MISS X.
It was ten o’clock the next morning when I arose and looked at my
watch. I thought it might be eight-thirty, or seven. The day was
slightly gray with spray flying. There was a strong wind. The sea
was really a boisterous thing, thrashing and heaving in hills and
hollows. I was thinking of Kipling’s “White Horses” for a while. There
were several things about this great ship which were unique. It was a
beautiful thing all told--its long cherry-wood, paneled halls in the
first-class section, its heavy porcelain baths, its dainty staterooms
fitted with lamps, bureaus, writing-desks, washstands, closets and the
like. I liked the idea of dressing for dinner and seeing everything
quite stately and formal. The little be-buttoned call-boys in their
tight-fitting blue suits amused me. And the bugler who bugled for
dinner! That was a most musical sound he made, trilling in the various
quarters gaily, as much as to say, “This is a very joyous event,
ladies and gentlemen; we are all happy; come, come; it is a delightful
feast.” I saw him one day in the lobby of C deck, his legs spread
far apart, the bugle to his lips, no evidence of the rolling ship in
his erectness, bugling heartily. It was like something out of an old
medieval court or a play. Very nice and worth while.
Absolutely ignorant of this world of the sea, the social, domestic,
culinary and other economies of a great ship like this interested me
from the start. It impressed me no little that all the servants were
English, and that they were, shall I say, polite?--well, if not that,
non-aggressive. American servants--I could write a whole chapter on
that, but we haven’t any servants in America. We don’t know how to
be servants. It isn’t in us; it isn’t nice to be a servant; it isn’t
democratic; and spiritually I don’t blame us. In America, with our turn
for mechanics, we shall have to invent something which will do away
with the need of servants. What it is to be, I haven’t the faintest
idea at present.
Another thing that impressed and irritated me a little was the
stolidity of the English countenance as I encountered it here on this
ship. I didn’t know then whether it was accidental in this case,
or national. There is a certain type of Englishman--the robust,
rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed Saxon--whom I cordially dislike, I think,
speaking temperamentally and artistically. They are too solid, too
rosy, too immobile as to their faces, and altogether too assured and
stary. I don’t like them. They offend me. They thrust a silly race
pride into my face, which isn’t necessary at all and which I always
resent with a race pride of my own. It has even occurred to me at times
that these temperamental race differences could be quickly adjusted
only by an appeal to arms, which is sillier yet. But so goes life. It’s
foolish on both sides, but I mention it for what it is worth.
After lunch, which was also breakfast with me, I went with the
chief engineer through the engine-room. This was a pit eighty feet
deep, forty feet wide and, perhaps, one hundred feet long, filled
with machinery. What a strange world! I know absolutely nothing of
machinery--not a single principle connected with it--and yet I am
intensely interested. These boilers, pipes, funnels, pistons, gages,
registers and bright-faced register boards speak of a vast technique
which to me is tremendously impressive. I know scarcely anything of
the history of mechanics, but I know what boilers and feed-pipes and
escape-pipes are, and how complicated machinery is automatically oiled
and reciprocated, and there my knowledge ends. All that I know about
the rest is what the race knows. There are mechanical and electrical
engineers. They devised the reciprocating engine for vessels and then
the turbine. They have worked out the theory of electrical control and
have installed vast systems with a wonderful economy as to power and
space. This deep pit was like some vast, sad dream of a fevered mind.
It clanked and rattled and hissed and squeaked with almost insane
contrariety! There were narrow, steep, oil-stained stairs, very hot,
or very cold and very slippery, that wound here and there in strange
ways, and if you were not careful there were moving rods and wheels to
strike you. You passed from bridge to bridge under whirling wheels,
over clanking pistons; passed hot containers; passed cold ones. Here
men were standing, blue-jumpered assistants in oil-stained caps and
gloves--thin caps and thick gloves--watching the manœuvers of this
vast network of steel, far from the passenger life of the vessel.
Occasionally they touched something. They were down in the very heart
or the bowels of this thing, away from the sound of the water; away
partially from the heaviest motion of the ship; listening only to the
clank, clank and whir, whir and hiss, hiss all day long. It is a metal
world they live in, a hard, bright metal world. Everything is hard,
everything fixed, everything regular. If they look up, behold a huge,
complicated scaffolding of steel; noise and heat and regularity.
I shouldn’t like that, I think. My soul would grow weary. It would
pall. I like the softness of scenery, the haze, the uncertainty of the
world outside. Life is better than rigidity and fixed motion, I hope. I
trust the universe is not mechanical, but mystically blind. Let’s hope
it’s a vague, uncertain, but divine idea. We know it is beautiful. It
must be so.
The wind-up of this day occurred in the lounging- or reception-room
where, after dinner, we all retired to listen to the music, and then
began one of those really interesting conversations between Barfleur
and Miss X. which sometimes illuminate life and make one see things
differently forever afterward.
It is going to be very hard for me to define just how this could be,
but I might say that I had at the moment considerable intellectual
contempt for the point of view which the conversation represented.
Consider first the American attitude. With us (not the established
rich, but the hopeful, ambitious American who has nothing, comes
from nothing and hopes to be President of the United States or John
D. Rockefeller) the business of life is not living, but achieving.
Roughly speaking, we are willing to go hungry, dirty, to wait in the
cold and fight gamely, if in the end we can achieve one or more of
the seven stars in the human crown of life--social, intellectual,
moral, financial, physical, spiritual or material supremacy. Several
of the forms of supremacy may seem the same, but they are not. Examine
them closely. The average American is not born to place. He does not
know what the English sense of order is. We have not that national
_esprit de corps_ which characterizes the English and the French
perhaps; certainly the Germans. We are loose, uncouth, but, in our way,
wonderful. The spirit of God has once more breathed upon the waters.
Well, the gentleman who was doing the talking in this instance and the
lady who was coinciding, inciting, aiding, abetting, approving and at
times leading and demonstrating, represented two different and yet
allied points of view. Barfleur is distinctly a product of the English
conservative school of thought, a gentleman who wishes sincerely he was
not so conservative. His house is in order. You can feel it. I have
always felt it in relation to him. His standards and ideals are fixed.
He knows what life ought to be--how it ought to be lived. You would
never catch him associating with the rag-tag and bobtail of humanity
with any keen sense of human brotherhood or emotional tenderness of
feeling. They are human beings, of course. They are in the scheme of
things, to be sure. But, let it go at that. One cannot be considering
the state of the underdog at any particular time. Government is
established to do this sort of thing. Statesmen are large, constructive
servants who are supposed to look after all of us. The masses! Let them
behave. Let them accept their state. Let them raise no undue row. And
let us, above all things, have order and peace.
[Illustration: One of those really interesting conversations between
Barfleur and Miss X.]
This is a section of Barfleur--not all, mind you, but a section.
Miss X.--I think I have described her fully enough, but I shall add one
passing thought. A little experience of Europe--considerable of its
show places--had taught her, or convinced her rather, that America did
not know how to live. You will hear much of that fact, I am afraid,
during the rest of these pages, but it is especially important just
here. My lady, prettily gowned, perfectly manicured, going to meet her
lover at London or Fishguard or Liverpool, is absolutely satisfied that
America does not know how to live. She herself has almost learned. She
is most comfortably provided for at present. Anyhow, she has champagne
every night at dinner. Her equipment in the matter of toilet articles
and leather traveling bags is all that it should be. The latter are
colored to suit her complexion and gowns. She is scented, polished,
looked after, and all men pay her attention. She is vain, beautiful,
and she thinks that America is raw, uncouth; that its citizens of whom
she is one, do not know how to live. Quite so. Now we come to the point.
It would be hard to describe this conversation. It began with some
“have you been’s,” I think, and concerned eating-places and modes of
entertainment in London, Paris and Monte Carlo. I gathered by degrees,
that in London, Paris and elsewhere there were a hundred restaurants, a
hundred places to live, each finer than the other. I heard of liberty
of thought and freedom of action and pride of motion which made me
understand that there is a free-masonry which concerns the art of
living, which is shared only by the initiated. There was a world in
which conventions, as to morals, have no place; in which ethics and
religion are tabooed. Art is the point. The joys of this world are sex,
beauty, food, clothing, art. I should say money, of course, but money
is presupposed. You must have it.
“Oh, I went to that place one day and then I was glad enough to get
back to the Ritz at forty francs for my room.” She was talking of her
room by the day, and the food, of course, was extra. The other hotel
had been a little bit quiet or dingy.
I opened my eyes slightly, for I thought Paris was reasonable; but not
so--no more so than New York, I understood, if you did the same things.
“And, oh, the life!” said Miss X. at one point. “Americans don’t know
how to live. They are all engaged in doing something. They are such
beginners. They are only interested in money. They don’t know. I see
them in Paris now and then.” She lifted her hand. “Here in Europe
people understand life better. They know. They know before they begin
how much it will take to do the things that they want to do and they
start out to make that much--not a fortune--just enough to do the
things that they want to do. When they get that they retire and _live_.”
“And what do they do when they live?” I asked. “What do they call
living?”
“Oh, having a nice country-house within a short traveling distance
of London or Paris, and being able to dine at the best restaurants
and visit the best theaters once or twice a week; to go to Paris or
Monte Carlo or Scheveningen or Ostend two or three or four, or as many
times a year as they please; to wear good clothes and to be thoroughly
comfortable.”
“That is not a bad standard,” I said, and then I added, “And what else
do they do?”
“And what else should they do? Isn’t that enough?”
And there you have the European standard according to Miss X. as
contrasted with the American standard which is, or has been up to this
time, something decidedly different, I am sure. We have not been so
eager to live. Our idea has been to work. No American that I have ever
known has had the idea of laying up just so much, a moderate amount,
and then retiring and living. He has had quite another thought in his
mind. The American--the average American--I am sure loves power, the
ability to do something, far more earnestly than he loves mere living.
He wants to be an officer or a director of something, a poet, anything
you please for the sake of being it--not for the sake of living. He
loves power, authority, to be able to say, “Go and he goeth,” or,
“Come and he cometh.” The rest he will waive. Mere comfort? You can
have that. But even that, according to Miss X., was not enough for
her. She had told me before, and this conversation brought it out
again, that her thoughts were of summer and winter resorts, exquisite
creations in the way of clothing, diamonds, open balconies of
restaurants commanding charming vistas, gambling tables at Monte Carlo,
Aix-les-Bains, Ostend and elsewhere, to say nothing of absolutely
untrammeled sex relations. English conventional women were frumps and
fools. They had never learned how to live; they had never understood
what the joy of freedom in sex was. Morals--they are built up on a lack
of imagination and physical vigor; tenderness--well, you have to take
care of yourself; duty--there isn’t any such thing. If there is, it’s
one’s duty to get along and have money and be happy.