, and possibly die if you don't take her
back to New York. She will never understand the vicar's wife and the
lesser country gentry, and she will loathe the snobbishness of some of
the county people. In the process, she will find you out, and may heaven
help you for, as Solomon said: "It is better to live on the housetop
than inside with a brawling woman," and she will brawl all right. I have
heard of some bitter experiences undergone by young American women.
There is, of course, no reason in the world why an English fellow should
not marry an American girl if he is fond of her and she will have him.
But it is a little difficult. Sometimes a Britisher arrives here with a
title and is purchased by a young maiden with much money, possibly
several millions, and he takes her back to Blighty. Some American girls
are foolish. The people perhaps dislike her accent and her attitude
towards things in general. He does not know it, of course, but she has
not been received by the very nicest people in her own city, not because
they despise her, but merely because they find the people they have
known all their lives sufficient. You see it is a little difficult for
the child. In America she has been, with the help of her mother perhaps,
a social mountaineer. Social mountaineering is not a pleasing experience
for anyone, especially in America, but we all do it a little, I suppose.
It is a poor sort of business and hardly worth while. When this child
arrives in England she may be definitely found wanting in the same way
that she may have been found wanting in American society, and she is
naturally disappointed and annoyed. When annoyed she will take certain
steps that will shock the vicar's wife, and possibly she will elope with
the chauffeur, all of which will be extremely distressing, though it
will be the fellow's own fault. Of course, she may love him quite a lot,
but she will probably never understand him. I am not sure that she will
always be willing to suffer. Why should she?
IV
"VERY'S LIGHTS"
BETHLEHEM, December 20, 1917.
I am steadily becoming a movie "fan," which means that when Douglas
Fairbanks, or Charlie Chaplin, or other cheerful people appear on the
screen at the Lorenz theatre at Bethlehem I appear sitting quite close
up and enjoying myself. It is all very interesting. One sort of gets to
know the people, and indeed to like them. The movies have taken up quite
a large part of our lives in this burgh. One has got to do something,
and if one is a lone bachelor, sitting at home presents but few
attractions. The people in film land are all interesting.
There is the social leader. I always love her. Her magnificent and
haughty mien thrills me always, as with snowy hair, decent jewels and
what not, she proceeds to impress the others in film land. I am not
going to talk about the vampire.
Film stories can be divided into three classes--the wild and woolly, the
crazy ones, as we call them here, and the society dramas with a human
interest; and, I forgot, the crook stories.
The wild and woolly ones are delightful. John Devereaux, bored with his
New York home, and his gentle and elegant mother, decides to visit a
friend out west. He arrives in a strange cart which looks like a spider
on wheels driven by a white haired person wearing a broad brimmed hat
and decorated with several pistols or even only one. He seems to find
himself almost at once in a dancing hall, where wicked-looking though
charming young ladies are dancing with fine handsome young fellows, all
armed to the teeth, and with their hair nicely parted. In the corner of
the room is the boss, sinister and evil looking, talking to as nice
looking a young person as one could possibly meet. The dancing seems to
stop, and then follows a "close up" of the nice looking young person. (A
little disappointing this "close up." A little too much paint
mademoiselle, _n'est ce pas_, on the lips and under the eyes?) Then a
"close up" of the boss. This is very thrilling and the widest
possibilities of terrible things shortly to happen are presented to us
fans, as we see him chew his cigar and move it from one side of his
mouth to the other. They both discuss John Devereaux and then follows a
"close up" of our hero. He is certainly good looking, and his fine
well-made sporting suit fits him well and shows off his strong figure.
But wait till you see him on a horse which has not a good figure, but an
extremely useful mouth that can be tugged to pieces by John Devereaux as
he wheels him around. I am going to start a mission to movie actors in
horse management, and I am going to dare to tell them that to make a
horse come round quickly and still be able to use him for many years, it
is not necessary to jag his dear old mouth to bits. I am also going to
teach them how to feed a horse so that his bones don't stick out in
parts even if he is a wicked looking pie-bald. I am also going to teach
them that if you have twelve miles to ride it is an awful thing to jag
your spurs into his flanks and make him go like hell. I suppose they
will enjoy my mission, and it will have the same success that all
missions have--but this by the way.
John Devereaux is a very handsome chap, and I like him from the start,
and I am greatly comforted when I know that the charming young person
will throw her fan in the face of the boss, pinch all his money and live
for a few sad days in extremely old-fashioned but becoming clothes
(generally a striped waist) with another worthy but poor friend, and
then marry our hero. I come away greatly comforted and retire, feeling
that the world without romance would be a dull place.
I love the crazy ones, I love to see fat old ladies taking headers into
deep ponds. I love to see innocent fruit sellers getting run into by
Henry Ford motors. I love to see dozens of policemen massing and then
suddenly leaving their office and rushing like fury along the road
after--Charlie Chaplin. Give me crazy movies. They are all brimming over
with the most innocent fun and merriment. It is a pity that they are
generally so short, but I suppose the actors get tired after a time.
The society pictures must impress greatly the tired working woman; a
little pathetic this, really. Perhaps I am ignorant of the doings of the
four hundred, but if they live as the movie people live it must be
strangely diverting to be a noble American. The decorations in their
houses must supply endless hours of exploration, and the wonderful
statuary must help one to attain Nirvana. I've heard of ne'er-do-well
sons, but I did not know they had such amusing times.
In the society drama, the son leaves his beautiful southern home with
white pillars and his innocent playmate, very pretty and hopeful and
nicely gowned, and finds himself at Yale or Harvard. I wish Cambridge
and Oxford presented the same number of possibilities. Here he meets the
vampire, horrid and beastly, and falls for her and never thinks of his
innocent father and mother solemnly opening the family Bible and saying
a few choice prayers, while the playmate worries in the background,
praying fervently. It is all very sad and becomes heart-rending when the
pretty playmate retires to her room, puts on the most lovely sort of
garment all lace and things, and after praying and looking earnestly at
a crucifix, hops into bed, never forgetting to remove her slippers. Then
the scene stops and she probably curses the fellow working the lights
if he has not got a good shine on her gorgeous hair while she prays. But
don't worry, she marries the son all right. The vamp dies, probably
punctured by a bullet from an old "rough neck" accomplice, or a married
man.
The court scenes present wonderful possibilities for the services of
some dear old chap as judge. He is an awful nice old fellow.
They are all the same and bore me stiff unless a rather decent sort of
chap called Ray appears in them and he has a cleansing influence. There
is also a lady called Marsh whom I rather like. Besides being good
looking she can act wonderfully and is always natural. I can stand any
sort of society drama with her in it. Sometimes the heroes are
peculiarly horrible with nasty sloppy long hair, and not nearly as good
looking as the leading man in the best male chorus in New York.
The crook stories are fine. They take place mostly in underground
cellars. I love the wicked looking old women and fat gentlemen who drink
a great deal. However, there are hair-breadth escapes which thrill one,
and plenty of policemen and clever looking inspectors and so on.
Seriously, the movies have revolutionized society in many ways. People
like Douglas Fairbanks are a great joy to us all. The people who write
his plays have learnt that it is the touch of nature that counts most in
all things with every one. And so he laughs his way along the screen
journey, and we all enter into movie land, where the sun is shining very
brightly and the trees are very green, and we all live in nice houses,
and meet only nice people with just a few villains thrown in, whom we
can turn into nice people by smiling at them. He changes things for us
sometimes. Rhoda sitting next to Trevor sees him through different eyes
and she gives his hand a good hard squeeze. He is a sort of Peter Pan,
really.
Mothers in movie land are always jolly and nice. Fathers are often a
little hard, but they come round all right or get killed in an exciting
accident. Generally they come round. The parsons worry me a little.
Being a zealous member of the Church of England, I object strongly to
the sanctimonious air and beautiful silvery hair displayed by ministers
in movie land. They marry people off in no time, too, and a little
promiscuously, I think.
Except at the Scala, where the pictures used to be good and dull, most
of the movie theatres are a little impossible in Blighty. I wonder why.
In New Zealand there are fine picture theatres and in Australia they are
even better, but if you venture into one in London you want to get out
quick. Here in America they are ventilated, and there is generally a
pipe organ to help one to wallow in sentiment. Often it seems well
played, too, and, at any rate, the darkness and the music blend well
together and one can get into "Never Never Land" quite easily and
comfortably.
V
A CHRISTMAS TRUCE
BETHLEHEM, U.S.A., January 25, 1917.
On the twenty-second day of last month, I was preparing to spend a
comparatively happy Christmas at the house of some friends who possessed
many children. Unfortunately, I met the Assistant Superintendent of Shop
No. 2, who, after greeting me in an encouraging manner, said,
"Lootenant, I am very glad to see you, I want your help. We are held up
by the failure of the people in Detroit to deliver trunnion bearings.
Would it be possible for you to run out there and see how they are
getting on, and perhaps you could get them to send a few sets on by
express?"
That Assistant Superintendent never did like me.
Now Detroit is a long way from Bethlehem, and at least twenty-four hours
by train, so it looked as though my merry Christmas would be spent in a
Pullman. I'd rather spend Christmas Day in a workhouse, for even there
"the cold bare walls" are alleged to be "bright with garlands of green
and holly," and even bitterly acknowledged by many small artists
reciting that "piece" to help to form a "pleasant sight." But Christmas
Day in a Pullman! And worse still, Christmas night in a sleeper, with
the snorers. Mon Dieu!
If a person snores within the uttermost limit of my hearing, I must say
good-bye to sleep, no matter how tired I may be. It is a strange thing
how many otherwise nice people snore. Travelling in America has for me
one disadvantage--the fact that one has to sleep, like a dish on a Welsh
dresser, in the same compartment with about forty people, six of whom
surely snore. There is the loud sonorous snore of the merchant prince,
the angry, pugnacious bark of the "drummer," the mature grunt of the
stout lady, and the gentle lisp-like snore of the debutante. You can't
stop them. One would expect "Yankee ingenuity" to find a way out.
I think that there ought to be a special padded Pullman for the snoring
persons. It ought to be labelled in some way. Perhaps a graceful way
would be to have the car called "Sonora." Then all people should carry
with them a small card labelled, "The bearer of this pass does not
snore," and then the name of a trusted witness or the stamp of a
gramaphone company without the advertisement "His Master's Voice." You
see a person could be placed in a room, and at the moment of sinking
into somnolence, a blank record could start revolving, and be tried out
in the morning.
Or perhaps the label would read, "The bearer of this card snores." Then
the gramaphone company might advertise a little with the familiar "His
Master's Voice." It would be awful to lose your label if you were a
non-snorer, and then to be placed in the special sleeper. Perhaps there
might be a "neutral" car for the partial snorers.
I slept in a stateroom on a liner once next to a large man and his large
wife, and they were both determined snorers. They used to run up and
down the scale and never started at the bottom together. It was a nice
mathematical problem to work out when they met in the centre of the
scale.
As a matter of fact, I don't mind the snoring on a Pullman when the
train gets going, because you cannot hear it then, but sometimes in an
optimistic frame of mind you decide to board the sleeper two hours
before the train starts. Your optimism is never justified, for sure
enough, several people start off. It is useless to hold your hands to
your ears; you imagine you hear it, even if you don't. So possessing
yourself with patience, you read a book, until the train starts.
Asphyxiation sets in very soon, but, alas, the train develops a hot box,
and you awake once more to the same old dreary noises. I hope that soon
they will have that special car. If they don't, the porter ought to be
supplied with a long hooked rake, and as he makes his rounds of
inspection, he should push the noisy people into other positions. This
would look very interesting.
However, on this journey to Detroit I boarded the train at Bethlehem on
its way to Buffalo and no hot boxes were developed, so I enjoyed a very
peaceful night, although I was slightly disturbed when a dear old lady
mistook my berth for hers, and placed her knee on my chest, and got an
awful fright. That is one of the advantages of taking an "upper" over
here. You have time to head off night walkers because they have got to
get the step-ladder, the Pullman porter is not always asleep, and you
hear them as they puff up the stairs. Although I prefer the little
stateroom cars we have in England, I must admit that the beds in a
Pullman are very large and well supplied with blankets and other
comforts.
I arrived at Detroit, and after a long chat about the war with the man
who counted most, I suggested that he would be doing us all a great
favour if he sent a few trunnion bearings on by express at once. He
said, "Sure!" I love that American word "Sure." There is something so
intimate, so encouraging about it, even if nothing happens. Detroit is a
wonderful city and the people whom I met there awfully decent.
I went through several factories, and I must admit that I have seen
nothing in this country to compare with them. There are vaster plants in
the East, but for the display of really efficient organization, give me
Detroit. I liked the careful keenness displayed. There is something
solid, something lasting about Detroit, that struck me at once in spite
of its newness. It is always alleged in the East that the Middle West is
notoriously asleep in regard to national duty, but I rather suspect that
if the time arrives for this country to fight, it will be towns like
Detroit, towards the Middle West, that will be the rapid producers.
Of course, Henry Ford has his wonderful motor car factory here where he
lets loose upon an astonished world and grateful English vicars of
little wealth, his gasping, highly efficient, but unornamental, metal
arm breakers called by the vulgar "flivvers," and by the more humorous
"tin Lizzies." Having heard so much about this plant, I denied myself
the pleasure of going through it. I hear that it is very wonderful.
All these remarks are merely offensive impressions and carry but little
weight even in my own mind. Still I definitely refuse to regard the
Middle West as asleep to national duty.
I left Detroit or rather tried hard and finally succeeded in leaving
that fair city; and still dreading to spend Christmas day in a Pullman I
made up my mind to spend the holidays at Niagara in Ontario.
Incidentally, at Niagara I received a wire from Detroit in the following
words: "Have sent by express four sets of trunnion bearings. A merry
Xmas to you."
While I am glad to praise Detroit, and especially its best hotel, I
cannot for a single moment admire, or even respect, the time-table kept
by the trains that ran through its beautiful station last month around
Christmas.
I decided to leave by a train which was alleged to depart at twelve
o'clock. I jumped into a taxi at eleven-fifty. "You're cutting things
pretty fine," said the chauffeur, "but I guess we will make it all
right." Hence we dashed along the road at a pretty rapid rate and I
thought the driver deserved the extra quarter that I gladly gave to him.
I placed my things in the hands of a dark porter and gasped: "Has the
train gone?" My worry was quite unnecessary. In the great hall of the
station there were about three hundred of Henry Ford's satellites going
off on their Christmas vacation, as well as many others. The train that
should have gone six hours before had not arrived. There were no signs
of mine. It seemed to have got lost, for nothing could be told about it.
Other trains were marked up as being anything from three to six hours
overdue.
After waiting in a queue near the enquiry office for about an hour, I at
last got within speaking distance of the man behind the desk marked
"Information." He could tell me nothing, poor chap. His chin was
twitching just like a fellow after shell shock. Noting my sympathetic
glance, he told me that an enquiry clerk only lasted one-half hour if he
were not assassinated by angry citizens who seemed to blame him for the
trains being late. He denied all responsibility, while admitting the
honour. He said that he was the sixth to be on duty. The rest had been
sent off to the nearest lunatic asylum. At that moment he collapsed and
was carried away on a stretcher, muttering, "They ain't my trains,
feller." Never was such a night. I made several life long friends. All
the food in the buffet got eaten up and the attendant women had quite
lost their tempers and quarreled with anyone who looked at all annoyed.
After waiting about five hours, I became a little tired. I was past
being annoyed, and expected to spend my life in that station hall, so I
sought food in the buffet. As I approached the two swinging doors, they
opened as if by magic and two good looking, cheery faced boys stood on
each side like footmen and said: "Good evening, Cap."
"Ha!" thought I to myself, "what discernment! They can tell at once that
I am a military man," so I smile pleasantly upon them and asked them how
they knew that I was an officer in spite of my mufti. They looked
astonished, but quickly regaining their composure, asked what regiment I
belonged to. I told them, and soon we got very friendly and chatty. They
introduced me to several friends who gathered round, and fired many
questions at me in regard to the war. Amongst their number was a huge
person of kindly aspect. One of my early friends whispered that he was
the captain of their football team and a very great person. He said but
little. They explained that they were members of a dramatic club, and
that they had given a performance in Detroit. We chatted a great deal,
and then a fellow of unattractive appearance, and insignificant aspect
remarked: "You British will fight until the last Frenchman dies." He
laughed as he said it. He used the laugh which people who wish to
prevent bodily injury to themselves always use when they insult a
person. It is the laugh of a servant, a laugh which prevents a man from
getting really annoyed. I am glad to say that the rest turned upon him
and I merely said lightly: "There are many fools going about but it is
difficult to catalogue their variety until they make similar remarks to
yours."
The large football player was particularly annoyed with that chap and
the others remarked that he was a "bloody German." We were much too
tired and weary to talk seriously, but I gathered from these youths that
they were very keen to get across to the other side, to fight the Boche.
We discussed Canada. It almost seemed that they wanted to sell Canada so
great was the admiration they expressed. They envied the Canadians their
opportunity to fight the Germans. They praised the country, its natural
resources and beauty. They admired the Englishness of their neighbors.
This is an interesting fact: all Americans that I have met cannot speak
too highly of the Canadians. I have heard American women talking with
the greatest of respect about our nation as represented by our people in
Canada and Bermuda.
After a couple of hours these fellows went off, expressing a desire to
take me with them. In fact, two of them tried hard to persuade me to go
to Chicago in their special. Evidently they had had a good supper. I
hope that I shall meet the large football chap again.
At about seven in the morning my train at last appeared, and as the sun
was rising, I climbed into my upper berth while the fellow on the lower
groaned, stating that he had the influenza, called "the grip" over here.
This sounded encouraging, for I expected to breathe much of his air.
I at last arrived at Niagara in Ontario and sought the Inn called
Clifton. It is run very much on English lines and suggests a very large
country cottage in Blighty, with its chintz hangings. All around was a
wide expanse of snow and the falls could be heard roaring in the
distance. I had seen them before, so I promptly had a very hot bath and
lay down and went to sleep in my charming little bedroom with its uneven
roof.
I am not going to describe the Falls. They are too wonderful and too
mighty for description, but they are not too lovely and not too
wonderful as a great beauty gift from God to prevent us humans from
building great power houses on the cliffs around, and so marring their
beauty.
I spent a happy Christmas at this house and met several Canadian men
with their women folk who had come down to spend a quiet Christmas. They
were very kind to me and I liked them all immensely. One lady remarked
that it was a very good idea to want to spend Christmas with my own
people. This was astonishing and pleasing, for most of my friends who
had gone over to Canada to do harvesting during the long vacations from
Oxford and Cambridge had hated it. It told me one great thing, however,
that the Canadian people had grown to know us better, and had evidently
decided that every stray home-made Briton was not a remittance man, but
might possibly, in spite of his extraordinary way of speaking English,
be a comparatively normal person possessing no greater number of faults
than other mortals. I found these people very interesting, and one very
charming lady introduced me to the poetry of Rupert Brooke. She had one
of his volumes of poetry containing an introduction detailing his life.