I had been to the Metropolitan Museum looking at beautiful things and
rejoicing in them.
And then I had to catch a train and go far into the country, to Paul
Smith's.
And as the light lessened and the brooding hour set in I looked out of
the window and reconstructed some of the lovely things I had seen--the
sculptures and the paintings, the jewels and the porcelain: all the fine
flower of the arts through the ages.
It seemed marvellous beyond understanding that such perfection could
exist, and I thought how wonderful it must be to be God and see His
creatures rising now and again to such heights.
And then I came to a station where there was to be a very long wait, and
I went to an inn for a meal.
It was a dirty neglected place, with a sullen unwashed man at the door,
who called raspingly to his wife within.
And when she came she was a slattern, with dishevelled hair and a soiled
dress and apron, and she looked miserable and worn out.
She prepared a meal which I could not eat, and when I went to pay for
it I found her sitting dejectedly in a chair looking with a kind of dumb
despair at the day's washing-up still to do.
And as I walked up and down the road waiting for the car I thought of
this woman's earlier life when she was happy.
I thought of her in her courtship, when her husband loved her and they
looked forward to marriage and he was tender and she was blithe.
They probably went to Coney Island together and laughed with the rest.
And it seemed iniquitous that such changes should come about and
that merry girls should grow into sluts and slovens, and ardent young
husbands should degenerate into unkempt bullies, and houses meant for
happiness should decay, and marriage promises all be forgotten.
And I felt that if the world could not be better managed than that I
never wanted to see any of God's artistic darlings at the top of their
form again and the Metropolitan Museum could go hang.