When I go away for a vacation, which I don't any more, I am or was
appalled at the ridiculous inconveniences of it. I have sometimes gone
to the Great Mother, Nature; sometimes to hotels. Well, the Great Mother
is kind, it is said, to the birds and the beasts, the small furry
creatures, and even, of old, to the Indian. But I am no Indian; I am not
even a small furry creature. I dislike the Great Mother. She's damp: and
far too full of insects.
And as for hotels, the man in the next room always snores. And by the
time you get used to this, and get in with some gang, your vacation is
over and you have to turn around and go home.
[Illustration: The farmer who hates you on sight]
I can get more for my money by far from a book. For example, the
Oppenheim novels: there are fifty-three of them, and to read them is
almost like going on fifty-three tours. A man and his whole family
could take six for the price of one pair of boots. Instead of trying to
find some miserable mosquitoey hotel at the sea-shore, or an old
farmer's farmhouse where the old farmer will hate you on sight, and
instead of packing a trunk and running errands and catching a train I go
to a book-shop and buy any Oppenheim novel. When I go on a tour with
him, I start off so quickly and easily. I sit in my armchair, I turn to
the first page, and it's like having a taxi at the door--"Here's your
car, sir, all ready!" The minute I read that first page I am off like a
shot, into a world where things never stop happening. Magnificent
things! It's about as swift a change as you could ask from jog-trot
daily life.
[Illustration: Is she an adventuress?]
On page two, I suddenly discover that beautiful women surround me. Are
they adventuresses? I cannot tell. I must beware every minute. Everybody
is wary and suave, and they are all princes and diplomats. The
atmosphere is heavy with the clashing of powerful wills. Paid murderers
and spies are about. Hah! am I being watched? The excitement soon gets
to a point where it goes to my head. I find myself muttering thickly or
biting my lips--two things I never do ordinarily and should not think of
doing. I may even give a hoarse cry of rage as I sit in my armchair. But
I'm not in my armchair. I am on a terrace, alone, in the moonlight. A
beautiful woman (a reliable one) comes swiftly toward me. Either she is
enormously rich or else I am, but we don't think of that. We embrace
each other. Hark! There is the duke, busily muttering thickly. How am I
to reply to him? I decide to give him a hoarse cry of rage. He bites his
lips at me. Some one else shoots us both. All is over.
[Illustration: I wonder if I'm being watched?]
* * * * *
If any one is too restless to take his vacation in books, the quaintest
and queerest of countries is just around the corner. An immigrant is
only allowed to stay from 8.15 to 11 P. M., but an hour in this country
does more for you than a week in the mountains. No canned fish and
vegetables, no babies--
[Illustration: Babies seem so dissatisfied]
I wonder, by the way, why most babies find existence so miserable?
Convicts working on roadways, stout ladies in tight shoes and corsets,
teachers of the French language--none of these suffering souls wail in
public; _they_ don't go around with puckered-up faces, distorted and
screaming, and beating the air with clenched fists. Then why babies? You
may say it's the nurse; but look at the patients in hospitals. They put
up not only with illness, but nurses besides. No, babies are
unreasonable; they expect far too much of existence. Each new generation
that comes takes one look at the world, thinks wildly, "Is _this_ all
they've done to it?" and bursts into tears. "You might have got the
place ready for us," they would say, only they can't speak the language.
"What _have_ you been doing all these thousands of years on this planet?
It's messy, it's badly policed, badly laid out and built--"
Yes, Baby. It's dreadful. I don't know why we haven't done better. I
said just now that you were unreasonable, but I take it all back.
Statesmen complain if their servants fail to keep rooms and kitchens in
order, but are statesmen themselves any good at getting the world tidied
up? No, we none of us are. We all find it a wearisome business.
Let us go to that country I spoke of, the one round the corner. We
stroll through its entrance, and we're in Theatrical-Land.
A remarkable country. May God bless the man who invented it. I always am
struck by its ways, it's so odd and delightful--
"But," some one objects (it is possible), "it isn't real."
Ah, my dear sir, what world, then, _is_ real, as a matter of fact? You
won't deny that it's not only children who live in a world of their own,
but debutantes, college boys, business men--certainly business men, so
absorbed in their game that they lose sight of other realities. In fact,
there is no one who doesn't lose sight of some, is there? Well, that's
all that the average play does. It drops just a few out. To be sure,
when it does that, it shows us an incomplete world, and hence not the
real one; but that is characteristic of humans. We spend our lives
moving from one incomplete world to another, from our homes to our clubs
or our offices, laughing or grumbling, talking rapidly, reading the
paper, and not doing much thinking outside of our grooves. Daily life is
more comfortable, somehow, if you narrow your vision. When you try to
take in all the realities, all the far-away high ones, you must first
become quite still and lonely. And then in your loneliness a fire begins
to creep through your veins. It's--well--I don't know much about it.
Shall we return to the theater?
The oddest of all entertainments is a musical comedy. I remember that
during the war we had one about Belgium. When the curtain went up,
soldiers were talking by the light of a lantern, and clapping each other
on the shoulder when their feelings grew deep. They exchanged many
well-worded thoughts on their deep feelings, too, and they spoke these
thoughts briskly and readily, for it was the eve of a battle. One of the
soldiers blinked his eye now and then. He was taking it hard. He said
briskly he probably would never see his mother again.
His comrade, being affected by this, clapped his friend on the
shoulder, and said, Oh yes he would, and cheer up.
The other looked at him, stepped forward (with his chest well expanded),
and said ringingly: "I was not thinking of myself, Jean. I was thinking
of Bel-jum."
It was a trifle confusing, but we applauded him roundly for this. The
light from the balcony shown full on the young hero's face. You could
see he was ready for the enemy--his dark-rouged cheeks, his penciled
eyebrows proved it. He offered to sing us a song, on the subject of
home. His comrade hurried forward and clapped him some more on the
shoulder.
[Illustration: Songs of home]
The orchestra started.
"_Muth-aw_,
"_Muth-aw_," roared the hero, standing stiffly at attention,
"_Let your arms en-fo-o-ho-old me._"
All was silent on the firing-line--except of course, for this singing.
The enemy waited politely. The orchestra played on. Then the song ended,
and promptly the banging of guns was heard in the distance--and a rather
mild bang hit the shed and the lantern went out.
The audience was left there to shudder alone, in the darkness, not
knowing whether the hero was dead--though, of course, we had hopes....
Then up went the curtain, and there he stood by a chateau, where a plump
Belgian maid, dressed in white silk, was pouring high tea.
[Illustration: In Belgium?]
An American war-correspondent appeared on the scene. He was the humorous
character of the performance. He was always in trouble over his
passports. He had with him a Red Cross nurse who capered about, singing
songs, as did also eight Belgian girls, from the neighboring farms.
Belgian girls are all young and tuneful, the audience learned, and they
spend their time during wars dancing with war-correspondents. They wear
fresh, pretty clothes. So do soldiers who come home on leave. Sky-blue
uniforms, gilt, shiny boots. All was smiling in Bel-jum.
Then the clock struck eleven. The curtain went down, like a wall. We
were turned out, like poor Cinderella, into the cold, noisy streets.
Dense pushing crowds. Newsboys shouting, "Great Slaughter in Flanders."
The wails of some baby attempting to get used to existence.