Part 32 (2/2)
”The Statue of Liberty,” answered Craighouse with the tone of a 4th of July orator. ”That is the spirit of America--equality for all, freedom of thought and action, liberty for every one.”
”Oh yes--splendid,” commented the Englishman politely.
There was silence for a moment, and then, in a burst of inexcusable chauvinism, Craighouse said, ”You haven't anything like that in England, have you?”
”No,” said the English officer casually; ”but we had an army in France two weeks after war was declared. I say, do come and have a drink.”
III
Three months later the editor of the _New York Monthly Journal_ received a letter from Craighouse. Adjusting his gla.s.ses, he settled comfortably into his chair and read it.
”MY DEAR PATRON,--I hope you have not been disappointed at my lack of articles, but, to be candid, I have not struck the proper mental balance yet.
”England is delightful; England is absurd. I was on a bus yesterday, and the conductress gave the signal to go ahead by hammering the side with the fare-box. It fascinated me.
Incidentally, the girls have wonderful complexions over here, but they do not dress as cleverly as ours. I know you will say it is war-time, but nothing is powerful enough to interfere with anything so fundamental as a woman's clothes.” (”A bit labored, but quite good,” muttered the editor.)
”The country, as you know, is like a garden, with all a garden's charm and limitations. I don't feel yet that I can take a deep breath. There are woods; but the trees seem to huddle together for want of s.p.a.ce, and one always feels that just the other side of the woods there is a town or a village. England is lovely, but I feel the lack of immensity. To me, the whole effect is that the country is complete; there is nothing more to do. Everything that can be built has been built.” (”And well built, too,” muttered Mr.
Townsend.) ”In fact, I don't see what there is over here to employ to the full the brains, the nerves, and the imagination of a full-blooded _h.o.m.o_. Again I return to the garden simile. Is the task of maintenance big enough for the splendid specimens of manhood that England rears?
”I feel that there is something wrong with the public-school system. Not that it is inefficient, but rather that it is too thorough in its results. Judging superficially, of course, it seems that the public school ignores the fact that every one is born an individual, and proceeds to produce a type. To use a vulgarism, it is a high-cla.s.s scholastic sausage-machine. It takes in variegated ingredients, and turns out uniformity of product. It instructs the youth of the land in the manly virtues of past ages, but appears to ignore the creative instinct. Public-school men are the Greek chorus of England's national drama; they seldom provide either the dramatist or the princ.i.p.al actors.
”My biggest disappointment has been the English stage. I know our 'playsmiths' are futile enough, but we would never endure in New York what is put on at many first-cla.s.s London theaters. At a time when her grandsons from the four corners of the world are paying, in most cases, their first visit to the Old Country, England offers them the spectacle of a once cla.s.sic stage given over to inanity and vulgarity. Of course, there are two or three producers who still maintain a commendable standard of art, but in the majority of first-cla.s.s London theaters one finds a coa.r.s.eness of innuendo, an utter lack of refinement, and an almost total elimination of humor. In their musical shows the producers still go in for the type of comedian known on Broadway as 'hard-boiled'--the kind that carries his own jests in a valise, and whose _piece de resistance_ is the word 'd.a.m.n,' which seldom fails to convulse the audience. If I may coin a phrase, I would say the aim of some London producers is 'to be vulgar without being funny.'” (”I wonder if that is original,” observed the editor.)
”I like the restraint of the better English newspapers, and there are still five or six monthly journals that demand a high standard of writing from their contributors. Some of the popular English magazines, however, publish stories that would hardly pa.s.s muster as a blus.h.i.+ng schoolgirl's first attempt at authors.h.i.+p. I remember my mother used to say to me, 'Out of nothing, nothing comes.' She had obviously never seen one of these fiction magazines.
”Judging by the advertis.e.m.e.nts in these publications and in the society ill.u.s.trated papers, I would say that manufacturing women's underwear, or 'undies,' as they are coyly called, is the greatest commercial industry here. The advertis.e.m.e.nts state that an officer can send a lady a complete set of these garments with his regimental crest on them. I am still trying to gauge the mental att.i.tude of an officer who would do so.
”The political situation puzzles me. Lloyd George looks like a mighty big man, but he has to spend most of his time dodging snipers from behind. Nero fiddled while Rome was burning, but a certain section of the House of Commons goes in for absolute symphonies while Britain is locked in the death-grip with Germany.
But she's a dear old country, and her people are as brave and cheery as in the days when she was Merrie England, and not England of Many Sorrows.
”To hear her people talk, you would think that the Canadians and the Australians had done all the fighting, and that the United States was the savior of the world; but I know there's hardly a home in England or Scotland that hasn't lost a son--and often the last son too. And when the old families send their boys, it's right into the trenches, not back on the lines of communication.
”There--you can see why I have not written before. Incoherency alone is hardly sufficient. I haven't seriously sorted my impressions as yet. As you would say, the chaos has not yet become cosmos.
”By-the-by, the British Navy mothered us from the coast of Ireland like an eagle with her young.
”Every one is most cordial, and invitations are showered on us from every quarter. I'm going to-morrow to visit the Earl of Lummersdale, who seems to want to entertain a real, live American.
As I have six days' leave, I'm going to let him. They tell me he comes of a very old family, so look out for an article on the aristocracy.
”This letter is rambling most aimlessly. I suppose you are bored to tears. Just a minute, till I read over what I have written....
Yes--I might add in my comments on the English theater that a chap named Beecham is doing opera in English, and it's pretty nearly the finest opera I have ever heard. Then, of course, Barrie produces a play every now and then, just to show that he hasn't lost his genius of tenderness and whimsical charm.
”Perhaps my visit to the Earl of Lummersdale will crystallize some of my vagrant impressions. Good-by, dear patron.--Faithfully yours,
”LAWRENCE CRAIGHOUSE (Lt.),
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