Virtue, good health, efficiency and all the other subjects which are
served up in the numberless thick volumes with a purpose seldom seem
desirable when the propagandist has finished his say about them. For
instance, we began the day with a firm determination never to smoke
again--that is, not for some time--and then we ran across _Efficiency
Through Concentration_, by B. Johnston. Since then we light the new
cigarette from the dying embers of the old. The passage which enraged us
most occurs in a chapter called "Personal Habits," in which the author
writes:
"If you are a gentleman always ask a lady's permission before smoking,
and if you find that her statement that it is disagreeable to her is a
disappointment to you, and that your observance of her wishes causes you
real discomfort, then you may know that the time has come to give up the
habit entirely."
To be sure, Mr. Johnston does not specify whether "the habit" refers to
smoking or to the lady, but later it is made clear that he seriously
suggests that a smoker should change his whole mode of life to suit the
whim of "a lady" who is not otherwise identified in the book. What this
particular "lady" is to the "gentleman" we don't know, but it sounds
very much like blackmail.
Nor later were we much moved to strength of will against nicotine by the
author's advice, "If self-conquest seems difficult, brace yourself up
with the reminder that as heir of the ages you sum up in yourself all
the powers of self-restraint bequeathed by your innumerable ancestors."
To us that makes but slight appeal. After all, the ancestors most
celebrated for self-restraint were those that didn't have any
descendants.
Later we came across "Concentrate your thought on the blessings that
accompany moderation in all things." This, however, seemed to us an
excellent suggestion if followed in moderation.
Next we turned to a health book by Thomas R. Gaines which promised "a
sound and certain way to health, a cure for fatigue, a preventive for
disease and one of the most potent allies in the battle of life against
premature old age." The book is called _Vitalic Breathing_ and the
introductory notice went on to say that the system suggested was easy to
practise and cost nothing. Only when we came to facts did the new guide
to health fail us, for then we read, "Vitalic breathing means inhaling
in sniffs and forcibly exhaling." No dramatic critic could afford to
follow such a system. He would be hurled out of every theater in town on
the suspicion that he was hissing the show.
Vance Thompson's advice in _Live and Be Young_ is no easier. "The best
is none too good for you," he writes graciously, and continues:
"Whether it is the country or the village or the city, the men and women
you want to know are the best--those who are getting the best out of
life--those who have beautiful homes and social influence--those who
play games and make an art of pleasant things--in a word, those who are
smart."
We read on and learned that, "Rich people are, nine times out of ten,
pleasanter, kindlier, better bred and less selfish than poor folk--they
can afford to be; and they are more enjoyable playmates and steadier
friends."
No, after mature deliberation we think we would rather try the sniffing
and forcibly exhaling method. We would even prefer to concentrate and
give up tobacco. Addition never was one of our strong points, and Mr.
Thompson's advice is not for us. We would have a terrible time in
finding out whether they really were rich enough to be of any use to our
arteries. Clues are simple enough. It is easy to ask nonchalantly, "How
much income tax did you pay this year?" But after obtaining that you
have to find out whether your potentially rich man is living with his
wife and whether he has any children or bad debts or Liberty bonds of
that issue which is tax exempt. Then you must calculate the first few
thousands on the basis of four per cent and on up. It couldn't be done
in your head, and we doubt whether it would be polite to ask your host
for paper and pencil. The system is all well enough after you have your
rich, smart people identified, but the possibility of contracting
premature old age while still in the research period seems to us too
dangerous to meddle with.
After setting down all this we find that we have not been fair to Mr.
Thompson. Early in the book, on a page which we had inadvertently
skipped, an easy method is suggested for ascertaining whether your
friends are actually rich and smart. Speaking of such words as
"climbers" and "snobs" Mr. Thompson writes: "These epithets are always
ready to the hand of the slack-living, uncouth man, who is more
comfortable in bad society than he is in good society--and he loves to
throw them about. You know that man? He stands out in the commonness and
indecency of the street, as you go up to knock at the door of a smart
house, and shouts, 'Snob!'"
Of course, we would like it fine, but truthfulness compels us to admit
that we never met him. Whether we like it or not we will have to
continue to seek health in good works and deep breathing.
Still, our own house is pretty smart. It carries three mortgages and has
never dropped one yet.
Shush!
Gordon Craig's new book is called _The Theatre Advancing_, but we rather
hope that when it reaches his goal line we will be elsewhere. To our
mind the theater is the place where Art should beam upon the multitude
and cry loudly, "Find out what everybody will have and don't forget the
boys in the back room." Mr. Craig's theater is much too special for our
taste. It will do away with everything that is boisterous and vulgar and
broadly human. Consider, for instance, Mr. Craig's short chapter
entitled "A Note on Applause" set down in the form of a dialogue between
the Reader and the Writer:
"In the Moscow Art Theatre applause plays a very minor role. In general
no play can live without it. In Moscow no actor takes a call before the
curtain; hence, there is no applause."
"Reader: Isn't that very dull?"
"Writer: You think so; Moscow doesn't. It is all a matter of the point
of view. When the acting is poor, an enthusiastic, roaring and
thundering audience is necessary to keep up the spirits: but when the
acting is absorbing applause is not needed, and if the actor won't come
and bow, or the curtain rise after it has once fallen--well, then,
applause becomes futile."
"Reader: Whoever heard of such an idea?"
"Writer: My dear Reader, it is not an idea, it is an established fact.
Remove the reason for applause and you prevent the applause itself, and
in doing so, prevent a vulgarity."
"Reader: But it is the natural desire to want to applaud when you see
something good."
"Writer: Rather it is an unnatural habit. You do not applaud a thing,
only a man or a woman. Applause is the flattery of the strong by the
weak.
"If the conductor and musicians of an orchestra were not seen we should
never applaud music. We do not applaud architecture, painting,
sculpture, or literature. We should not applaud hidden musicians."
Concerning the last statement we have reason to doubt the accuracy of
Mr. Craig's surmise in so far as it refers to American audiences. Every
movie fan has heard audiences at some time or another break into wild
applause for the shadows on the screen, and we were even more forcibly
reminded of the strength of the personal illusion, no matter how
inanimate the symbol, during the world's series. The players on the
Scoreboard which we watched were no more than wooden disks with
"Collins," "Jackson," "Cicotte" and the other names written upon them.
When the Dutch Ruether disk was suddenly moved from the plate around to
third base to indicate a triple, there were wild cheers from the crowd
and they began to howl for a change in pitchers. "Take him out!" they
cried, appealing to a manager who did not even have so much as a disk to
represent him. There was some more mad scurrying around the bases by the
red disks, and then suddenly a large hand, symbolizing Fate or God or
Kid Gleason, we don't know which, was thrust through a hole in the
scoreboard and fastened upon the little round Cicotte to bear him away
from his fling of reality back into his accustomed wooden private life.
We don't know how it went with the Cicotte who left the diamond in
Cincinnati. Not very well, we suppose. But for the wooden disk in Times
Square it was a moment of triumph. For a fleeting second he was a man
and the direct object of popular scorn and hatred. The rooter behind me
shook his fist at him. "You got what was coming to you, you big stiff!"
he shouted.
Everybody looked around, and the man seemed a little shamefaced at his
exhibition of hostility to a wooden disk. He felt that he owed the crowd
an explanation and he came through handsomely. "He was shining up the
ball with emery," he said.
"We do not applaud the Atlantic Ocean," continues Craig, "or the poems
of the ocean, but, catching sight of the man who can swim furthest in
that ocean, we utter birdlike and beastlike cries."
And yet we rather think that there have been times when men cheered for
the sea. After that first silent moment on the peak in Darien, Cortez
and his men must have been a pretty dull lot if they did not give at
least one "Rah, rah, rah--P-A-C-I-F-I-C--Pa-cific!"
Mr. Craig can't convince us that we applaud too much, for it is our
impression that we don't get up to shout half often enough. We shout for
Ty Cobb, to be sure, or for Eddie Casey if he gets loose, but as a rule
we do no more than clap hands once or twice if Bernard Shaw bowls over
all the interference and runs the whole length of the field without a
tackler so much as throwing him off his stride. We shout when Jack
Dempsey knocks Jess Willard down seven times in one round, but we don't
do nearly as well for the writing man who gets after some big, hulking
idea that has outlived its usefulness and is still poking around as the
hope of the white race.
Somebody ought to issue a call for volunteer groups of serious shouters
to go out and whoop it up for a skyscraper, or a sunset or a sonnet.
None of us cuts much of a figure complaining about all the things in the
world he doesn't like if he hasn't made a practice of yelling his head
off for such few things as meet with his approval in the theater or out
of it. More than that, Mr. Craig ought to remember that if there were no
applause in the American theater there would be no curtain speeches by
David Belasco.