The Honorable Socrates Potter went to the typewriter and got some oil
and a cloth and began to clean the gun of his great grandfather as he
talked.
“You see, William says: To hell with the common man. Let him do the work
and the fighting. We'll take the product of toil and the loot of war and
enjoy ourselves. We will not have a thing to do but super. If we glut
the officers of the army and our leading citizens with, the product and
the loot, they'll stand by us.
“Is it not significant that the number of plutocrats in Germany has
doubled since the war began? William proposes to make human slaughter a
business. He is running a giant butcher shop.
“Every idler, every superer is an ally of William and an enemy of
Democracy.”
“But they seem to get the best of it--these superers,” I suggested.
“They have a lot of fun.”
“They seem to, but, soon or late, they learn it hasn't paid. They come
to grief or insanity--these slackers in the game of life. Let me tell
you the little story of
THE WEDDING TOURIST.
“She had the most curious and painful brainful of sense preferred in the
whole show.
“When I was a small boy my pocket was one day dispossessed of some green
apples, a quantity of horse nails and lead sinkers, a squirt gun, a
bird's nest; a piece of beeswax and a hawk's wing. This collection would
rank high as an exhibit of eccentric assets, but the contents of this
lady's mind belongs in the same alcove.
“It is to be credited to Alabama where she was born about sixty years
before I met her in Paris last summer. She had a charming southern
accent. It was the best thing she had. I liked it. I like all those
little provincialisms which have the flavor of their native air and
soil. Why shouldn't the manner of decent men and women grow in the way
of nature out of their environment? I love the drawl that is the natural
product of New England, the quaint, indolent slur of Dixieland, the
breezy dialect of the Far West. If they all talked alike what a dull
country we should have!
“Certain of the schools are trying to force a common method of speech.
It is the dialect of Mayfair and Fifth Avenue. It would seem that they
wish to turn us into human bricks of the same size, grade and color.
Under the encouragement of Mr. Henry James, whose slender Americanism
perished at last in formal expatriation, our New York and New England
girls have begun to talk like Duchesses. But among women of the South
and the Far West, you may still hear the real, genuine American talk. To
me it is refreshing.
“At least this may be said for The Wedding Tourist--she was no
school-made, rococo Duchess. She was as real and unaffected as a bale of
hay.
“Sometimes I call her The Grasshopper Widow because she was always
on the move. She had hopped twice around the world and back. When she
needed a husband she reached out and grabbed one and hastened away on
another wedding tour as if nothing had happened.
“To her, life was a series of wedding tours. She had jumped from one
honeymoon to another in the most casual and engaging fashion. She was,
indeed, a kind of professional honey-mooner who from the beginning of
her matrimonial career had enjoyed the pseudonym of Baby. Inns, table
d'hôtes, ruins, art galleries, theaters, scenery and honey-fuglement had
filled her life.
“She had explored the capitals of the world with real feminine
curiosity. She had loved their music and doted upon their art and tasted
their religion and rustled in their silks and generally beat the bushes
to see what would run out.
“When we first met, a remark of hers suggested my query:
“'Was your husband a Yale man?'
“'Which one? I've had two an' a half.'
“'Two and a half I I never heard of a fractional husband before.'
“'My first husband was only half a man, suh. I married my guardian when
I was sixteen. He nevah would do a thing between trips but sit around
an' eat an' drink mint juleps. We went on our wedding tour and I kept
him going for two years, but it was hard work. Nearly wore me out. He
was like one of those toys that you have to wind up before it will go.
Always had a pain in his feet--nevah could dance or do a thing but just
sit, or ride on the cars or in a spring wagon. Lordy, girls! don't evah
marry a man 'til you've tried his feet an' have confidence in 'em. Now,
you hear me! He nevah did do a thing to please me but call me “Baby.”
“The next man I married had a sistuh with a weak mind by the name of
Peggy. I had to look after her an' she'd take out her mind, like, an'
open it an' show it to everybody that came into the house, an' turn it
inside out as if she was right proud of it. Honestly, it reminded me of
my boy when he got his first watch--how he'd open it an' show you the
works an' then hold it up to your ear so you could hear it tick. That's
what Peggy was always doing with her mind, recitin' poetry or showin'
you pearls of thought taken out of the clam beds of her intellect. It
certainly was awful!
“Tercy Higginbottom had a wooden leg an' limped some, but the worst
thing about him was Peggy. I have erected a monument a mile high to that
man in the graveyard of my memory. He was right good to me. He would
stump around all day lookin' at sights and take me to the theater in the
evening and to supper afterwards and nevah murmured. Sometimes his leg
got sore but he kept up.
“'I married him in Paris. We started off on our weddin' tour an' it
lasted about fifteen years. We traveled an' traveled all that time. We
played we was just married and on our honeymoon.
“'He used to say: “Baby, what a wonderful time we are having on this
wedding tour.”'
“'We had two children--a boy and a girl. Once a year we'd come back to
Paris and spend two or three months with them.'
“'You didn't take them with you?'
“'We left them with Mr. Higginbottom's mothah an' a nurse an' governess.
Peggy, the sistuh with a weak mind, went with us--she was all the care
we needed. She knew enough to hook an' button my dresses an' help me
pack. She was the only black spot in all those happy years.
“'Percy took care o' my jewels. It was all he had to do.'
“'A tender husband and a watch dog of the jewels!' I remarked.
“'And there were hours when it kept him mighty busy--you hear me. I
can't help laughin' whenever I think of it.
“'Once we missed one of my rings. We thought it had been stolen. The
hotel manager had every maid and bell boy brought into our room and
searched. Suddenly Percy found it in a waistcoat pocket.
“'One evening we were gettin' off a steamer. Suddenly I slapped my hand
on my breast and yelled:
“'“My sunburst! Lord o' mercy! it's gone!”'
“'I was suah that I had put it on. We ran back up the gangway. We had
only five minutes. Peggy fainted away--she was that weak-minded. You
didn't dare sneeze for fear she would faint away. Percy grabbed her. I
ran for the stateroom an' found the sunburst where I had left it under
my pillow. We were all in, believe me--it nearly killed us. When
we moved Percy always called the roll like: “The ruby ring,” an' I
answered, “Here.”'
“The jade necklace.”
“Here.” Like that, until we knew that we had them all. That evening we
didn't have time.
“'But we certainly did see the world until we lost something better than
all the jewels. Lordy! Lordy! what a world it is!'
“'The boy died when he was eight. We were in Cairo. We hurried back to
Paris. Mr. Higginbottom was nevah the same after that. I nevah could get
him out of Paris again. He died there.
“'My next husband was the dearest and best man that evah did live. I met
him here in Paris. His name was Horton. Weighed three hundred and fifty
pounds. Some man! I says to myself: Now here's a man that'll las' me as
long as I live. He drank too much, but I soon cured him o' that. He gave
it up entirely an' our weddin' tour lasted 'til he died.'
“'Perhaps it wore him out,' I suggested.
“'No, he liked it and we were just as happy as two turtle doves. When
I asked him to do anything, he would always say: “Well, Baby, you know
best.”'
“'But he couldn't walk much. Weight was his great weakness. If you were
jus' to think of him as a husband he was a little heavy; but no man is
perfect.'
“'We had a big limousine an' he toted me around in that an' hired a maid
to climb stairs an' go to the churches an' theaters an' art galleries
with me.'
“'My daughtah had married an' settled in Chicago. One Decembah we
thought it would be nice to go and spend Christmas with her. I just
thought I'd stop beating around and get acquainted with my own family.
We left Paris on the tenth and reached Chicago on the twenty-second. I
called my daughtah on the telephone from our hotel.'
“'“My goodness! Is that you?” she said.
“'“Yes,” I said, “we have come all the way from Paris to spend Christmas
with you.”
“'I'm awfully sorry, mothah,” she says. “The house will be full
Christmas Day, but we'll have you for New Yeah's.”
“She stopped and wiped the tears from her eyes.
“'Say, I felt as if I had been hit with an axe. My husband said:
“'Well, Baby, I guess they don't want us. Don't you mind. We'll have a
good Christinas dinner here at the hotel and then we'll go and spend a
month in New York.”
“'I stopped traveling and went to thinking. Poor Mr. Horton didn't live
long. Now he's gone an' I haven't anybody. No, my daughtah does not
care for me. Her ol' nurse lives with her--an ignorant French woman. I
offered to work hard if she would send that nurse away an' take me to
live with her. She wouldn't do it--no, suh! She loves that nurse an'
doesn't care for me--not the snap of her fingah. I have been trying to
get a chance to work for the Red Cross. My money is about gone. They
say money talks but all it evah says to me is “good-by.” My daughtah's
husband has offered me a small allowance, but I will not take their
money--no, suh! One wants affection from her daughtah--not charily!
Lordy! what a world it is an' what fools we are!'
“'You've been playing ever since you were a little girl, and you're
tired.'
“'Yes, I'm tired. I remember how my big brother used to come an' plague
me an' break my toys. That is what Death has been doing to me. Wouldn't
let me alone. I reckon he saw how foolish I was. I've seen about
everything but I think the grandest sight in the world would be some one
who was glad to see _me_. You can't make friends an' be always on the
move.'
“I suppose she had come back to Paris to comb the beach for another
wreck. But her beauty was gone--so was her occupation of Baby.
“Often, I wonder just how the story is to end--the story of that
pathetic woman who was reaping what she had sown--the harvest of the
childless mother.
“Well, anyhow, at last, common sense had landed in her intellect. She
had never given it a chance before. Hadn't stood still long enough.”