WHEN IS THE BEST TIME TO BE MERRY?
THERE is so much I could do to improve things generally in and aboutEurope, if only I had a free hand. I should not propose any greatfundamental changes. These poor people have got used to their own ways;it would be unwise to reform them all at once. But there are many littleodds and ends that I could do for them, so many of their mistakes I couldcorrect for them. They do not know this. If they only knew there was aman living in their midst willing to take them in hand and arrange thingsfor them, how glad they would be. But the story is always the same. Onereads it in the advertisements of the matrimonial column:
“A lady, young, said to be good-looking”—she herself is not sure on thepoint; she feels that possibly she may be prejudiced; she puts before youmerely the current gossip of the neighbourhood; people say she isbeautiful; they may be right, they may be wrong: it is not for her todecide—“well-educated, of affectionate disposition, possessed of means,desires to meet gentleman with a view to matrimony.”
Immediately underneath one reads of a gentleman of twenty-eight, “tall,fair, considered agreeable.” Really the modesty of the matrimonialadvertiser teaches to us ordinary mortals quite a beautiful lesson. Iknow instinctively that were anybody to ask me suddenly:
“Do you call yourself an agreeable man?” I should answer promptly:
“An agreeable man! Of course I’m an agreeable man. What silly questionsyou do ask!” If he persisted in arguing the matter, saying:
“But there are people who do not consider you an agreeable man.” Ishould get angry with him.
“Oh, they think that, do they?” I should say. “Well, you tell them fromme, with my compliments, that they are a set of blithering idiots. Notagreeable! You show me the man who says I’m not agreeable. I’ll soonlet him know whether I’m agreeable or not.”
These young men seeking a wife are silent on the subject of their ownvirtues. Such are for others to discover. The matrimonial advertiserconfines himself to a simple statement of fact: “he is consideredagreeable.” He is domestically inclined, and in receipt of a goodincome. He is desirous of meeting a lady of serious disposition, withview to matrimony. If possessed of means—well, it is a trifle hardlyworth considering one way or the other. He does not insist upon it; onthe other hand he does not exclude ladies of means; the main idea ismatrimony.
It is sad to reflect upon a young lady, said to be good-looking (let ussay good-looking and be done with it: a neighbourhood does not rise upand declare a girl good-looking if she is not good-looking, that is onlyher modest way of putting it), let us say a young lady, good-looking,well-educated, of affectionate disposition—it is undeniably sad toreflect that such an one, matrimonially inclined, should be compelled tohave recourse to the columns of a matrimonial journal. What are theyoung men in the neighbourhood thinking of? What more do they want? Isit Venus come to life again with ten thousand a year that they arewaiting for! It makes me angry with my own sex reading theseadvertisements. And when one thinks of the girls that do get married!
But life is a mystery. The fact remains: here is the ideal wife seekingin vain for a husband. And here, immediately underneath—I will not saythe ideal husband, he may have faults; none of us are perfect, but as mengo a decided acquisition to any domestic hearth, an agreeable gentleman,fond of home life, none of your gad-abouts—calls aloud to the four windsfor a wife—any sort of a wife, provided she be of a serious disposition.In his despair, he has grown indifferent to all other considerations.“Is there in this world,” he has said to himself, “one unmarried woman,willing to marry me, an agreeable man, in receipt of a good income.”Possibly enough this twain have passed one another in the street, havesat side by side in the same tram-car, never guessing, each one, that theother was the very article of which they were in want to make lifebeautiful.
Mistresses in search of a servant, not so much with the idea of gettingwork out of her, rather with the object of making her happy, advertise onone page. On the opposite page, domestic treasures—disciples of Carlyle,apparently, with a passionate love of work for its own sake—are seekingsituations, not so much with the desire of gain as with the hope offinding openings where they may enjoy the luxury of feeling they areleading useful lives. These philanthropic mistresses, these toil-lovinghand-maidens, have lived side by side in the same town for years, neverknowing one another.
So it is with these poor European peoples. They pass me in the street.They do not guess that I am ready and willing to take them under my care,to teach them common sense with a smattering of intelligence—to be, asone might say, a father to them. They look at me. There is nothingabout me to tell them that I know what is good for them better than theydo themselves. In the fairy tales the wise man wore a conical hat and along robe with twiddly things all round the edge. You knew he was aclever man. It avoided the necessity of explanation. Unfortunately, thefashion has gone out. We wise men have to wear just ordinary clothes.Nobody knows we are wise men. Even when we tell them so, they don’tbelieve it. This it is that makes our task the more difficult.
One of the first things I should take in hand, were European affairshanded over to my control, would be the rearrangement of the Carnival.As matters are, the Carnival takes place all over Europe in February. AtNice, in Spain, or in Italy, it may be occasionally possible to feel youwant to dance about the streets in thin costume during February. But inmore northern countries during Carnival time I have seen only onesensible masker; he was a man who had got himself up as a diver. It wasin Antwerp. The rain was pouring down in torrents; a cheery, boisterousJohn Bull sort of an east wind was blustering through the streets at therate of fifteen miles an hour. Pierrots, with frozen hands, were blowingblue noses. An elderly Cupid had borrowed an umbrella from a café andwas waiting for a tram. A very little devil was crying with the cold,and wiping his eyes with the end of his own tail. Every doorway wascrowded with shivering maskers. The diver alone walked erect, the waterstreaming from him.
February is not the month for open air masquerading. The “confetti,”which has come to be nothing but coloured paper cut into small discs, isa sodden mass. When a lump of it strikes you in the eye, your instinctis not to laugh gaily, but to find out the man who threw it and to hithim back. This is not the true spirit of Carnival. The marvel is that,in spite of the almost invariably adverse weather, these Carnivals stillcontinue. In Belgium, where Romanism still remains the dominantreligion, Carnival maintains itself stronger than elsewhere in NorthernEurope.
At one small town, Binche, near the French border, it holds uninterruptedsway for three days and two nights, during which time the whole of thepopulation, swelled by visitors from twenty miles round, shouts, romps,eats and drinks and dances. After which the visitors are packed likesardines into railway trains. They pin their tickets to their coats andpromptly go to sleep. At every station the railway officials stumble upand down the trains with lanterns. The last feeble effort of the morewakeful reveller, before he adds himself to the heap of snoring humanityon the floor of the railway carriage, is to change the tickets of acouple of his unconscious companions. In this way gentlemen for the eastare dragged out by the legs at junctions, and packed into trains goingwest; while southern fathers are shot out in the chill dawn at lonelynorthern stations, to find themselves greeted with enthusiasm by otherpeople’s families.
At Binche, they say—I have not counted them myself—that thirty thousandmaskers can be seen dancing at the same time. When they are not dancingthey are throwing oranges at one another. The houses board up theirwindows. The restaurants take down their mirrors and hide away theglasses. If I went masquerading at Binche I should go as a man inarmour, period Henry the Seventh.
“Doesn’t it hurt,” I asked a lady who had been there, “having orangesthrown at you? Which sort do they use, speaking generally, those finejuicy ones—Javas I think you call them—or the little hard brand withskins like a nutmeg-grater? And if both sort
s are used indiscriminately,which do you personally prefer?”
“The smart people,” she answered, “they are the same everywhere—they mustbe extravagant—they use the Java orange. If it hits you in the back Iprefer the Java orange. It is more messy than the other, but it does notleave you with that curious sensation of having been temporarily stunned.Most people, of course, make use of the small hard orange. If you duckin time, and so catch it on the top of your head, it does not hurt somuch as you would think. If, however, it hits you on a tenderplace—well, myself, I always find that a little sal volatile, with oldcognac—half and half, you understand—is about the best thing. But itonly happens once a year,” she added.
Nearly every town gives prizes for the best group of maskers. In somecases the first prize amounts to as much as two hundred pounds. Thebutchers, the bakers, the candlestick makers, join together and compete.They arrive in wagons, each group with its band. Free trade isencouraged. Each neighbouring town and village “dumps” its load ofpicturesque merry-makers.
It is in these smaller towns that the spirit of King Carnival findshappiest expression. Almost every third inhabitant takes part in thefun. In Brussels and the larger towns the thing appears ridiculous. Afew hundred maskers force their way with difficulty through thousands ofdull-clad spectators, looking like a Spanish river in the summer time, afeeble stream, dribbling through acres of muddy bank. At Charleroi, thecentre of the Belgian Black Country, the chief feature of the Carnival isthe dancing of the children. A space is specially roped off for them.
If by chance the sun is kind enough to shine, the sight is a pretty one.How they love the dressing up and the acting, these small mites! Oneyoung hussy—she could hardly have been more than ten—was gotten up as ahaughty young lady. Maybe some elder sister had served as a model. Shewore a tremendous wig of flaxen hair, a hat that I guarantee would havemade its mark even at Ascot on the Cup Day, a skirt that trailed twoyards behind her, a pair of what had once been white kid gloves, and ablue silk parasol. Dignity! I have seen the offended barmaid, I havemet the chorus girl—not by appointment, please don’t misunderstand me,merely as a spectator—up the river on Sunday. But never have I witnessedin any human being so much hauteur to the pound _avoir-dupois_ as wascarried through the streets of Charleroi by that small brat. Companionsof other days, mere vulgar boys and girls, claimed acquaintance with her.She passed them with a stare of such utter disdain that it sent themtumbling over one another backwards. By the time they had recoveredthemselves sufficiently to think of an old tin kettle lying handy in thegutter she had turned the corner.
Two miserably clad urchins, unable to scrape together the few _sous_necessary for the hire of a rag or two, had nevertheless determined notto be altogether out of it. They had managed to borrow a couple of whiteblouses—not what you would understand by a white blouse, dear Madame, adainty thing of frills and laces, but the coarse white sack the streetsweeper wears over his clothes. They had also borrowed a couple ofbrooms. Ridiculous little objects they looked, the tiny head of eachshowing above the great white shroud as gravely they walked, the onebehind the other, sweeping the mud into the gutter. They also were ofthe Carnival, playing at being scavengers.
Another quaint sight I witnessed. The “serpentin” is a feature of theBelgian Carnival. It is a strip of coloured paper, some dozen yardslong, perhaps. You fling it as you would a lassoo, entangling the headof some passer-by. Naturally, the object most aimed at by the Belgianyouth is the Belgian maiden. And, naturally also, the maiden who findsherself most entangled is the maiden who—to use again the language of thematrimonial advertiser—“is considered good-looking.” The serpentin abouther head is the “feather in her cap” of the Belgian maiden on CarnivalDay. Coming suddenly round the corner I almost ran into a girl. Herback was towards me. It was a quiet street. She had half a dozen ofthese serpentins. Hurriedly, with trembling hands, she was twisting themround and round her own head. I looked at her as I passed. She flushedscarlet. Poor little snub-nosed pasty-faced woman! I wish she had notseen me. I could have bought sixpenny-worth, followed her, and tormentedher with them; while she would have pretended indignation—sought,discreetly, to escape from me.
Down South, where the blood flows quicker, King Carnival is, indeed, ajolly old soul. In Munich he reigns for six weeks, the end coming with amad two days revel in the streets. During the whole of the period, folksin ordinary, every-day costume are regarded as curiosities; people wonderwhat they are up to. From the Grafin to the Dienstmädchen, from the HerrProfessor to the “Piccolo,” as they term the small artist that answers toour page boy, the business of Munich is dancing, somewhere, somehow, in afancy costume. Every theatre clears away the stage, every café crowdsits chairs and tables into corners, the very streets are cleared fordancing. Munich goes mad.
Munich is always a little mad. The maddest ball I ever danced at was inMunich. I went there with a Harvard University professor. He had beentold what these balls were like. Ever seeking knowledge of all things,he determined to take the matter up for himself and examine it. Thewriter also must ever be learning. I agreed to accompany him. We hadnot intended to dance. Our idea was that we could be indulgentspectators, regarding from some coign of vantage the antics of thefoolish crowd. The professor was clad as became a professor. Myself, Iwore a simply-cut frock-coat, with trousering in French grey. Thedoorkeeper explained to us that this was a costume ball; he was sorry,but gentlemen could only be admitted in evening dress or in masquerade.
It was half past one in the morning. We had sat up late on purpose; wehad gone without our dinner; we had walked two miles. The professorsuggested pinning up the tails of his clerically-cut coat and turning inhis waistcoat. The doorkeeper feared it would not be quite the samething. Besides, my French grey trousers refused to adapt themselves.The doorkeeper proposed our hiring a costume—a little speculation of hisown; gentlemen found it simpler sometimes, especially married gentlemen,to hire a costume in this manner, changing back into sober garmentsbefore returning home. It reduced the volume of necessary explanation.
“Have you anything, my good man,” said the professor, “anything thatwould effect a complete disguise?”
The doorkeeper had the very thing—a Chinese arrangement, with combinedmask and wig. It fitted neatly over the head, and was provided with asimple but ingenious piece of mechanism by means of which much could bedone with the pigtail. Myself the doorkeeper hid from view under thecowl of a Carmelite monk.
“I do hope nobody recognises us,” whispered my friend the professor as weentered.
I can only hope sincerely that they did not. I do not wish to talk aboutmyself. That would be egotism. But the mystery of the professortroubles me to this day. A grave, earnest gentleman, the father of afamily, I saw him with my own eyes put that ridiculous pasteboard maskover his head. Later on—a good deal later on—I found myself walkingagain with him through silent star-lit streets. Where he had been in theinterval, and who then was the strange creature under the Chinaman’smask, will always remain to me an unsolved problem.