 CHAPTER 10 ON THE MUDDERLINESS OF MAN It was only a piece of broken glass. From its shape and color, I should say it had, in its happier days, formed a portion of a cheap sand-potel. Like isolation on the grass, shown up by the early morning sun, it suddenly appeared at its best. It attracted him. He cocked his head, and looked at it with his right eye. Then he hopped round to the other side, and looked at it with his left eye. Without their optic, it seemed equally desirable. That he was an inexperienced young rogue goes without saying. An older bird would not have given a second glance to the thing. Indeed, one would have taught his own instinct, might have told him, that broken glass would be a mistake in a boy's nest. But its glitter drew him too strongly for a distance. I am inclined to suspect that at some time, during the growth of his family tree, there must have occurred a misalience, perhaps worse, possibly a strain of magpie blood. One knows the character of magpies, or rather their lack of character, and such things have happened. But I will not pursue further so painfully a train, I throw out the suggestion as a possible explanation that is all. He hopped nearer, was it a sweet elusion, this flashing fragment of rain-bell, a beautiful vision to fade upon approach, typical of so much that is ununderstandable in rogue life. He made it out forward, and tapped it with his beak. No, it was real, as fine a lump of jagged green glass as any newly married rogue could desire, and to be had for the taking. She would be pleased with it. He was a well-meaning bird. The mere upward inclination of his tail suggested, honest, though possibly ill-directed and diva. He turned it over. It was an awkward thing to carry. It had so very many corners, but he succeeded at last in getting it firmly between his beak, and in haste lest some other bird should seek to dispute with him its position, at once flew off with it. A second rogue, who had been watching the proceedings from the lime tree, called to a third who was passing. Even with my limited knowledge of the language, I found it easy to follow the conversation. It was so obvious. He shook hair. Hello. What do you think? Jabulan has found a piece of broken bottle. He is going to line his nest with it. No. God's truth. Look at him. There he goes. He has got it in his beak. Well, I am. And the boat burst into a laugh. But Jabulan, he did them not. If he overheard, he probably put down the whole dialogue to jealousy. He made straight for his tray. By standing with my left cheek pressed close against a window pan, I was able to follow him. He is building in what we call the paddock alms. A suburb comments only last season, but rapidly growing. I wanted to see what his wife would say. At first, she said nothing. He laid it carefully down on the branch near the half-finished nest, and she stretched up her head and looked at it. Then she looked at him. For about a minute, neither spoke. I could see that the situation was becoming strained. When she did open her beak, it was with a subdued tone, that had a vein of weariness running through it. What is it? She asked. He was evidently chilled by her manner. As I have explained, he is an inexperienced young rogue. This is clearly his first wife, and he stands somewhat in awe of her. Well, I don't exactly know what it is called. He answered. Oh. No, but it's pretty, isn't it? He added. He moved it, trying to get it where the sun might reach it. It was evident he was admitting to himself that, seen in the shade, it lost much of its charm. Oh yes, very pretty. Was the resender? Perhaps you will tell me what you are going to do with it? The question further discomforted him. Just growing up on him, that this thing was not going to be the success he had anticipated. It would be necessary to proceed verily. Of course, it's not a twig. He began. I see it isn't. No, you see, the nest is nearly all twigs as it is, and I thought. Oh, you did think. Yes, my dear. I thought, unless you are of opinion that it's too shui, I thought we might work it in somewhere. Then she flared out. Oh, did you? You thought that a good idea. An A1 prize idiot, I seem to have married, I do. You have been gone twenty minutes, and you bring me back an eight-cornered piece of broken glass which you think we might work into the nest. You'd like to see me sitting on it for a month, you would. You think it would make a nice bet for the children to lie on. You don't think you could manage to find a packet of mixed pins if you went down again, I suppose. You'd look pretty working somewhere, don't you think? Here, get out of my way. I'll finish this nest by myself. She always had been short-witted. She caught up the offending object. It is a fairly heavy lump of glass, and flung it out of the tree with all her force. I heard it crash through the cucumber frame. That makes the seventh pan of glass broken in that cucumber frame this week. The couple in the branch have over the worst. The plan of building is the most extravagant, the most absurd I ever heard of. They hoist up ten times as much material as they can possibly use. You might think they are going to build a block, and let it out in flats to the other rooks. Then what they don't want, they fling down again. Suppose we built on such a principle. Suppose a human husband and wife were to start erecting their house in a pigly circus. Let us say, and suppose the man spent all day steadily carrying bricks up the ladder while his wife laid ten. Before asking her how many she wanted, whether she didn't think he had brought up sufficient, but just accumulating bricks in a senseless fashion, bringing up every brick he could find. And then suppose, when evening came, and looking round, they found they had some twenty cartloads of bricks lying unused up on the scaffold. They were to come and flinging them down into Waterloo Plays. They would get themselves into trouble. Somebody would be sure to speak to them about it, yet that is precisely what those birds do, and nobody says a word to them. They are supposed to have a precedent. He lives by himself in the U-Tree outside the morning room window. What I want to know is what he is supposed to be good for. This is the sort of thing I want him to look into. I would like him to be warming underneath one evening when those two birds are tidying up. Perhaps he would do something then. I have done all I can. I have thrown stones at them, that in the course of nature have returned to art again, breaking more glass. I have bleached at them with a revolver, but they have come to regard this proceeding as a mere expression of light-heartedness on my part, possibly confusing me with the Arab of the desert, who I am given to understand, expresses himself thus in moments of deep emotion. They merely retire to a safe distance to watch me, no doubt regarding me as a poor performer, inasmuch as I do not also dance and shout between its shot. I have no objection to their building there. If they only would build sensibly, I want somebody to speak to them to whom they will pay attention. You can hear them in the evening, discussing the matter of the surplus stock. Don't you work any more, he says, as he comes up with the last load, you will tire yourself. While I am feeling a bit done up, she answers as she hops out of the nest and straightens her back. You are a bit packaged too, I expect, yet sympathetically. I know I am. We will have a scratchdown and be off. What about all this stuff? She asks, while titiffing herself, would better not leave it about. It looks so untidy. Oh, we'll soon get rid of that. He answers, I'll have the down in the jiffy. To help him, she sages a stick and is about to drop it. He darts forward and snatches it from her. Don't you waste that one? He cries. That's a rare one. That is. You see me hit the old man with it? And he does. What the gardener says, I'll leave you to imagine. Just from its structure, the Rook family is supposed to come next in intelligence to man himself. Judging from the intelligence displayed by members of certain human families with whom I have come in contact, I can quite believe it. That Rooks talk, I am positive. No one can spend half an hour watching a Rookery without being convinced of this. Whether the talk be always wise and witty, I am not prepared to maintain. But that, there is a good deal of it, is certain. A young French gentleman of my acquaintance who visited England to study the language told me that the impression made upon him by his first social evening in London was that of a parrot house. Later on, when he came to comprehend, he of course recognized the brilliance and the depth of the average London drawing room talk. But that is how, not comprehending, it impressed him at first. Listening to the riot of a Rookery is much the same experience. The conversation to us sounds meaningless. The Rooks themselves would probably describe it as sparkling. There is a misintrope I know who hardly ever goes into society. I argued the question with him one day. Why should I? He replied. I know, say a dozen men and women at home intercourse as a pleasure. They have ideas of their own, which they are not afraid to voice. The robberies with such is a rare and gildly thing, and a thank heaven for their friendship. But they are sufficient for my leisure. What more do I require? What is the society of which you all make so much a deal? I have sampled it, and I find it unsatisfying. Analyze it into its elements. What is it? Some person I know very slightly, who knows me very slightly, asks me to what you call him, at home. The evening comes. I have done my day's work, and I have died. I have been to a theatre or concert, or I have spent a pleasant hour or so with a friend. I am more inclined for bed than anything else, but I pull myself together, dress and drive to the house. While I am taking off my head and coat in the hall, a man enters. I met a few hours ago at the club. He is a man I have very little opinion of, and he probably takes a similar view of me. Our minds have no thought in common, but as it is necessary to talk, I tell him it is a warm evening. Perhaps it is a warm evening. Perhaps it isn't. In either case, he agrees with me. I ask him if he is going to ask God. I do not care a straw, whether he is going to ask God or not. He says he is not quite sure, but asks me what chance a patient flower has for a thousand kidneys. I know he doesn't value my opinion on the subject at a bruce flooding. He would be full if he did, but I cudgel my range to reply to him. As though he were going to stake a shot on my advice. We reach the first floor, and are mutually glad to get rid of one another. I catch my hostess's eye. She looks tired and worried. She would be happier in bed, only she doesn't know it. She smiles sweetly, but it is clear she has not the slightest idea who I am, and is waiting to catch my name from the butler. I whisper it to him. Perhaps he will get it right. Perhaps he won't. It is quite immaterial. They have asked 240 guests, some 75 of whom they know by sight. For the rest, any chance passerby, able, as the theatrical advertisements say, to dress and behave as a gentleman would do every beat as well. Indeed, I sometimes wonder why people go to the trouble and expense of invitation cards at all. A sandwichman outside the door would answer the purpose. Lady Tomkins at home this afternoon from three to seven, tea and music, ladies and gentlemen admitted on presentation of visiting card, afternoon dress indispensable. The crowd is the thing wanted. As for the items, well, tell me, what is the difference from the society point of view between one man in a black frock coat and another? I remember being once invited to a party at a house in Lancaster Gate. I had met a woman at a picnic. In the same green frock and parasol, I might have recognized her the next time I saw her. In any other clothes I didn't expect to. My cab man took me to the house opposite, where they were also giving a party. It made no difference to any of us. The hostess, I never learned her name, said it was very good of me to come, and then shunned me off onto a coronal premiere. I didn't catch his name, and he didn't catch mine, which is not extraordinary, seeing that my hostess did not know it. Who, she whispered to me, had come over from wherever it was, she didn't seem to be very sure, principally to make my acquaintance. After the evening and by accident I discovered my mistake, but just detailed it to say anything then. I met a couple of people I knew, had a little supper with them, and came away. The next afternoon I met my right hostess, the lady who should have been my hostess. She thanked me effusively for having sacrificed a previous evening to her and her friends. She said she knew how seldom I went out, that made her feel my kindness all the more. She told me that the Brazilian minister's wife had told her that I was the cleverest man she had ever met. I often think I should like to meet that man, whoever he may be, and thank him. But perhaps the butler does pronounce my name rightly, and perhaps my hostess actually does recognize me. She smiles and says she was so afraid I was not coming. She implies that all the other guests are bought as a feeder in her scales of joy compared with myself. I smile in return, wondering to myself how I look when I do smile. I have never had the courage to face my own smile in the looking glass. I notice the society's smile of other men, and it is not reassuring. I murmur something about my not having been likely to forget this evening, in my turn seeking to imply that I have been looking forward to it for weeks. A few men shine at this sort of thing, but they are a small percentage, and without conceit I regard myself as no bigger fool than the average male. Not knowing what else to say, I tell her also that it is a warm evening. She smiles arggly, as though there were some hidden witticism in the remark, and I drift away, feeling ashamed of myself. To talk as an idiot when you are an idiot brings no discomfort. To behave as an idiot when you have sufficient sense to know it is painful. I hide myself in the crowd, and perhaps I will meet a woman I was introduced to three weeks ago at the picture gallery. We don't know each other's names, but both of us feeling lonesome. We converse, as it is called. If she be the ordinary type of woman, she asks me if I am going on to the Johnson's. I tell her no. We stand silent for a moment, both thinking what next to say. She asks me if I was at the Thompson's the day before yesterday. I again tell her no. I begin to feel dissatisfied with myself, that I was not at the Thompson's. Going to get a win with her, I ask her if she is going to the Browns next Monday. There are no Browns, she will have to say no. She is not, and her tone suggests that a social stigma rests upon the Browns. I ask her if she has been to Barnum's Circus. She hasn't, but is going. I give her my impressions of Barnum's Circus, which are precisely the impressions of everybody else who has seen the show. Or if luck be against me, she is possibly a smart woman, that is to say, her conversation is a running fire of spiteful remarks at the expense of everyone she knows, and of sneers at the expense of everyone she doesn't. I always feel I could make a better woman myself out of a bottle of vinegar and a pen or two of mixed pins, yet it easily takes one about ten minutes to get away from her. Even when by chance one meets a flesh and blood man or woman at such gatherings, it is not the time or place for real conversation, and as for the shadows, what person in their senses would exhaust a single brain cell upon such? I remember a discussion once concerning Tennyson, considered as a social item. The dullest and most densely stupid bore I ever came across was telling how he had sat next to Tennyson at dinner. I found him a most uninteresting man, so he confided to us. He had nothing to say for himself, absolutely nothing. I should like to resuscitate Dr. Samuel Johnson for an evening, and throw him into one of these at-homes of yours. My friend is an admitted misentrope, as I have explained, but one cannot dismiss him as altogether unjust. That there is a certain mystery about society's craving for society must be admitted. I stood one evening trying to force my way into the supper room of a house in Berkeley Square. A lady, hot and wary, a few years in front of me was struggling to the same goal. Why? to her companion. Why do you come to these places, and fight like a bank holiday crowd for 18 penny worth of food? We come here, replied the man, whom I judge to be a philosopher, to say we have been here. I met A. the other evening, and asked him to dine with me on Monday. I don't know why I ask A. to dine with me, but about once a month I do. He is an uninteresting man. I can't, he said. I have got to go to the bees, confounded nuisance. It will be finally dull. Why go? I asked. I really don't know. He replied. A little later, bee met me, and asked me to dine with him on Monday. I can't, I answered. Some friends are coming to us that evening. It's a duty tenure. You know that sort of thing. I wish you could have managed it, he said. I shall have no one to talk to. The A's are coming, and they bore me to death. Why do you ask him? I suggested. Up on my word, I really don't know, he replied. But to return to our rugs, we were speaking of their social instincts. Some dozen of them, the skellywags and bachelors of the community, adjust them to bee, have started a club. For a month past, I have been trying to understand what the affair was. Now I know, it is a club. And for their clubhouse, they have chosen, of course, the tree nearest my bedroom window. I can guess how that came about. It was my own fault. I never thought of it. About two months ago, a single rogue, suffering from indecision or an unhappy marriage, I know not, chose this tree one night for purposes of reflection. He woke me up, I felt angry. I opened the window and chew an empty soda water bottle at him. Of course it didn't hit him. And finding nothing else to throw, I shouted at him, thinking to frighten him away. He took no notice, but went on talking to himself. I shouted louder, and woke up my own dog. The dog barked furiously, and woke up most things within a quarter of a mile. I had to go down with a boot jack, the only thing I could find handy, to soothe the dog. Two hours later, I fell asleep from exhaustion. I left the rogue still cowing. The next night he came again. I should say he was aboard with a sense of humor. Thinking this might happen, I had, however, taken the precaution to have a few stones ready. I opened the window wide, and fired them one after another into the tree. After I had closed the window, he hopped down nearer, and cought louder than ever. I think he wanted me to throw more stones at him. He appeared to regard the whole proceeding as a game. On the third night, as I heard nothing of him, I flattered myself, that in spite of his brevedo, I had discouraged him. I might have known roots better. What happened when the club was being formed? I take it was this. Where shall I fix upon our clubhouse? said the secretary. All other points have been disposed of. One suggested this tree, and another suggested that. Then up spoke this particular rogue. I'll tell you where, said he, in the yew tree opposite the porch. And I'll tell you for why. Just about an hour before dawn, a man comes to the window, over the porch, dressed in the most comical costume he ever set eyes upon. I'll tell you what he reminds me of. Those little statues that man used for decorating fields. He opens the window, and throws a lot of things out up in the lawn. And then he dances and sings. It is awfully interesting, and you can see it all from the yew tree. That I am convinced, is how the club came to fix up on the tree next to my window. I have had the satisfaction of denying them the exhibition then disappeared, and I cheer myself with the hope that they have visited their disappointment up on their misleader. There is a difference between rook clubs and ours. In our clubs, the respectable members arrive early, and leave it at a reasonable hour. In rook clubs, it would appear this principle is reversed. The mad hater would have liked this club. It would have been a club after his own heart. It opens at half past two in the morning, and the force to arrive are the most disreputable members. In rookland, the rowdy-doddy, randy-dandy, rollicky-ranky boys, get up very early in the morning, and go to bed in the afternoon. Such dawn, the older, more orderly members drop in for a reasonable time, and the club becomes more respectable. The tree closes at about six. For the first two hours, however, the goings-on are disgraceful. The proceedings, as often as not, open at a fight. If no two gentlemen can be found to apply to a fight, the next noisiest thing to fall back upon is hell to be a song. It is no satisfaction to me to be told that rooks cannot sing. I know that. Who did the trouble of referring to the natural history book? It is the rook who doesn't know it. He thinks he can. And as a matter of fact, he does. You can criticize his singing. He can call it what you like, but you can't stop it. At least that is my experience. The song selected is sure to be one with a chorus. Towards the end, it becomes mainly chorus, unless the soloist be an extra-powerful board determined to insist upon his rights. The president knows nothing of this club. He gets up himself about seven. Three hours after all the others have finished breakfast, and then fosters round under the impression that he is waking up the colony, the fatad at old four. He is the poorest thing in presidents I have ever heard of. A South American republic would supply a better article. The rooks themselves, the married majority, fathers of families, respectable nest holders, are as indignant as I am. I hear compliments from all quarters. Reflection comes to one as, towards the close of these chill afternoons, in early spring, one leans upon the paddock gate, watching the noisy bustling in the bare alms. So the earth is growing green again, and love is come again unto the hearts of us, old, subarquated fellows. O madam, your feeders gleam wondrous black, and your bonny bright eyes stabs deep. Come, sit by our side, and I will tell you a tale, such as Rook never told before. It's the tale of a nest in a topmost bow, that sways in the good west wind. It's strong without, but it's soft with in, where the little green eggs lie safe. And there sits in that nest a lady sweet, and she calls with joy, for afar. She sees the rook she loves the best. Oh, he has been east, and he has been west, and his crop is full of worms and slugs, and they are all for her. We are old, old rooks, so many of us. The white is mingling with the purple black up on our breasts. We have seen these tall alms grow from saplings. We have seen the old trees fall and die. Yet its season come to us again, the young thoughts. So we mate, and build, and gather that again. Our old, old herds make quiver to the teen cry of our newborn. Modern nature has but one care, the children. We talk of love as the Lord of life. It is but the minister. Our novel's end, where nature still begins. The drama that our cartoon falls upon is but the prologue to our play. How the ancient day must laugh as she listens to the prattle of our children. Is marriage a failure? Is life worth living? The new woman versus the old. So perhaps the weeps of the Atlantic discuss vehemently whether they shall flow east or west. Motherhood is the law of the universe. The whole duty of man is to be a mother. We labor to what end? The children, the woman in the home, the man in the community. The nation takes thought for its future. Why? In a few years its statement, its soldiers, its merchants, its toilers will be gathered unto their fathers. Why trouble we ourselves about the future? The country pours its blood and treasure into the earth that the children may reap. Paul is Jack Bonami, his adult brain full of dreams, rushes with bloody hands to give his blood for liberty, equality, fraternity. He will not leave to sea except in vision. The new world he gives his bones to build, even a spinning war-whipped head knows that. But the children, they shall leave sweeter lives. The peasants leave his fireside to die upon the battlefield. What is it to him, a grain in the human sand, that Russia should conquer the east? The Germany should be united, that the English flag should wave above new lands. The heritage his fathers left him shall be greater for his sons. Patriotism, what is it but the mother instinct of a people? Take it, that the decree has gone forth from heaven. There shall be no more generations, with this life the world shall die. Thank you, we should move van under hand. The sheep who draught in the harbours, the grain who draught in the ground. Should they paint pictures, write books, make music, hammed in by that onward-creeping sea of silence. Thank you, with what eyes husband and wife would look on one another. Thank you of the wing, the spring of love dried up, love only pull of stagnant water. How little we seem to realize this foundation of our life. Therein, if nowhere else, lies our eternity. This ego shall never die, unless the human race, from beginning to end, be by the passing chest of the gods, to be swept aside when worried of, leaving room for new experiments. These features of mine, we will not discuss their aesthetic value, shall never disappear, modified, varied, but in essence shall the same, they shall continue in ever-increasing circles to the end of time. This temperament of mine, this good and evil that is in me, it shall grow with every age, spreading ever-wider, combining and melgameding. I go into my children, and my children's children, I am eternal, I am day, they are I. The tree withers, and you clear the ground. Thankful, if out of its dead limbs you can make good fire root. But its spirit, its life, is in fifty saplings. The tree dies not, it changes. These men and women that pass me in the street, this one hurrying to his office, this one to his club, another to his love, they are the mothers of the world to come. This greedy trickster in stalks and shares, he cheats, he lies, he rungs all men, for what? Follow him to his luxurious home in the suburbs, what do you find? A man with children on his knee, telling them stories, promising them toys. His NCS sordid life, for what object is it leave? That these children may possess the things that it thinks good for them. Our very vices, side by side with our virtues, spring from this one root, motherhood. It is the one seed of the universe, the planets are but children of the sun, the moon but an offspring of the earth, stone over stone, iron over iron. What is the great center of us all? Life animate and inanimate, if any life be inanimate. Is the eternal universe one deemed figure, motherhood, feeling all space? This scheming mother of Mayfair angling for a rich son-in-law, not a pleasing portrait to look upon, from one point of view. Let us look at it for a moment, from another. How various she must be. This is her third function tonight. The paint is running off her poor face. She has been snubbed a dozen times by her social superiors, openly insulted by her teachers, yet she bears it with a patient's smile. It is a beautiful ambition, hers. It is that her child shall marry money, shall have carriages and many servants, live in park lane, wear diamonds, see her name in the society papers. At whatever cost to herself, her daughter shall, if possible, enjoy these things. She could so much more comfortably go to bed, and leave the child to marry some wealthy to commercial traveler. Just this reader, even for such. Her sordid scheming is but the deformed child of motherhood. Motherhood, it is the gamut of God's orchestra, savageness and cruelty at the one end, tenderness and self-sacrifice at the other. The sparrowhawk fights the hen. He is seeking food for his brood. She is defending hers with her life. The spider sucks the fly to feed its myriad young. The cat tortures the mouse to give its steel-trobbing carcass to her kittens. And man wrongs man for children's sake. Perhaps, when the riot of the world reaches us whole, not broken, we shall learn it is a harmony. Its jangling discord fallen into its place around the central team, motherhood. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of Second Touts of an Ideal Fellow This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Oum123 Second Touts of an Ideal Fellow by Jérôme K. Jérôme Chapter 11 On the Inadvisability of Following Advice I was pacing the Houston platform late one winter's night, waiting for the last rain to walk forward. One I noticed a man cursing an automatic machine. Twice he shook his feast at it. I expected every moment to see him strike it. Naturally curious, I drew near softly. I wanted to catch what he was saying. However, he heard my approaching footsteps and turned on me. Are you the man? Said he. Who was here just now? Just where? I replied. Racing up and down that platform for about five minutes. Why here? Where we are standing? He snapped out. Where do you think here is? Over there? He seemed irritable. I may have passed this path in the course of my pre-reginations. If that is what you mean? I replied. I spoke with studied politeness. My idea was to rebuke his rudeness. I mean, he answered. Are you the man that spoke to me just a minute ago? I am not that man. I said. Good night. Are you sure? He persisted. One is not likely to forget talking to you. I retorted. His tone had been most offensive. I beg your pardon. He replied grudgingly. I thought he looked like the man who spoke to me a minute or so ago. I felt mollified. He was the only other man on the platform, and I had a quarter of an hour to wait. No, it certainly wasn't me. I returned genuinely, but ungrammatically. Why did you want him? Yes, I did. He answered. I put a penny in the slot here. He continued, feeling apparently the need of unburdening himself, wanted a box of matches. I couldn't get anything put, and I was shaking the machine and swearing at it, as one does, when there came along a man about your size, and you were sure it wasn't you. Positive, I again ungrammatically replied. I would tell you if it had been. What did it do? Well, he saw what had happened, or guessed it, he said. They are troublesome things, those machines. They want understanding, I said. They want taking up and flinging into the sea, that's what they want. I was feeling mad because I hadn't a match about me, and I use a lot. He said, they stick sometimes, the thing to do is to put another penny in. The weight of the first penny is not always sufficient. The second penny loosens the drawer and tumbles out itself, so that you get the purchase together with your first penny back again. I have succeeded that way. Well it seemed a silly explanation, but it talked as if he had been winned by an automatic machine, and I was so any enough to listen to him. I dropped in what I thought was another penny. I have just discovered it was two shilling pans. The fool was right to a certain extent. I have got something out, I have got this. He held it towards me. I looked at it. It was a packet of Everton Toffee. Two and a penny, he remarked bitterly. I will sell it for a third of what it cost me. You have put your money into the wrong machine, I suggested. Well, I know that, he answered, a little crossly. As it seemed to me, he was not a nice man. Had there been anyone else to talk to, I should have left him. It isn't losing the money I mined so much. It is getting this damn thing that annoys me. If I could find that idiot, I'd ram it down his throat. We walked to the end of the platform, side by side, in silence. There are people like that, he broke out, as we turned. People who will go about giving advice. I'll be getting six months over one of them. I'm always afraid. I remember a pony I had once. I just demand to be a small farmer. He talked in a wordsily tone. I don't know if you understand what I mean, but the atmosphere of Virgil's was the thing that some of his suggested. It was a Toru Bradwell spawning, as sound a little pissed as ever stepped. I would had him out to grass all the winter, and one day in the early spring, I thought I would take him for a run. I had to go to Amersham on business. I put him into the cart, and drove him across. It was just ten miles from my place. He was a bit upish, and had ledered himself pretty freely by the time he reached the town. A man was at the door of the hotel. He says, That's a good pony of yours. Pretty middling, I says. It doesn't do to overdrive them. When they are young, he says. I says, He is done ten miles, and I have done most of the pulling. I reckon I am a jolly sight more exhausted than he is. I went inside and did my business, and when I came out, the man was still there. Going back up the hill, he says to me. Somehow, I didn't cotton to him from the beginning. Well, I have got to get the other side of it, I says, and unless you know any patent way of getting over a hill without going up it, I reckon I am. He says, You take my advice. Give him a pint of old ale before you start. Old ale? I says. Why, he is a teetotaler. Never remind that, he answers. You give him a pint of old ale. I know this ponies. He is a good ant, but he ain't set. A pint of old ale, and he will take you up the hill like a cable tramway, and not hurt himself. I don't know what it is about this class of men. Then asks oneself afterwards why one didn't knock his head over his eyes and run his head into the nearest horse trough. But at the time one listens to them. I got a pint of old ale in a hand-bell, and brought it out. About half a dozen chaps were standing round, and of course, there is a good deal of chaff. He was starting him on the downward course, Jim, says one of them. He will take to gambling, rob a bank, and murder his mother. That is always the result of a glass of ale. Going to the tracks. He won't drink it like that, says another. It is as flat as ditch water, put a head on it for him. And you got a cigar for him, says a third. A cup of coffee and a round buttered toast would do him a sight more good. A cold ale like this, says a fourth. I would have a mind then to throw the stuff away, or drink it myself. It seemed a piece of barley nonsense, giving good ale to a four-year-old pony. But the moment the beggar smelled the ball, he reached out his head, and lapped it up as though he had been a Christian. And I jumped into the cart and started off, amid tears. We got up the hill pretty steady, then the lyker began to work into his head. I have taken home a drunken man, more than once, and there is pleasanter shops than that. I have seen a drunken omen, and they are worse. But a drunken Welsh pony, I never want to have anything more to do with so long as I leave. Using four legs, he managed to hold himself up. But as to guiding himself, he couldn't. And as for letting me do it, he couldn't. First, we were one side of the road, and then we were the other. When we were not either side, we were crossways in the middle. I had a bicycle bell behind me, but the dare not turn my head. All I could do was to shout to the fellow to keep where he was. I want to pass you, he sang out, so soon as he was near enough. Well, you can't do it, I called back. Why can't I? he answered. How much of the road do you want? All of it, and a bit over, I answered him, for this job and nothing in the way. He followed me for half a mile, abusing me. And every time he thought he saw a chance, he tried to pass me. But the pony was always a bit too smart for him. You might have thought the brood was doing it on purpose. He were not fit to be driving, he shouted. He was quite right. I wasn't. I was feeling just about that beat. What do you think you are? He continued. The charge of the light brigade? He was a common sort of fellow. Who sent you home with the washing? Well, he was making me wild by this time. What is the good of talking to me? I shouted back. Come and blackguard the pony if you want to blackguard anybody. I have got all I can do without the help of that alum clock of yours. Go away, you are only making him wars. What is the matter with the pony? He called up. What can't you see? I answered. He is drunk. Well, of course, it sounded foolish. The truth often does. One of you is drunk, he taught it. For two pins I would come and haul you out of the cart. I wished the goodness he had. I would have given something to be out of that cart. But he didn't have the chance. At that moment, the pony gave a sudden swerve. And I take it he must have been a bit too close. I hurried a yell and a curse. And at the same instant, I was plashed from head to foot with ditch water. Then the brood bolted. A man was coming along, asleep on the top of a car load of Windsor chairs. It's disgraceful the way those wagoners go to sleep. I wonder, there are not more accidents. I don't think he ever knew what had happened to him. I couldn't look round to see what became of him. I only saw him start. Halfway down the hill, a policeman hollowed me to a stop. I heard him shouting at something about furious driving. Half a mile this side of Checheam, we came up on a gold skull, walking two and two. A crocodile they call it, I think. I bet you, those girls are still talking about it. It must have taken the old woman a good hour to call it them together again. It was market day in Checheam. And I guess there has not been a busier market day in Checheam before or since. We went through the town at about 30 miles an hour. I have never seen Checheam so lively. It's a sleepy hole as a roll. A mile outside the town, I sighted the high Wacom coach. I didn't feel I minded much. I had got to that pass when it didn't seem to matter to me what happened. I only felt curious. A dozen yards off the coach, the pony stopped there. They jerked me off the seat to the bottom of the cart. I couldn't get up because the seat was on top of me. I could see nothing but the sky and occasionally the head of the pony when he stood upon his hind legs. But I could hear what the driver of the coach said, and I just he was having trouble also. Take the damn circus out of the road, he shouted. If he had had any sense, he would have seen how helpless I was. I could hear his cattle plunging about. They are like that, horses. If they see one full, then they all want to be fools. Take it home and tie it up to its organ, shouted the guard. Then an old woman went to the hysterics and began laughing like an hyena. That started the pony off again, and as far as I could calculate by watching the clouds, we did about 104 miles at the gallop. Then he taught he tried to jump a gate and finding, I suppose, that the cart hampered him. He started kicking it to pieces. I would never have thought a cart could have been separated into so many pieces if I hadn't seen it done. When he had got rid of everything but half a wheel and a splashboard, he bolted again. I remained behind at the other ruins and glad I was to get a little rest. He came back later in the afternoon, and I was pleased to sell him the next week for a five pound note. It cost me about 110 to repair myself. To this day I am chaffed about that pony, and the local temper in society made a lecture out of me. That's what comes of falling advice. I sympathized with him. I have suffered from advice myself. I have a friend, a city man, whom I meet occasionally. One of his most ardent patients in life is to make my fortune. He buttonholes me in transcendental street. The very man I wanted to see, he says, I am going to let you in for a good thing. We are getting up a little syndicate. He is forever getting up a little syndicate, and for every hundred pounds you put into it, you take a thousand out. Had I gone into all these little syndicates, I could have been worth at present moment, I reckon, 2,500,000 pounds. But I have not gone into all his little syndicates. I went into one years ago, when I was younger. I am still in it. My friend is confident that my holding later on will yield me thousands. Being however hard of already money, I am willing to part with my share to any deserving person at the genuine reduction upon a cash basis. Another friend of mine knows another man, who is in the know as regards racing matters. I suppose most people pose as a friend of this type. He is generally very popular just before a race, and extremely unpopular immediately afterwards. The third benefactor of mine is an enthusiast up on the subject of diet. One day he brought me something in a packet, and pressed it into my hand with the air of a man, who is relieving you of all your troubles. What is it? I asked. Open it and see, he answered, in the tone of a pantomime fairy. I opened it and looked, but I was no wiser. It's tea, he explained. Oh, I replied. I was wondering if it could be snuff. Well, it's not exactly tea. He continued. It's a sort of tea. You take one cup of that, one cup, and you will never care for any other kind of tea again. He was quite right. I took one cup. After drinking it, I felt I didn't care for any other tea. I felt I didn't care for anything, except to die quietly and inoffensively. He called on me a week later. You remember the tea I gave you? He said. Distinctly, I answered. I have got the taste of it in my mouth now. Did it upset you? He asked. It annoyed me at the time, I answered. But that is all over now. He seemed thoughtful. You were quite correct, he answered. It was snuff. A very special snuff sent me all the way from India. I can't say I liked it, I replied. A stupid mistake of mine, he went on. I must have mixed up the packets. Oh, accidents will happen, I said. And you won't make another mistake. I feel sure, so far as I am concerned. We can all give advice. I had the honor once of serving an old gentleman whose profession it was to give legal advice. An excellent legal advice he always gave. In common with most men who know the law, he had little respect for it. I have heard him say to a obitulatient, My dear sir, if a villain stopped me in the street and demanded of me my watch and saying, I should refuse to give it to him. If he dare upon said, then I shall take it from you by brute force. I should, old as I am, I feel convinced, replied to him. Come on. But if, on the other hand, he were to say to me, very well, then I shall take proceedings against you in the court of Queens Branch to compel you to give it up to me. I should at once take it from my pocket, press it into his hand, and beg of him to say no more about the matter. And I should consider I was getting off cheaply. Yet that same old gentleman went to law himself with his next-door neighbor over a dead pole parrot that wasn't worth six pennies to anybody, and spanned from force to lust a hundred pounds if he spent a penny. I know I am a fool, he confessed. I have no positive proof that it was his cat, but I will make him pay for calling me an old Bailey Adderney, hanged if I don't. We all know how the pudding ought to be made. We do not profess to be able to make it. That is not our business. Our business is to criticize the cook. It seems our business to criticize so many things that it is not our business to do. We are all critics nowadays. I have my opinion of you, reader, and you possibly have your own opinion of me. I do not seek to know it. Personally, I pray for the man who says what he has to say of me behind my back. I remember when on a lecturing tour, the grand plan of the hall often necessitated my mingling with the audience as they streamed out. This never happened, but I would overhear somebody in front of me whisper to his or her companion, take care, he is just behind you. I always felt so grateful to that whisperer. At the Bohemian Club, I was once drinking coffee with a novelist. Who happened to be a broad-shouldered, athletic man, a fellow member joining us, said to the novelist, I have just finished the last book of yours. I will tell you my candid opinion of it. Promptly replied the novelist, I give you fair warning, if you do, I shall punch your head. We never heard that candid opinion. Most of our leisure time is pants nearing at one another. It is a wonder, going about as we do with our noses so high in the air, we do not walk off this little round world into space, all of us. The masses near at the classes, the morals of the classes are shocking. If only the classes would consent as a body to be taught behavior by a committee of the masses, how very much better it would be for them. If only the classes would neglect their own interests and devote themselves to the welfare of the masses, the masses would be more pleased with them. The classes near at the masses, if only the masses would follow the advice given them by the classes. If only they would be thirty on their ten sailings a week. If only they would be all teetotillers or drink old claret, which is not intoxicating. If only all the girls would be domestic servants on five pounds a year, and not waste their money on feeders. If only the man would be content to work for fourteen hours a day, and to sing in tune, God bless the square and his relations, and would consent to be kept in their proper stations, all things would go swimmingly for the classes. The new woman poo-poo's the old, the old woman is indignant with the new. The chapel denounces the stage, the stage ridicules little battle. The minor poets nears at the world, the world loves at the minor poet. Man criticizes woman, we are not altogether pleased with woman. We discuss her shortcomings, we advise her for her good. If only English wives would dress as French wives, talk as American wives, cook as German wives. If only we men would be precisely what we want them to be, patient and hard-working, brilliant liberty and exhaustively domestic, bewitching, amenable, and less suspicious. How very much better it would be for them, also for us. We work so hard to teach them, but they will not listen. Instead of paying attention to our wise counsel, the tiresome creatures are wasting their time criticizing us. It is a popular game, this game of school. All that is needful is a doorstep, a cane, and six other children. The difficulty is the chick's other children. Every child wants to be the schoolmaster. They will keep jumping up, saying it is their turn. Woman wants to take the stick now, and put man on the doorstep. There are one or two things he has got to say to him. He is not at all the man she approves of. He must begin by getting rid of all his natural desires and propensities. If done, she will take him in hand and make of him not a man, but something very much superior. It would be the best of all possible worlds if everybody would only follow our advice. I wonder, would Jerusalem have been the cleanly city it is reported, if instead of troubling himself concerning his own two-panning half-panning doorstep, its citizen had gone out into the road and given eloquent lectures to all the other inhabitants on the subject of sanitation. We have taken to criticizing the creator himself of let. The world is wrong. We are wrong, if only he had taken our advice during those first six days. Why do I seem to have been scooped out and filled up with lead? Why do I hate the smell of bacon and feel that nobody cares for me? It is because champagne and lobsters have been made wrong. Why do I do in an Angelina quarrel? It is because I do in has been given a fine high-spirited nature that will not prove contradiction, while Angelina, poor girl, has been cursed with contradictory instincts. Why is excellent Mr. Jones brought down next door to Bagary? Mr. Jones had an income of a thousand a year secured by the funds, but there came along a wicked company promoter. Why are wicked company promoters permitted? With a prospectus telling good Mr. Jones how to obtain a hundred percent for his money by investing it in some scheme for the swindling of Mr. Jones fellow citizens. The scheme does not succeed. The people swindled turned out contrary to the promise of the prospectus to be Mr. Jones and his fellow investors. Why does heaven allow these wrongs? Why does Mrs. Brown leave her husband and children to run off with the new doctor? It is because an ill-advised creator has given Mrs. Brown and the new doctor unduly strong emotions. Neither Mrs. Brown nor the new doctor are to be blamed. If any human being be answerable it is probably Mrs. Brown's grandfather or some early ancestor of the new doctors. We shall criticize heaven when we get there. I doubt if any of us will be pleased with the arrangements. We have grown so accidentally critical. It was once said of a very superior young man that has seemed to be under the impression that God Almighty had made the universe chiefly to hear what he would say about it. Consciously or unconsciously most of us are of this way of thinking. It is an age of mutual improvement societies. A delightful idea, everybody's business being to improve everybody else. Of amateur parliaments, of literary councils, of playgoers clubs. First night criticism seems to have died out of late. The student of the drama having come to the conclusion, possibly, that plays are not worth criticizing. But in my young days we were very honest at this work. We went to the play, less with the selfish desire of enjoying our evening, than with the noble aim of elevating the stage. Maybe we did good, maybe we were needed, let us think so. Certain it is, many of the old absurdities have disappeared from the theatre, and our rough and ready criticism may have helped a happy dispatch. A folly is often served by an unwise remedy. The dramatist in those days had to reckon with his audience. Gallery and pit took an interest in his work, such as galleries and pits no longer take. I recollect witnessing the production of a very blood-curdling melodrama at, I think, the Old Queen's Theatre. The heroine had been given by the author a quite unnecessary amount of conversation, so we considered. The woman, whenever she appeared on the stage, talked by the ear. She could not do a simple little thing like cursing the villain under about 20 lines. When the hero asked her if she loved him, she stood up and made a speech about it that lasted three minutes by the watch. One dreaded to see her open her mouth. In the third act, somebody got hold of her and shot her up in a dungeon. He was not a nice man, speaking generally, but we felt he was the man for the situation, and the house cheered him to the echo. We flattered ourselves, we had got rid of her for the rest of the evening. Then some fool of a turnkey came along, and she appealed to him, through the greeting, to let her out for a few minutes. The turnkey, a good but soft-hearted man, hesitated. Don't you do it, shouted one earnest student of the drama, from the gallery. She is all right, keep her there. The old idiot paid no attention to our advice. He argued the matter to himself. It is but a trifling request, he remarked, and it will make her happy. Yes, but what about us? Replied the same voice from the gallery. You don't know her, you have only just come on. We have been listening to her all the evening. She is quiet now, you let her be. Oh, let me out, if only for one moment, shriek the poor woman. I have something that I must say to my child. Write it on a bit of paper, and pass it out, suggested a voice from the pit. We will see that he gets it. Shall I keep a mother from her dying child? Meused the turnkey. No, it would be inhuman. No, it didn't, persisted the voice of the pit. Not in this instant. It's too much dark that has made the poor child ill. The turnkey would not be guided by us. He opened the cell door amidst the excretions of the whole house. She talked to her child for about five minutes, at the end of which time it died. Ah, he is dead. Shriek the distressed parent. Lucky beggar was the unsympathetic resunder of the house. Sometimes the criticism of the audience would take the form of remarks addressed by one gentleman to another. We had been listening one night to a play, in which accents seemed to be unnecessarily subordinated to dialogue, and somewhat poor dialogue at that. Suddenly, across the wearing talk from the stage came the centurion whispers, Jim, hello, wake me up when the play begins. This was followed by an ostentious sound as of snoring, then the voice of the second speaker was heard. Sammy, his friend, appeared to awake. Ah, yes, what's up? Has anything happened? Wake you up at half past eleven in any event, I suppose. Thanks, doosani, and the critics slept again. Yes, we took interest in our plays then. I wonder, shall I ever enjoy the British drama again as I enjoyed it in those days? Shall I ever enjoy a supper again, as I enjoyed the tribe and onions, washed down to beat your beer, at the bar of the Old Albion? I have tried so many suppers after the theatre since then, and some, when friends have been in generous mood, have been expensive and elaborate. The cook may have come from Paris. His portrait may be in the illustrated papers. His salary may be reckoned by hundreds. But there is something wrong with his art. For all that, I miss a flavor in his meats. There is a sauce licking. Nature has her carnage and demands payment in her own currency. At nature's up, it is you yourself must pay. Your unarmed increment, your inherited fortune, your luck, are not legal tenders across her counter. You want a good appetite. Nature is quite willing to supply you, certainly, sir. She replies, I can do you a very excellent article indeed. I have here a real genuine hunger and thirst that will make your meal a delight to you. You shall eat hotly and a jest, and you shall rise from the table refreshed in vigor added and cheerful. Just the very thing I want, exclaims the government delightfully. Tell me the price. The price, answers Mrs. Nature. His one long day's hard work. The customer's face falls. He handles nervously his heavy purse. Cannot I pay for it in money? He asks. I don't like work, but I am a rich man. I can effort to keep French cooks to purchase old wines. Nature shakes her head. I cannot take your cheques, this shoe and nerve are my charges. For these, I can give you an appetite that will make a ramstick and a tankard of ale more delicious to you than any dinner that the greatest chef in Europe could put before you. I can even promise you that a hunk of bread and cheese shall be a bouquet to you, but you must pay my price in my money. I do not deal in yours. And next, the Delatante enters, demanding a taste for art and literature. And this also, Nature is quite prepared to supply. I can give you true delight in all these things. She answers. Music shall be as wings to you, lifting you above the turmoil of the world. Through art, you shall catch a glimpse of truth. Among the pleasant pants of literature, you shall walk as besides steel waters. And your chairs, cries the delighted customer. These things are somewhat expensive, replies Nature. I want from you a life lived simply, free from all desire of worldly success, a life from which patience has been lived out, a life to which appetite has been served to you. But to mistake, my dear lady, replies the Delatante. I have many friends, possessed of taste, and dear man who did not pay this price for it. Their houses are full of beautiful pictures. They rave about nocturnes and symphonies. Their shelves are packed with forced additions, yet dear men of luxury and wealth and fashion. They travel much concerning the making of money, and society is their heaven. Cannot I be as one of these? I do not deal in the tricks of apes, answers Nature coldly. The culture of these friends of yours is a mere pose, a fashion of the hour. Their talk mere parrot chatter. Yes, he can purchase such culture as these, and pretty cheaply. But the passion for skittles would be more service to you, and bring you more genuine enjoyment. My goods are of a different class. I fear we waste each other's time. And next comes the boy, asking with a blush for love. And Nature's motherly old heart goes out to him, for it is an article she loves to sell, and she loves those who come to purchase it of her. So she leans across the counter, smiling, and tells him that she has the very thing he wants, and he, traveling with excitement, likewise asks stuff figure. It costs to say good deal, explains Nature, but in no discursing tone. It is the most expensive thing in all my shop. I am rich, replies the let. My father worked hard and saved, and he has left me all his wealth. I have stocks and shares, and lands and factories, and will pay any price and reason for this thing. But Nature, looking graver, lays her hand upon his arm. Put by your purse, boy. She says, my price is not a price in region, nor is gold a medal that I deal in. There are many shops in various streets where your banknotes will be accepted. But if you will take an old woman's advice, you will not go to them. The thing they will sell you will bring sorrow and to evil to you. It is cheap enough, but like all things cheap, it is not worth the buying. No man purchases it, only the fool. And what is the cost of the thing you sell them? Asks the let. Self-forgetfulness, tenderness, strength, answers the old day. The love of all things that are of good repute, the hate of all things evil, courage, sympathy, self-respect, these things purchase love. Put by your purse, let. It will serve you in other ways, but it will not buy for you the goods upon my shelves. Then am I no better off than the poor man, demands the let. I know not wealth or poverty, as you understand it, answers Nature. Here I exchange realities only for realities. You ask for my treasures. I ask for your brain and heart in exchange. Yours, boy, not your father's, not an adder's. At this price, he argues, how shall I obtain it? Go about the world, replies the great lady. Labor, suffer, help. Come back to me when you have earned your wages, and according to how much you bring me, so we will do business. Is real world so unevenly distributed as we think? It is not fate that drew socialists. Who is the rich man? Who the poor? Do we know? Does even the man himself know? Are we not striving for the shadow missing the substance? Take life at its highest, which was the happier man, rich Solomon or poor Socrates. Solomon seems to have had most things that most men most desire, maybe too much of some for his own comfort. Socrates had little beyond what he carried about with him, but that was a good deal. According to our scales, Solomon should have been one of the happiest man that ever lived. Socrates one of the most raged, but was it so. Or taking life at its lowest, with pleasure its only goal, is my Lord Tom Naughty in the stalls so much more jollier than Ari in the gallery, where beer, ten shillings the bottle, and champagne, four pence a quart, which, thank you, we should clamour for. If every western club had its kettle alley, and billiards could only be played in eastern pubs, which came, my Lord, would you select? Is the air of Barclay Square so much more joy-giving than the atmosphere of Seven Tiles? I find myself a pecancy in the air of Seven Tiles, missing from Barclay Square. Is there so vast a difference between horse-hair and straw, when you are tired? Is happiness multiplied by the number of rooms in one's house? Are Lady Armintry's lips so very much sweeter than Sally's of the alley? What is success in life? CHAPTER XII On the playing of marches at the funerals of marionettes. He began the day badly. He took me out, and lost me. It would be so much better. Would he consent to the usual arrangement to allow me to take him out? I am far the abler leader. I say it without conceit. I am older than he is, and I am less excitable. I do not stop and talk with every person I meet, and then forget where I am. I do less to distract myself. I rarely fight. I never feel I want to run after cats. I take but little pleasure in frightening children. I have nothing to think about but the walk and the getting home again. If, as I say, he would give up taking me out and let me take him out, there would be less trouble all round. But into this I have never been able to persuade him. He had mislaid me once or twice, but in Sloan Square he lost me entirely. When he loses me he stands and barks for me. If only he would remain where he first barked I might find my way to him, but before I can cross the road he is barking halfway down the next street. I am not so young as I was, and I sometimes think he exercises me more than is good for me. I could see him from where I was standing in the king's road. Currently he was most indignant. I was too far off to distinguish the barks, but I could guess what he was saying. Damn that man, he's off again. He made inquiries of a passing dog. You haven't smelt my man about anywhere, have you? A dog, of course, would never speak of seeing anybody or anything, smell being his leading sense. Reaching the top of a hill he would say to his companion, lovely smell from here I always think I could sit and sniff here all the afternoon, or proposing a walk he would say. I like the road by the canal, don't you? There's something interesting to catch your nose at every turn. No, I haven't smelt any man in particular, answered the other dog. What sort of a smelling man is yours? Oh, an egg and bacon, a sort of a man with a dash of soap about him. That's nothing to go by, retorted the other. Most men would answer to that description this time of the morning. Where were you when you last noticed him? At this moment he caught sight of me and came up, pleased to find me, but vexed with me for having got lost. Oh, here you are! he barked. Didn't you see me go round the corner? Do keep closer, bothered if off my time isn't taken up, finding you and losing you again. The incident appeared to have made him bad-tempered. He was just in the humour for a row of any sort. At the top of Sloan Street, a stout military-looking gentleman started running after the Chelsea bus. With a hoo-hoo, William Smith was after him. Had the old gentleman taken no notice, all would have been well. A butcher-boy driving just behind would, I could read it in his eye, have caught Smith a flick as he darted into the road which would have served him right. The old gentleman would have captured his bus and the affair would have been ended. Unfortunately, he was that type of retired military man, all gout and couriant, no sense. He stopped to swear at the dog. That of course was what Smith wanted. It is not often he gets a scrimmage with a full-grown man. They're a poor-spirited lot, most of them, he thinks. They won't even answer you back. I like a man who shows a bit of pluck. He was frenzied with delight at his success. He flew round his victim, weaving whooping circles and curves that paralyzed the old gentleman as though they had been the mystic figures of a Merlin. The Colonel clubbed his umbrella and attempted to defend himself. I called to the dog. I gave good advice to the Colonel. I judged him to be a Colonel. The louder he spoke, the less one could understand him. But both were too excited to listen to me. The sympathetic bus driver leaned over and whispered, Horse Council, Catch him by the tail, sir, advised the old gentleman. Don't you be afraid of him. You catch him firmly by the tail. A milkman, on the other hand, sought rather to encourage Smith, shouting as he passed, Good dog, kill him! A child, brained within an inch by the old gentleman's umbrella, began to cry. The nurse told the old gentleman he was a fool, a remark which struck me as singularly apt. The old gentleman gassed back that perambulators were illegal on the pavement, and between his exercises inquired after myself. A crowd began to collect, and a policeman strolled up. It was not the right thing. I do not defend myself. But at this point the temptation came to me to desert William Smith. He likes a street row. I don't. This things are matters of temperament. I have also noticed that he has the happy instinct of knowing when to disappear from a crisis, and the ability to do so, mysteriously turning up a quarter of a mile off, clad in a peaceful and preoccupied air, and to all appearances another and a better dog. Consoling myself with the reflection that I could be of no practical assistance to him, and remembering with some satisfaction that by a fortunate accident he was without his collar, which bears my name and address, I slipped round the offside of a voxel bus, making no attempted ostentation, and worked my way home through Lown Square and the park. Five minutes after I had sat down to lunch he flung open the dining-room door and marched in. It is his customary entrance. In a previous state of existence his soul was probably that of an actor-manager. From his exuberant self-satisfaction I was inclined to think he must have succeeded in following the milkman's advice. At all events I have not seen the colonel since. His bad temper had disappeared, but his upishness had, if possible, increased. Previous to his return I had given the O'Shannon a biscuit. The O'Shannon had been insulted. He did not want a dog biscuit. If he could not have a grilled kidney he did not want anything. He had thrown the biscuit on the floor. Smith saw it and made for it. Now Smith never eats biscuits. I give him one occasionally and he at once proceeds to hide it. He is a thrifty dog. He thinks of the future. You never know what may happen, he says. Suppose the Governor dies, or goes mad, or bankrupt. I may be glad even of this biscuit. I'll put it under the doormat. I'll know I won't. Somebody will find it there. I'll scratch a hole in the tennis-lawn and bury it there. That's a good idea. Perhaps it'll grow. Once I caught him hiding it in my study, behind the shelf devoted to my own books. It offended me his doing that. The argument was so palpable. Generally wherever he hides it somebody finds it. We find it under our pillows, inside our boots. No place seems safe. This time he had said to himself, by Jove, a whole row of the Governor's books, nobody will ever want to take these out. I'll hide it here. One feels a thing like that from one's own dog. But the O'Shanan's biscuit was another matter. Dishonesty is the best policy, but dishonesty is the better fun. He made a dash for it and commenced to devour it greedily. You might have thought he had not tasted food for a week. The indignation of the O'Shanan was a sight for the gods. He has the good nature of his race. Had Smith asked him for the biscuit he would probably have given it to him. It was the insult, the immorality of the proceeding that maddened the O'Shanan. The moment he was paralyzed. Well, of all the, did you see that now? He said to me with his eyes. Then he made a rush and snatched the biscuit out of Smith's very jaws. Young, principled, black sacks and thief, growled the O'Shanan. How dare you take my biscuit! You miserable Irish cur, growled Smith, how was I to know it was your biscuit? Does everything on the floor belong to you? Perhaps you think I belong to you. I'm on the floor. I don't believe it is your biscuit, you long-eared, snubbed-nosed, bog-trotter. Give it me back. I don't require any of your argument, you floppiered son of a trump with half a tail, replied the O'Shanan. You come and take it if you think you are dog enough. He did think he was dog enough. He is half the size of the O'Shanan, but such considerations weigh not with him. His argument is, if a dog is too big for you to fight the whole of him, take a bit of him and fight that. He generally gets licked, but what is left of him invariably swaggeres about afterwards under the impression it is the victor. When he is dead, he will say to himself as he settles himself in his grave, Well, I flatter myself, I've laid out that old world at last. It won't trouble me any more, I'm thinking. On this occasion I took a hand in the fight. It becomes necessary at intervals to remind Master Smith that the man, as the useful and faithful friend of dog, has his rights. I deemed such interval had arrived. He flung himself onto the sofa muttering. It sounded like, wish I'd never got up this morning, nobody understands me. Nothing however sobers him for long. Half an hour later he was killing the next door cat. He will never learn sense. He has been killing that cat for the last three months. Why the next morning his nose is invariably twice its natural size, while for the next week he can see objects on one side of his head only. He never seems to grasp. I suppose he attributes it to change in the weather. He ended up the afternoon with what he no doubt regarded as a complete and satisfying success. Dorothe had invited a lady to take tea with her that day. I heard the sound of laughter, and, being near the nursery, I looked in to see what was the joke. Smith was worrying a doll. I have rarely seen a more worried-looking doll. Its head was off, and its sawdust strewed the floor. Both the children were crowing with delight. Dorothe in particular was in an ecstasy of amusement. "'Whose doll is it?' I asked. "'Eva's,' answered Dorothe between her peels of laughter. "'Oh, no, it isn't!' explained Eva in a tone of sweet content. "'Here's my doll. She had been sitting on it, and now drew it forth, warm, but whole. That's Dorie's doll.' The change from joy to grief on the part of Dorothe was distinctly dramatic. Even Smith, accustomed to storm, was nonplussed at the suddenness of the attack upon him. Dorothe's sorrow lasted longer than I had expected. I promised her another doll. But it seemed she did not want another. That was the only doll she would ever care for so long as life lasted. No other doll could ever take its place. No other doll would be to her what that doll had been. These little people are so absurd, as if it could matter whether you loved one doll or another when all are so much alike. They have curly hair and pink and white complexions, big eyes that open and shut a little red mouth, two little hands. Yet these foolish little people, they will love one, while another they will not look upon. I find the best plan is not to reason with them, but to sympathize. Later on, but not too soon, introduce to them another doll. They will not care for it at first, but in time they will come to take an interest in it. Of course it cannot make them forget the first doll. No doll ever born in Lothar, Arcadia, could be as that. But still it is many weeks before they forget entirely the first love. We buried Dolly in the country under the yew tree. A friend of mine who plays the fiddle came down on purpose to assist. We buried her in the hot spring sunshine, while the birds from shady nooks sang joyously of life and love. And our chief mourner cried real tears. Just for all the world as though it were not the fate of dolls sooner or later to get broken, the little fragile things made for an hour to be dressed and kissed, then paintless and stripped to be thrown aside on the nursery floor. Poor little dolls. I wonder, do they take themselves seriously? Not knowing the springs that stir their sawdust bosoms or but clockwork, not seeing the wires to which they dance? Poor little marionettes. Do they talk together, I wonder, when the lights of the booth are out? You, little sister doll, were the heroine. You lived in the white-washed cottage, all honeysuckle and clematis without ear-wiggy and damp within, maybe. How pretty you always looked in your simple, neatly fitting print dress. How good you were! How nobly you bore your poverty! How patient you were, under your many wrongs! You never harbored an evil thought, a revengeful wish. Never, little doll? Were there never moments when you longed to play the wicked woman's part? Live in a room with many doors, be glad in furs and jewels with lovers galore at your feet. In those long winter evenings, the household work is done, the greasy dishes washed, the floor scrubbed, the excellent child is asleep in the corner. The one-and-eleven penny lamp sheds its dismal light on the darned tablecloth. You sit, busy at your course, sowing, waiting for Hero Dick, knowing, guessing at least, where he is. Yes, dear, I remember your fine speeches when you told her, in stirring language the gallery cheered to the echo, what you thought of her and such women as she, when, lifting your hand to heaven, you declared you were happier in your attic, working your fingers to the bone, than she and her gilded salon. I think gilded salon was the term, was it not? Furnished by sin. But speaking of yourself, weak little sister doll, not of your fine speeches the gallery listening, did you not, in your secret heart, envy her? Did you never, before blowing out the one candle, stand for a minute in front of the cracked glass, and think to yourself that you too would look well in low-cut dresses from Paris, the diamonds flashing on your white smooth skin? Did you never, toiling home through the mud, bearing your bundle of needlework, feel bitter with the wages of virtue, as she splashed you passing by in her carriage, alone, over your cup of weak tea? Did you never feel tempted to pay the price for champagne suppers and gaiety and admiration? Ah, yes, it is easy for folks who have had their good time to prepare copy books for weary little ink-stained fingers longing for play. The fine maxims sound such can't when we are in that mood, do they not? You too were young and handsome. Did the author of the play think you were never hungry for the good things of life? Did he think that reading tracts to crotchety old women was joy to a full-blooded girl in her twenties? Why should she have all the love and all the laughter? How fortunate that the villain, the wicked baronet, never opened the cottage door at that moment, eh, dear! He always came when you were strong, when you felt that you could denounce him and scorn his temptations. Would that the villain came to all of us at such time, then we would all, perhaps, be heroes and heroines. Ah, well, it was only a play. It is over now. You and I, little tired dolls, lying here side by side, waiting to know our next part, we can look back and laugh. Where is she, this wicked dolly, that made such a stir on our tiny stage? Ah, here you are, madam, I thought you could not be far. They have thrown us all into this corner together. But how changed you are, dolly! Your paint rubbed off, your golden hair worn to a wisp. No wonder, it was a trying part you had to play. How tired you must have grown, of the glare and the glitter. And even hope was denied you. The peace you so longed for, you knew you had lost the power to enjoy. Like the girl bewitched in the fairy tale, you knew you must dance ever faster and faster, with limbs growing pulsed, with face growing ashen and hair growing gray. All death should come to release you. And your only prayer was he might come ere your dancing grew comic. Like the smell of the roses to Nancy, hawking them through the hot streets, must the stifling atmosphere of love have been to you. The song of passion, hominotness in your ears, sung now by the young and now by the old, now shouted, now whined, now shrieked. For the one strident tune. Do you remember when first you heard it? You dreamt at the morning hymn of heaven. You came to think it the dance music of hell, ground from a cracked hurdy-gurdy Lent out by the devil on hire. An evil race we must have seemed to you, dolly Faustine, as to some old Bailey lawyer. You saw but one side of us. You lived in a world upside down where the leaves and the blossoms were hidden and only the roots saw your day. You imagined the worm-be-slimed fibers the plant, and all things beautiful you deemed can't. Chivalry, love, honor. How you laughed at the lying words. You knew the truth, as you thought. I, half the truth. You were swine while your spell was upon us, daughter of Cersei. And you, not knowing your island's secret, deemed it our natural shape. No wonder, dolly, your battered wax and face is stamped with an angry sneer. The hero, who eventually came into his estate, submit the plaudits of the pit, while you were left to die in the streets. You remembered, but the house had forgotten, those earlier scenes in always wicked Paris. The good friend of the family, the breezy man of the world, the deus ex machin of the play, who was so good to everybody, whom everybody loved. I, you loved him once? But that was in the prologue. In the play proper, he was respectable. How you loathed that word, that meant to you all you vainly longed for. To him the prologue was a period past and dead, a memory giving flavour to his life. To you it was the first act of the play, shaping all the others. His sins the house had forgotten. At yours they held up their hands in horror. No wonder the sneer lies on your waxen lips. Never mind, dolly, it was a stupid house. Next time perhaps you will play a better part, and then they will cheer instead of hissing you. You were wasted, I am inclined to think, on modern comedy. You should have been cast for the heroine of some old world tragedy. The strength of character, the courage, the power of self-forgetfulness, the enthusiasm, were yours. It was the part that was lacking. You might have worn the mantle of a Judith, a Boatacea, or a Jean d'Arc, had such play has been popular in your time. Perhaps they, had they played in your day, might have had to be content with such a part as yours. They could not have played the meek heroine, and what else would there have been for them in modern drama? Catherine of Russia. Had she been a waiter's daughter in the days of the Second Empire, should we have called her great? The Magdalene. Had her lodging in those days been in some by-street of Rome, instead of in Jerusalem, should we mention her name in our churches? You were necessary, you see, Dolly, to the peace. We cannot all play heroes and heroines. There must be wicked people in the play. Or it would not interest. Think of it, Dolly, a play where all the women were virtuous, all the men honest. We might close the booth. The world would be as dull as an oyster-bed. Without you wicked folk there would be no good. How should we have known and honoured the heroine's worth, but by contrast with your worthlessness? Where would have been her fine speeches but for you to listen to them? Where lay the hero's strength but in resisting temptation of you? Had not you and the wicked baronet between you robbed him of his rights, falsely accused him of crime, he would have lived to the end of the play an idle, unheroic, incomplete existence. You brought him down to poverty. You made him earn his own bread, a most excellent thing for him. Gave him the opportunity to play the man. But for your conduct in the prologue, of what value would have been that fine scene at the end of the third act that stirred the house to tears and laughter? You and your accomplice, the wicked baronet, made the play possible. How would Pitt and Gallery have known they were virtuous, but for the indignation that came to them watching your misdeeds? Pity, sympathy, excitement, all that goes to the making of a play you were necessary for. It was ungrateful of the house to hiss you. And you, Mr. Merryman, the painted grin worn from your pale lips. You two were dissatisfied, if I remember rightly, with your part. You wanted to make the people cry, not laugh. Was it a higher ambition? The poor tired people. So much happens in their life to make them weep. Is it not good sport to make them merry for a while? Do you remember that old soul in the front row of the Pitt? How she laughed when you sat down on the pie. I thought she would have to be carried out. I heard her talking to her companion as they passed the stage door on their way home. I have not laughed, my dear, till to-night. She was saying the good, gay tears still in her eyes. Since the day poor Sally died. It's not that alone. Worth the old stale tricks you so hated. Aye, they were commonplace and conventional, those antics of yours that made us laugh. Or not the antics that make us weep, commonplace and conventional also. Are not all the plays played since the booth was opened, but of one pattern, the plot old-fashioned now, the scenes now commonplace. So, villain, cynic, are there parts so much the fresher? The love duets are they so very new? The deathbed scenes, would you call them uncommonplace? Hate and evil and wrong. Are their voices new to the booth? What are you waiting for, people, a play with a plot that is novel, with characters that have never strutted before? We'll be ready for you, perhaps, when you are ready for it. With new tears and new laughter. You, Mr. Merryman, were the true philosopher. You saved us from forgetting the reality when the fiction grew somewhat strenuous. How we all applauded your gag in answer to the hero, when bewailing his sad fate he demanded of heaven how much longer he was to suffer evil fortune. Well, there cannot be much more of it in store for you, you answered him. It's nearly nine o'clock already and the show closes at ten. And true to your prophecy, the curtain fell at the time appointed, and his troubles were of the past. You showed us the truth behind the mask. When pompous Lord Shallow, in ermine and wig, went to take his seat amid the fawning crowd, you pulled the chair from under him and down he sat plump on the floor. His robe flew open, his wig flew off. No longer he awed us, his eight dignity fell from him. We saw him a stupid-eyed, bold little man. He imposed no longer upon us. It is your fool who is the only true wise man. Yours was the best part in the play, Brother Merryman. Had you in the audience but known it. Had you dreamt of a showier part where you loved and fought. I've heard you now and again when you did not know I was near. Shouting with sword in hand before your looking-glass, you had thrown your motley aside to Don a dingy-red coat. You were the hero of the play. You performed the gallant deeds. You made the noble speeches. I wonder what the play would be like. Were we all to write our own parts? There would be no clowns, no singing chamber-maids. We would all be playing lead in the centre of the stage with the limelight exclusively devoted to ourselves. Would it not be so? What grand acting parts they are, these characters we write for ourselves alone in our dressing-rooms. We are always brave and noble. But if so in a great, high-minded way, never in a mean or little way. What wondrous deeds we do, while the house looks on and marvels. Now we are soldiers leading armies to victory. What if we die? It is in the hour of triumph, and a nation is left to mourn. Not in some forgotten skirmish do we ever fall. Not for some, a fair of outposts, do we give our blood, our very name unmentioned in the dispatch as home. Now we are passionate lovers, well-losing a world for love. A very different thing to being a laughter-provoking co-respondent in a sordid divorce case. And the house is always crowded when we play. Our fine speeches always fall on sympathetic ears. Our brave deeds are noted and applauded. It is so different in the real performance. So often we play our parts to empty benches. Or if a thin house be present, they misunderstand, and laugh at the pathetic passages. And when our finest opportunity comes, the royal box in which he or she should be present to watch us is vacant. Poor little dolls, how seriously we take ourselves, not knowing the springs that stir our bosoms, our butt-clockwork, not seeing the wires to which we dance. Poor little marionettes, shall we talk together, I wonder, when the lights of the booth are out? We are little wax dollies with hearts. We are little tin soldiers with souls. O king of many toys, are you merely playing with us? Is it only clockwork within us, this thing that throbs and aches? Have you wound us up but to let us run down? Will you wind us again to-morrow, or leave us here to rust? Is it only clockwork to which we respond and quiver? Now we laugh, now we cry, now we dance. Our little arms go out to clasp one another. Our little lips kiss, then say good-bye. We strive, and we strain, and we struggle. We reach, now for gold, now for laurel. We call it desire and ambition. Are they only wires that you play? Will you throw the clockwork aside, or use it again, O master? The lights of the booth grow dim. The springs are broken that kept our eyes awake. The wire that held us erect is snapped, and helpless we fall in a heap on the stage. Our brother and sister Dahle's we played beside. Where are you? Why is it so dark and silent? Why are we being put into this black box, and hark! The little doll orchestra? How far away the music sounds! What is it they're playing? END OF SECOND THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW by Jerome K. Jerome