CHAPTER I_The Affable Stranger

THE AFFABLE STRANGER

THE

AFFABLE STRANGER

PETER McARTHUR

TORONTO

THOMAS ALLEN

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

PREFACE

To make clear the purpose of this book and to suggest possibilities to

the reader the author offers the following article which was published

in the _Toronto Globe_. Most of the chapters first appeared in the same

journal.

EKFRID, July 28.--This morning I got up feeling singularly cheerful and

care-free. And no wonder. Yesterday I got even with the world--said

everything I wanted to say about it right down to the last word. This

morning I feel that I am making a fresh start with all scores paid, and

I don't care whether school keeps or not.

The explanation of this unusual state of mind is quite simple. Yesterday

I finished writing a book, in which I said just what I wanted to

say--said what I have been aching to say for years--about the world and

things in general. No matter what happens to the book, it has already

served its purpose. It has rid my mind of "the perilous stuff, etc.,"

that accumulated during the war and since. And the result has been so

refreshing that I have no hesitation in recommending the book cure to

every one. Nowadays any one can write a book, and most every one does.

The mistake is in regarding the book as a literary venture. What you

should do is to make a pad of paper and a lead pencil your father

confessor and ease your mind of its worries. When the book is done, you

can send it out into the wilderness as the Israelites sent the

scapegoat--bearing your sins with it. Then you can make a fresh start.

If you don't want to publish it--though publication seems necessary to

complete absolution--you can tie a stone to it and throw it into the

lake, or do it up in a parcel and leave it for some one to find, just as

boys used to do with neat parcels in which they placed pebbles on which

they had rubbed their warts--hoping in that way to rid themselves of

warts. I know there are some old-fashioned people who will be shocked

at this levity in speaking of books, but they should waken up to the

fact that since the coming of the wood-pulp era no particular merit

attaches to writing a book. And if books can be given a medicinal value

to take the place of their old-time literary value, why shouldn't we

recognize the fact? Anyway, the writing of a book put me in the frame of

mind to parody Sir Sidney Smith and exclaim:

"Fate cannot harm me, I have had my say."

* * * * *

I have told all this merely to explain the joyous mood induced by the

writing of the book. Having finished my task, I felt not only up-do-date

with my work, but up-to-date with life. It is the ambition of every

man--whether he confesses it or not--to get even with the world. The

world is forever defeating us and defrauding us of our hopes. So let us

have our say about it, turn over a new leaf, and make a fresh start.

When I got up this morning

"I moved and did not feel my limbs,

I was so light--almost

I felt that I had died in sleep

And was a blessed ghost."

There was no feeling of responsibility about anything, and I could go to

work in a care-free frame of mind. That made me realize how care-free

all nature is, and how care-free life might be if we did not allow

ourselves to become so much entangled with its affairs. Just because I

had arranged to free myself from all other responsibilities while doing

my task, I suddenly found myself free from responsibilities and in the

only true holiday humor. It is true there was work to do, but I did not

feel any responsibility. My first chore was to churn, but I was not

responsible for the flavor and texture of the butter. It was my part to

make the barrel churn revolve with a rhythmical "plop! plop! plop!" and

when the butter came I had nothing more to do with it. By that time the

heavy dew had dried from the sheaves, and the business of hauling in

the wheat was commenced. Though I had an interest in the wheat, I was

not responsible for it, and could pitch the sheaves without worrying.

The mood left by having poured all my problems into a book was

apparently the same as that enjoyed by Kipling's devil when he "blew

upon his nails, for his heart was free from care."

* * * * *

Along in the forenoon a thunderstorm began to gather in the west, and I

was in the right mood to realize what a care-free and irresponsible

storm it was. Even though it was harvest-time, this storm was not

obliged to take any thought about what it was doing. It didn't have to

pick the just from the unjust and distribute the rain as a reward--or

punishment. It rained on both alike. Though it was such a care-free

storm, I confessed to a feeling of relief when I saw it sheering off to

the south. There are all kinds of just and unjust men living down that

way, and though they may not have wanted rain any more than we did, it

was no part of my business to worry about them. It was enough for us to

gather in our own crop and be thankful that, after all, the Hessian fly

had left us a crop worth gathering.

When the storm had rumbled away, the sun came out, and it was certainly

a care-free sun. It gave its stimulating warmth and heat to the weeds as

freely as to the crops. If man wanted to coddle some plants for his own

use, the sun was perfectly willing to do its part--but it did its part

just as freely and irresponsibly for the grass and the weeds. In spite

of the philosophers and teachers, Nature seemed very irresponsible

to-day. She had been irresponsible in sowing her seeds and in promoting

their growth, and it was quite evident that she would be equally

irresponsible in her work of harvesting. The free and irresponsible

winds would blow the seeds fitted with wings and parachutes to every

point of the compass and let them fall where they would. The free

streams would carry others to hospitable shores or would leave them to

rot in the lakes or even in the ocean. Other seeds provided with spines

and hooks would cling to our clothing or to the wool of the sheep and in

that way be given a wholly irresponsible distribution. Nothing in Nature

seemed to be burdened with responsibility or care or remorse or worry or

ambition or any of the things with which we fret our lives. Being in a

wholly irresponsible frame of mind, I could not help wondering if man

has not gone woefully astray in making himself responsible for so much.

Perhaps we have not interpreted properly that text about being our

brother's keeper. Certainly our brothers seldom feel grateful to us when

we concern ourselves with their affairs and try to make them realize

that we regard ourselves as their keepers. As a rule they resent our

interference, and our efforts do little good either to them or to us.

Perhaps we should learn something from the irresponsibility of Nature to

guide us in our dealings with our fellow-men.

Any one who cared to write a book about it could probably show that

most of the wars and afflictions that have come on the world are due to

attempts made by incompetent people to be their brothers' keepers. They

start great wars to stop little ones, cause great evils by trying to

remedy little ones, and otherwise make nuisances of themselves to the

limit of their power. Why don't these people take to writing books

instead of trying to set things right? Writing the books would free

their surcharged spirits, and the world could go its way without

bothering to read what they wrote. The more I think of it the more

convinced I am that the writing of books would cure a lot of our

evils--chiefly because it would help to rid the people who wrote the

books of their feeling of responsibility for other people and their

affairs. The fact that they had set down their views in fair type would

ease their consciences and enable them to go about the ordinary little

matters of their own lives in a care-free way. The book cure for our

personal and collective troubles is hereby seriously recommended. And

it is especially recommended to any one wanting to enjoy a holiday. You

can't enjoy a holiday if you are worrying about your business in life.

So write a book about it and get even with the world. Then you can enjoy

a holiday even while going on with your work.

CONTENTS

I. THE AFFABLE STRANGER 3

II. THE ELUSIVE INSULT 13

III. BACK TO THE PRIMITIVE 23

IV. GRASPING THE NETTLE 34

V. REGISTERING REFORM 44

VI. THE ACCUSED 54

VII. A BURDEN OF FARMERS 64

VIII. A WORLD DRAMA 75

IX. A WORLD FOR SALE 85

X. ORGANIZED FOR PROFIT 98

XI. A MAJORITY WILL BE SAVED 105

XII. PRINCE KROPOTKIN'S COW 117

XIII. OLD HOME WEEK 126

XIV. THE WARD LEADER 138

XV. THE NEW MASTER WORD 145

XVI. LOYALTY 153

XVII. THE SHIVERING TEXAN 161

XVIII. MANY INVENTIONS 171

XIX. AN EXPERIMENT IN MODESTY 179

XX. MY PRIVATE MAHATMA 186

XXI. THE SOUL OF CANADA 195

XXII. A LAND OF UPPER BERTHS 204

XXIII. EPILOGUE 213

THE AFFABLE STRANGER

CHAPTER I

THE AFFABLE STRANGER

One day a group of Americans talked for publication without being aware

of the fact. The democratic sociability of an observation car made it

possible for me to get expressions of opinion on many subjects without

the caution and frequent insincerity of formal interviews. No one knew

the name or occupation of any of his fellow-passengers, and the

conversation had "a charter large as the wind." For twelve hours, while

making the trip from Montreal to Boston, the conversation ebbed and

flowed over many fields of human interest, and by interjecting a remark

here and there it was possible to turn the talk in any direction. Having

a definite purpose in view and plenty of time at my disposal, I managed

to get some spontaneous expressions of opinion along the particular line

in which I am interested at the moment. Before leaving Toronto I had

been assured that I should be much irritated by the egotism of Americans

regarding the winning of the war. With this in mind I resolved to take

no part in the conversation if the subject came up for discussion, but

to listen attentively.

For the first half-hour we travelled mostly in silence, entering the

items of our expense accounts in notebooks after the manner of

travellers, re-reading letters that had been read hurriedly before

boarding the train, and generally putting our affairs in order before

settling down to view the scenery and kill time on the long trip.

Finally the ice was broken by a breezy Westerner who had just made the

trip across Canada from Vancouver to Montreal. He mentioned casually

that he was from Seattle and at once launched on a eulogy of all that he

had seen and experienced on his Canadian trip. Here was just what I was

looking for, and at once I was all attention. It would probably have

caused surprise and some indignation to ardent prohibitionists if they

could have heard the traveller's remarks.

"The Canadians are not so radical as we are. They do things in a more

reasonable way."

Then he proceeded to dilate with exultant particularity on the

hospitality he had enjoyed in various centres. Good Canadians had not

only given him much stimulating entertainment, but they had even seen to

it that he was supplied with liquid refreshment on the trip from the

coast. Only in Alberta had the aridity been at all noticeable, and he

attributed his misfortunes in this respect to the fact that he had no

intimate personal friends in Calgary or Edmonton to look after his

comfort. I gathered from his talk that Canada is far, far from being

bone-dry. While he talked there was a hopeful gleam in several eyes,

which subsided when he began to lament the strict watch that is kept on

the border and the danger of carrying a supply on the hip or in one's

baggage when entering the land of the ex-free. The joy had passed from

his life when he had left Montreal. Then the conversation became general

and raged over "the inhuman dearth" of plausible red whiskey under the

Stars and Stripes.

Presently the breezy Westerner began to speak of his fellow-passengers

on the Canadian trip. From Vancouver to Calgary he had associated mostly

with two Canadian officers. Here, I thought to myself, is where I need

to get a grip on my emotions, so I camouflaged myself behind a morning

paper and pretended to read. But the precaution proved unnecessary. He

showed an almost pathetic pride in telling his fellow-countrymen that

those officers had told him that the Yankees were more like the

Canadians than any other soldiers they had met in Europe. They had the

same initiative, resourcefulness, and courage. This was received with

approval, for all in the little group were willing to concede that there

was no question about the war record of the Canadians. To my surprise no

mention was made of the fact that the Americans really won the

war--which leads me to suspect that the conviction is not so general

among the plain people as I had been led to suppose. It is true that

certain spread-eagle papers have rather too much to say on the subject,

and it is possible that some Americans like to get a rise out of

visiting Canadians by assuming a patronizing attitude regarding the war,

but the fact remains that during the whole day I did not hear any

boasting on this point. The only remark that might have given offence

was made by a lean, sallow New Englander. The talk had turned to the

Peace Treaty and all were at once united in a common sorrow over the

part that President Wilson had played in Europe. From which I gathered

that all those present were Republicans, for not a word was said in the

President's defence. The lean New Englander finally grumbled:

"Well, I think England got a good deal out of the war at our expense."

But he got no further. The Westerner swept over him with a tornado of

words. If anything of that kind had occurred--which he did not admit--it

must be overlooked. The hope of the world lies in the continued

friendship of Great Britain and the United States. Germany is far from

being down and out and may even now be plotting against the peace of the

world. There are dire possibilities in Asia that may involve both

Britain and the United States.

When the New Englander got a hearing again, it was very evident that he

had seen a light. Probably he suspected that there might be a British

subject in the little chance assembled group, for he began to lay on the

soft sawder in a way that would have done credit to Sam Slick. The only

British people of which he had personal knowledge were the Canadians, as

his business took him to Canada for several weeks every year. He could

not speak too highly of their courtesy and business probity. What he had

in mind when he made the offending remark was that making a Peace

Treaty was much like a "hoss-trade," and that as a "hoss-trader" Wilson

had no show with crafty diplomats like Lloyd George, Balfour,

Clemenceau, and the others he had met.

As my interest was centred in that part of the conversation which dealt

with the attitude of the plain people of the United States toward the

plain people of Canada and the British Empire, I shall not attempt to

report the wide range of knowledge that came to the surface during the

day. I may say, however, that I learned with interest that New York has

the highest buildings in the world, Seattle the finest docks in the

world, the United States the greatest military possibilities of any

nation in the world, and that the Merrimac River turns more spindles

than any other river in the world. I suspect it would be possible to

write a book about the greatest things in the world likely to be heard

of on this trip, but I am not forgetful of the fact that it was not the

people of the United States that Rudyard Kipling had in mind when he

wrote:

"For frantic boast and foolish word,

Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!"

In the afternoon I deserted the observation car and went visiting in the

day coach among the passengers who were taking short trips between the

intermediate stations. In this way I got an unconscious compliment that

cheered me wonderfully. An exchange of newspapers with the man with whom

a seat was shared gave an opening for conversation. Sticking to my

resolution I did not introduce the subject of the war. We talked of the

news of the day and all sorts of subjects. Suddenly my seat-mate gave me

a searching look and asked:

"You are a farmer, are you not?"

He will never know how flattered I was. Being so far from home I felt

that I could admit my nearness to the soil without being scoffed at.

There is no doubt that in some matters Americans are much more

discerning than Canadians--but let that pass.

We talked of the late spring, crop prospects, the high cost of living,

and such things, and at last my patience was rewarded. In a dreary tone

he said:

"It seems as if people would never get settled down after the war."

I encouraged him with a nod.

"The war upset everything. Labor was unsettled by high wages. The

country boys that went into the army got a taste of city life and life

in crowds, and it looks as if they would never stay on the land any

more."

I let him ramble on about the train of evils that had followed the war.

There was no boasting--just a sense of weariness with it all.

On my arrival in Boston I became practically _incomunicado_ and unable

to play my rôle of the affable stranger who is willing to engage in

conversation with any one who is willing to talk. It was impossible to

get accommodations at the hotel to which I had telegraphed for a room.

They had more reservations than they could handle for three weeks

ahead. But if I wished, the courteous clerk might be able to arrange for

me at another hotel. As it was after ten o'clock, I wished. By using the

telephone he located a room for me in a quiet family hotel. Its tone and

exclusiveness impressed me as soon as I registered. I was in a position

to see Boston on its dignity. The elevator man looked like a sad

professor of political economy in reduced circumstances, and as I

stepped into his cage I felt as if I had been turned over to the final

psychopomp. With this in mind it gave me a thrill of pleasure to note,

like Phil Welch, that the elevator was going up and not down. No one at

this hotel spoke to another without an introduction, and I realized that

I was having a chance to get a glimpse of that sternly exclusive New

England:

"Where the Cabots speak only to Lowells,

And the Lowells speak only to God."

But a few hours later I was mingling with the ordinary throng again,

looking for information.