GIVING AND ■aaniaiisiisra EV- LUCAS f THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE GIVING AND RECEIVING E. V. LUCAS other Books of E. V. LUCAS ENTERTAINMENTS ItUSK ANU UUSIO VEKKNA IN TUB MIDST TUK VKltMIHO.N UO.\. LANDMAKKS USTENKK'S LUKE MK. INtJl,KSU)K OVER BEMEKTON'S LONDON LAVENDEK ESSAYS UOVINQ EAST AND ROVING WEST ADVKNTlllES AND ENTHU- SIASMS CLOUD AND SILVER A BOSWELL OF BAGHDAD TWIXT EAGLE AND DOVE THE PHANTOM JOURNAL LOITEUEU'S HAUVEST ONE DAY AND ANOTHEK FIRESIDE AND SUNSHINE CHARACTER AND COMEDI OLD LAMPS FOR NEW TRAVEL A WANDERER IN VENICE A WANDERER IN PARIS A WANDERER IN LONDON A WANDERER IN HOLLAND A WANDERER IN FLOR- ENCE MORE WANDERINGS IN LONDON HIGHWAYS AND BYWAIS IN SUSSEX EDITED WORKS THE WORKS OP CHARLES AND MARY LAMB THE HAUSFRAU RAMPANT ANTHOLOGIES THE Ul'EN ROAD THE FRIENDLY TOWN HER INFINITE VARIETY GOOD COMl'ANY THE GENTLEST ART THE SECOND POST THE BEST OF LAMU REMEMBER LOUVAIN BOOKS FOR CHILDREN THE SLOWCOACH ANNE'S TERRIBLE GOOD NATURE A BOOK OF VERSES FOR CHILDREN ANOTHER BOOK OF VERSES FOR CHILDREN RUNAWAYS AND CAST- AWAYS FORGOTTEN STORIES OF LONG AGO MORE FORGOTTEN STORIES THE "ORIGINAL VERSES" OF ANN AND JANE TAY- LOR BIOGRAPHY THE LIFE OF CHARLES LAMB A SWAN AND HER FRIENDS THE BRITISH SCHOOL THE HAMBLEDON MEN SELECTED WRITINGS A LITTLE OF EVERYTHING HARVEST HOME VARIETY LANE MIXED VINTAGES GIVING AND RECEIVING ESSAYS AND FANTASIES ^" -♦'BY e! v. LUCAS NEW >4Br YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1922 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY GIVING AND RECEIVING. II PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA CONTENTS Giving and Receiving The Battle of the Mothers My Sculptor Uno Fiascone The Italian in England The Eight Cities A Forerunner of D'Annunzio The Evolution of Whimsicality Points of Interest . A Signpost .... Breguet .... The Tail and the Souvenirs The Blue Ruritania Signs and Avoirdupois For Ourselves Alone Another "Young Cricketers' On Being a Foreigner The Cynosure . . Thoughts on Theft Honours Easy . Temptation The Wardrobe . Tutor' PAGE 9 16 21 27 31 36 43 48 64 67 71 76 81 105 116 122 126 139 143 149 154 158 [v] Contents Reunion IN THE PADDED SEATS: i the cowakuly consumer h public spirit iii before and after . iv tight corners . v an implacable raconteur vi the bond .... Fate The Injustice .... "Whenever I See a Grey Horse FAOK 163 168 172 177 180 185 189 194 199 204 [vi] GIVING AND RECEIVING GIVING AND RECEIVING GIVING AND RECEIVING ACCORDING to many of the Old Masters Jr\. the earliest Christmas presents were given nearly two thousand years ago and were re- ceived probably with the utmost embarrassment. They consisted principally of gold and frank- incense and myrrh, and were laid at the feet of a tiny Baby lying in a manger in a stable in Juda?a, the givers being three Wise Men — some say even kings — from the East: Melchior, Cas- par, and Balthasar, It is principally from pic- tures of the visit of the Three Kings that we derive our ideas of the incident; and it would now be a very arduous task to correct those ideas. But as a matter of Biblical history, the Child had long been born when the Wise Men arrived, and He was then not in the manger, but in the house. See St. Matthew's narrative, chapter ii, verse 11. St. Luke, in his story, makes the new-born Infant's first visitors neitlier Kings nor Wise Men from the East but shepherds. [9] Giving and Receiving In any case, the Baby can have had nothing to say, and how its motlicr, who had been in a state of surprise for some months, and her hus- band, who also liad not a few thoughts to carry, behaved, we shall never know. But those were the first Christmas presents, and for nineteen centuries the custom of giving them has been growing; but wliether the art of giving them is any nearer perfection now than then is a ques- tion. I know, at any rate, that I was given several last Christmas which were not as "exactly what I had been wanting" as I pro- tested they were. Be this as it may, it is firmly fixed in our minds that, on His entrance into the world, the little Jesus was greeted with golden vessels containing frankincense and myrrh, and all children born on December 25, since that De- cember 25 so long ago, have felt it to be an injustice that their birthday and Christmas Day, by coinciding, should deprive them of half their proper meed of notice. A witty and fanciful friend of mine makes, however, the startling suggestion that in selecting that day on which to be born, Christ offers another proof of unselfishness. As to what the Infant thought as the grave strangers laid the offer- ings at His feet, we are in ignorance; but we know that later, at any rate, He gave some [10] Giving and Receiving attention to the question of gifts, for did He not bewilder all children (especially at Christ- mas) and puzzle not a few of their elders, by enunciating the astonishing proposition that it is more blessed to giv^e than to receive? Even those, however, who require time to take in the full significance of this saying will readily agree that giving is usually simpler — so much simpler indeed that there is almost no comparison between the two actions. Giving can be so easy as to be almost automatic, whereas receiving can make demands on every nerve. Givers, particularly careless ones — and most givers think too little — can survive to a great age and never have to practise any of the facial contortions and the tactful verbal insincerities which recipients of their generosity must be continually calling to their aid; where- as, if the art of giving were rightly understood and practised, the only expression to be seen on the features of the receivers of presents would be one of surprise and joy mingled, and that phrase, which is almost as common at Christmas time as "Same to you" — "Oh, thank you so much: it's exax>tly what I wanted," would ring witli the bell-Iike tones and vibra- tions of genuineness. As it is — wholly be- cause giving is so simple: an affair of a sho])- [11] Giving and Receiving assistant's advice, of the writing of a cheque — as it is, most elephants are white. Profane as well as sacred history tells us more of the giving of presents than of their reception. In fact, to enumerate the offerings of king to king is one of the historian's simple pleasures. But we have, as a rule, no informa- tion either as to the remarks made by the recipi- ent whose appraising eye checked off the apes and the ivory and the peacocks, or the consulta- tions of the Ministers of State as the consign- ment of generosity was being made up. One can see them in conmiittee a few days before the monarch sets forth on his expedition to the friendly State: "Don't you think" (the Chan- cellor of tlie Exchequer is speaking), "don't you think two hundred milk-white steeds excessive.'' Wouldn't one hundred do?" "Or even fifty?" says the Home Secretary. "Yes, or even fifty. It isn't as if we were visiting a really first-class Power" — and so with the bars of gold, the precious stones, the spices (such as the Queen of Sheba carried to Solo- mon), all would have to be carefully measured according to the importance of the other king or the need of his alliance. And then there is his side of the transaction: "Well, I must say I think they might have been a little less stingy. Only five hundred bales of [12] Giving and Receiving silk ! Not enough for more than half the ladies of the Court; for you can't expect any two to wear the same colour. And only thirty pal- freys ! Distinctly on the mean side." I forget what Henry the Eighth gave Francis the First at the Field of tlie Cloth of Gold, but the odds are that not a little criticism resulted. And yet the odds also are that Francis vowed, hand on heart, that it was all exactly what he had been most desiring. In those old days the first thought of the receiver of a present was to return it in kind; which has a certain crudity, and indeed imports an element of calculation into the act of giving at all. It was impossible for the visiting mon- arch not to speculate on what he was going to receive on his departure; and that is bad. A small child intently preparing, under what she conceives to be conditions of profound secrecy, a gift for her mother is one of the prettiest of sights. It would lose at least half its charm if it were the rule that on presenting the kettle- holder or egg-cover she was instantly to be handed one for lierself. Proverbial philosophy warns us not to look gift-horses in the mouth ; but the lessons of the past point in the other direction. Troy would still be standing had the advice of the old saw been disregarded. None the less, it might do a [13] Giving aiul Receiving Avorld of good if one Christmas — this next Christmas, for example — we all decided to tell tlie truth and say exactly what we thought of our presents, "Thank you for nothing. I can see where you've erased your own name and put mine in." "Surely I was worth more than three-and-eleven ! I saw these at Harker's last week and noted the price." "What's the use of giving me a diary when you must know I never keep one?" "Good heavens, you don't really expect me to wear a tie of that colour!" But in spite of the salutary effect upon givers which might result, I doubt if we could go so far. The human family is held together so largely by compromise and lack of candour that its total disintegration might follow; and do we- want that yet.'' Not before the next cricket season, at any rate. So much for the wrong kind of present. As for the best, it has been laid down that no present is worth having unless the giver would rather have kept it for himself; and I think the truth lurks here. And there is still another variety, but it cannot be very common. At least — perhaps it is. At a certain home, the head of which was a stern, and not too lavish autocrat in the house, whatever he might have been out of it, there was delivered one Christmas Eve a mysterious box brought by a mysterious [14] Giving and Receiving man, who refused to divulge any particulars; merely saying it was for the master. When, after much speculation, it was opened, it was found to contain a massive piece of silver, on which was an inscription stating that it was the gift of an unknown neighbour and was offered as some recognition of the many kind and gener- ous acts which the recipient had, within the donor's cognisance, performed, often with com- plete anonymity. The master of the house did not conceal his satisfaction as he read tliis en- graved testimonial, even if his family were more successful with their surprise. Long after- wards it was discovered that, with the idea of impressing them, he had sent it himself. [15] THE BATTLE OF THE MOTHERS "How is it with aged women?" Nat Chapman. WE were sitting in the smoking-room of the Club when the venerable Archdeacon entered. He had been so long absent that we asked him the reason. Had he been ill? 111.'' Not he. He didn't hold with illness. Never was better in his life. He had merely been on a motor tour with his mother. "Do you mean to say," some one inquired — an equally aged member — almost with anger, certainly with a kind of outraged wonder, "that you have a mother still living?" "Of course I have," said the Man of God. "My mother is not only living but is in the pink of condition." "And how old is she?" the questioner con- tinued. "She is ninety-one," said the Archdeacon proudly. Most of us looked at him with surprise and respect — even a touch of awe. "And still motoring!" I commented. "She delights in motoring." [16] The Battle of the JMothers "Well," said the testy man, "you needn't be so conceited about it. You are not the only person with an elderly mother. I have a mother too." We switched round to this new centre of surprise. It was even more incredible that this man should have a mother than the Archdeacon. No one had ever suspected him of anything so extreme, for he had a long white beard and hobbled with a stick. "And how old may your mother be?" the Archdeacon inquired. "My mother is ninety-two." "And is she well and hearty?" "My mother," he replied, "is in rude health — or, as you would say, full of beans." The Archdeacon made a deprecatory move- ment of dissociation from that vegetable. "My mother not only motors," the layman pursued, "but she can walk. Can your mother walk?" "I am sorry to say," said the Archdeacon, "that my mother has to be helped a good deal." "Ha !" said the layman. "But," the Archdeacon continued, "she has aU her other faculties. Can your mother still read ?" "My motlicr is a most accomplished and assiduous knitter," said tke rival son. [17] Giving and Receiving "No doubt, no doubt/' the Archdeacon agreed; "but my question was, Can she still read?" "With glasses — yes," said the other. "Ha!" exclaimed the Archdeacon, "I thought so. Now, my dear motlier can still read the smallest print without glasses." We murmured our approval. "And more," the Archdeacon went on, "she can thread her own needle." We approved again. "That's all very well," said the other, "but sight is not everything. Can your mother hear.?" "She can hear all that I say to her," replied the Archdeacon. "All ! but you probably raise your voice, and she is accustomed to it. Could she hear a stranger.'' Could she hear me?" Remembering the trend of some of his after- lunch conversations I suggested that perhaps it would be well if on occasions she could not. He glowered down such frivolity and proceeded with his cross-examination. "Are you trying to assure us that your mother is not in the least bit deaf?" "Well," the Archdeacon conceded, "I could not go so far as to say that her hearing is still perfect." [18] The Battle of the Mothers The layman smiled his satisfaction. "In other words," he said, "she uses a trumpet?" The Archdeacon was silent. "She uses a trumpet. Sir? Admit it." "Now and then," said the Archdeacon, "my dear mother repairs the ravages of time with the assistance of modern mechanism." "I knew it!" exclaimed the other. "My mother can hear every word. She goes to the theatre constantly : it is one of her great solaces. Now, your mother would have to go to the cinema if she wished to be entertained." "My mother," said the Archdeacon, "would not be interested in the cinema" (he pronounced it kinema) ; "her mind is of a more serious turn." "My mother is young enough to be interested in anything," said the other. "And there is not one of her thirty-eight grandchildren of whose progress she is not kept closely in- formed." He leaned back with a gesture of triumph. "How many grandchildren did you say?" the Archdeacon inquired. "I didn't quite catch." "Thirty-eight," the otlicr man replied. Across the cleric's ascetic features a happy smile slowly and conqueringly spread. "My mother," he said, "lias fifty-two grandcliildren." He gave us time for the figure to sink in. "And [19] Giving and Receiving now," he turned to me, "which of us would you say has won this entertaining contest?" "I should not like to decide," I said. "I am — fortunately perhaps for your mothers — no Solomon. My verdict is that both of you are wonderfully lucky men." [20] MY SCULPTOR AMONG the knick-knacks in the rooms which 1. Meyrick had lent me was one that pleased me particularly — a baby boy in bronze kicking the void with tremendous gusto and glee. Stand- ing in the window, as he did, he was the first thing one saw against the light: a symbol of lively energy and fun. The name of the sculp- tor — GOALi — in capitals, was on the front of the base, rather more in evidence, I thought, than is usual; but one has so often to hunt, and many times in vain, for the signature on a bronze, that such prominence could not offend. Some names, as you know, cling to the mem- ory as surely as others evade it, and whenever I caught sight of the figure I thought of its moulder, and I used to peer about in Art shops for other examples of Goali's work. I even inquired of two or three Bond Street dealers if they could show me anything by him. But I was out of luck. Goal!? No, they had nothing of his; not at the moment. They could show me a figure by Pomeroy. A mask of Reid Dick's. Did I care for Wells's peasants? Haseltine's bronze horses ? [21] Giving and Receiving I was interested, I said, in Goali. Figures of merry romping children. Yes, yes. But at the moment they had nothing. In idle moments I used to wonder what Goali was like and where he worked — was even now working. Probably in Rome. To any one who causes me to think of Rome I am grateful, and I was grateful to Goali. I would sometimes fancy myself sharing his life. A walk in the Pincio Gardens before he settled to work in his studio somewhere off the Via del Babuino, Then his modelling, with probably one of his own olive-skinned brood as sitter, and Signora Goali there to keep it happy and exchange gos- sip with her husband. I could see his rumpled black hair and his hands all over the white clay. They would have lunch in their own apart- ment: spaghetti (which the Goalis, even the children, would all manage with a careless dex- terity heart-breaking to the self-conscious Eng- lish), perhaps some infinitesimal birds — uccelli — on a skewer, and some red wine and water; and then Goali would hurry off for coffee at that noisy friendly place in the Corso, all of whose frequenters know each other and have so much to say. What is it called.'' Oh, yes, Aragno's. There he would smoke uncountable [22] My Sculptor cigarettes and glance at the paper and laugh and gesticulate and discuss. After that, more work, and then he might (at any rate I preferred that he should) make for the pallone court a little way outside the Porta del Popolo and win or lose a few lire over the games, putting his money on the giant hattitore; and at evening I would see that he dined, as an event, with the Signora and a few of their artistic friends, at that curious old restaurant in Trastevere with the long name that begins with "P," where the fish is so good and you are waited upon by a hunchback with sparkling eyes. Another time I would make Goali a Florentine and share his life in his own beautiful city; and one very hot day I made him a Venetian and we bathed at the Lido. After all, he might easily be a Venetian. In those sculpture shops in the Piazza of San Marco such works as Goali's are the principal stock-in-trade. Everybody who came to see me liked the little bronze boy with his chubby foot in the air — the blithe spirit of him and his rounded grace. "That's a jolly thing," tliey would say. "Who did it.^" "Ooali," 1 would reply, "The name's under- neath." [23] Giving and Receiving Sometimes a guest would know all about him. Jack Raynor, for instance, who early made omniscience his hobby, was delighted to find that I had an example. "Oh, yes: Goali," he said. "He's made a corner in children. Dashed clever thing to do, because kids arc so popular. You get nice easy lines too. I forget where he comes from, either Milano or Torino, I fancy." "Are you sure?" I asked, a little sadly, for I was disappointed; "I should so much rather he came from Rome. I think of him as from the South anyway. I don't really see why he shouldn't be a Neapolitan"; and as I spoke I saw Goali loitering on the sea wall between Naples and Posilippo watching just such a boy as he had modelled playing in the sun with other mischievous little rogues. "I believe he's a Northerner," Jack Raynor replied. "But I'll find out for certain." And then after his long holiday Meyrick came back and I had to find rooms elsewhere. "I hope you've been comfortable," he said, "and all those odds and ends" — he included his beloved articles of virtia with a sweeping hand — "haven't bored you." I reassured him. "And as for that bronze baby," I said, "he's been the apple of my eye." "Oh, the little kicking cherub," he replied. [24] My Sculptor "Yes, I like that too; but I've always rather resented the football idea. He so obviously represents the sheer joy of life that it's silly to give it that title." "What title?" I asked. "Why, 'goal!'" he said. "'Goal!'" I examined the bronze more closely. "Is that 'Goal.?' " I asked. "The let- tering's very poor, isn't it? The exclamation mark's exactly like an 'I.' I always thought — . W^ell, no matter what I thought. Who do you think is the sculptor?" "I haven't a notion," he said. "It's unsigned. But I fancy it's English." Signor Goali, my evanescent Italian friend, farewell. [25] UNO FIASCONE MY friend Goali, even though lie never lived and modelled, existed in fancy long enough to bring back very vividly old days in Rome. In particular, those rooms over the shop not very far from the famous flight of steps where the flower-girls sit with their big blos- soming baskets; not very far from the house where Keats died. When one is in Rome, to do as Rome does is not enough. So I had argued. One must speak as Rome speaks, too; otherwise how can one have any fun? Of what use to sit outside Aragno's if every word trilling and rolling in the circumambient air is incomprehensible? How elucidate the titles of pictures? How conduct disputes with cabmen, porters and others of the traveller's natural foes? And worse almost than useless to meet the beautiful Roman ladies ! I determined therefore that I would stay in a polyglot hotel only just so long as it took me to find rooms in a truly Roman house, where noth- ing but Italian was talked, and where I should be forced either to overcome any natural lin- [26] Uno Fiascone guistic indolence or suffer every kind of dis- comfort. Tlius should I learn the language. All hotels are alike — no matter where they are — and so long as I was in one of them I should not acquire a single indigenous phrase ; but in rooms the vocabulary would grow and the syn- tax gradually be acquired. That (I said) is the only way — to live in rooms among the people. I possessed a few words, of course. One can- not frequent London restaurants and be utterly ignorant of Italian. But they were very few, and all, or nearly all, bore rather upon physical requirements than, say, philosophy. Signor Benedetto Croce's wisdom remained a sealed book to me, although I could make some kind of a success in ordering either a collazione or a pranzo. But such words as I had were, so to speak, single bricks. There was a total lack of mortar. I could command spaghetti, but I could not then say, "I don't like these spaghetti. They are insufficiently cooked. Perhaps I could have something else instead." By going into resi- dence in rooms in a thoroughly Italian house I felt that all these little defects would be put right. Cheaper too. Having decided upon the neighbourhood I preferred — somewhere near the famous flight of [27] Giving and Receiving steps — I began to look about for plaeards with notiees of apartments to let. (I forget the phrase, but I knew it tlicn.) There were many, and I visited them all, but some objection was always present. Often it was merely personal distaste on my side, but usually it was the circumstance that English was spoken. Most English people seeking rooms in Rome prefer, it seems, that their own tongue should be the only one that is employed. Hence a smattering of English was common among the landladies, and they freely boasted of it. At last, however, I struck a piece of good fortune. I came to a large and what must have been once a patrician mansion, with the whole first floor to let. The rooms were vast, with high white walls and cold red tiles. There was a gigantic sitting-room, a palatial bedroom, and a little annexe in which a bath had been placed. Ancient and massive furniture was scattered frugally about. Outside the sitting-room was a balcony, over which at the moment — it was autumn — a vine was clambering, with little purple grapes within reach of an idle hand ; and below was a tangled and very foreign garden. Two centuries ago some important Roman had lorded it here; to-day it was in the tenancy of a tailor, or rather two tailors, a father and son. And it was the father, an aged man with- [28] Uno Fiascone out a word of English, who showed me round. Thoughts of Andrea del Sarto made the idea of living at an Italian tailor's rather attractive, and as I liked the place we began to bar- gain. This we accomplished with the assistance of pencil, paper and a dictionary; but I need tell no one familiar with Italy that the old man never ceased talking all the time. The two controlling words of the discourse were figlio and moglie ; and, although as to what he said about those two personages I had no notion, I was conscious that it was something that he clearly thought I ought to know and should like to know. I forget what was decided upon — how many lire a week — but we came to an arrangement and I intimated that I would bring my things there during the afternoon and settle in at once. I also paid a month in advance. At half -past five, therefore, I arrived in a loaded four-wheeler and entered the tailors' shop. The old man was delighted to see me and at once began to call loud up the stairs. In a minute or so a young woman hurried down and greeted me. It was his son's wife, his figUo's moglie. "Good afternoon," she said. "I put the kettle on in kisc you wanted some tea. I'm [29] Givin/T and Receiving sure we'll all do our best to mike you comfy Avhile 3'ou're 'ere." The tailor's son had married a girl from Islington ! That was many years ago. I am still unable to ask for something to take the place of under- cooked spaghetti. [30] THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND IN the course of my search for Italian conver- sation manuals I came upon one which put so strangely novel a complexion on our own tongue that, though it was not quite what I was seeking, I bought it. To see ourselves as others see us is notoriously a difficult operation; but to hear ourselves as Italians hear us is by this little book made quite easy. Every one knows the old story of the Italian who entered an East-bound omnibus in the Strand and petrified the conductor by asking to be put down at Kay-ahp-see-day. Well, this book was perhaps built up on the bitterness of that experience. But its special attraction is the personality of the protagonist as it is revealed by his vari- ous conversations and remarks. Most of us who are not linguists confine our conversations in foreign places to the necessities of life, rarely leaving the beaten track of bread and butter, knives and forks, the times of trains, cab fares, the way to the station, the way to the post- office, hotel prices and washing lists. But this Italian in Kiiglaud is intre})id. He has no such ^eluctanc(^s. lie embroiders and dilates. Where 1311 Giving and Receiving we in Italy would at the most say to the cameriere, "Portaci una tazza di caffe," and think ourselves lucky to get it, he lures the London waiter to invite a disquisition on tlie precious berry. Thus, he begins: "Coffi is ti-marchebl for iz vere stim-iuletin prdpelte. Du ju no hau it uos discdvvard?" The waiter very promptly and properly say- ing, "No Sor," the Italian unloads as follows: "Uel, at uil tel ju tliet iZ discbvvare is sed tu hev bin dchesciont bai thi folloin sorcomstanZ. Somgots, hu brauS-t dp-on thi plent, from huicc thi coffi sids aT gathaVd, ueaY observ-d bai thi gothaVds tu bi echstdingle uechful, end ofn tu chepaV ebaut in thi nait; thi praiot Ov e neba,rin mdnnasterB, uiscin tu chip his monchs euech et theaT mattins, traid if thi coffi ud prodiuS thi sem effecht dp-on them, es it uos observ-d tu du dp-on thi gotS; thi sdch-ses ov his echsperiment led tu thi appresciescion ov iZ valliu." A little later a London bookseller has the temerity to place some new fiction before our author, but pays dearly for his rash act. In these words does the Italian let him have it: — "Ai du not laich nov-els et 61, bico-S e ndv-el is bat e fich-tiscios tet stof-t ov so mene fantastical dtds end nonsensical ubrds, huicc opset maind end hart. An-heppQ tho-S an-uere jongh per- [32] The Italian in England sons, hu spend theaV prc-scios taim in riding nbv-els! The du not no thet ndv-ellists,.u36 neralle spichin, aT thi laitest end thi most huim- sical raitiaXs, hu hev nested end nest theaX laif in liudnes." English people abroad do not, as a rule, drop aphorisms by the way; but this Italian mentor loves to do so. Thus, to one stranger (in the section devoted to Virtues and Vices), he re- marks, "Uithaut Riligion ui sciiid hi uorS then bists." To another, "Thi igotist spichs cdntin- niualle bv himself end mechs himself thi sentaT dv evvere thingh." And to a third, "Impolait- nes is disgostin." He is sententious even to his hatter: "E het sciiid hi proporsiond tu thi hed end person, for it is laf-ibl tu si e laTgg het op-on e smol hed, end e smol het op-bn e laTgg hed." But sometimes he goes all astray. He is, for instance, desperately ill-informed as to English railway law. "In England," he says, and be- lieves the pathetic fallacy, "thi trens staTt end arraiv vcre pbngh-ciiiddle, bthaV-uais passen- giaTs hu arraiv-let fbr theaV bisnes, cud siH thi Compa.ne fbr dem-egg-S." He is calm and collected in an emergency. "Bi not efri'd, Madam" he says to a lady in flames, "thi fair hes cot jur gaun. IJ daun op-bn thi floT, end ju uil put aut thi fair xvith [3.3] Giving and Receiving jur hends." His presence of mind saves him from using liis own hands for the purpose. Re- sourcefulness is indeed as natural to him as to Sir Christopher Wren in the famous poem. "Uilliam (he says), if enebode asch-s for mi, ju uil se thet ai seel be bech in e fort-nait." Finding himself in the country — perhaps in Epping Forest — he becomes thus lyrical: "In thi spring, neccioT sims tu riviav, evvere-thingh smails. Thi erth is addrnd with grin, thi trts at dech-d uith livs end blossdms. In sciort, thi cbntre is dilaitful, thi medoS end thi guldens aV enameld uith flauats. In uintaT, on thi contraTe, evvere thingh lenguiscces, end thi deS at verQ tidibs. Ui chen scherS-le go aut uith-aut ghettin dorte." And again: "Thi month bv Marcc is uinde. It is suit tu slip in thi mbnth bv Epril. Thi cbntre luchs verB plesent in thi mbnth bv Me. The mo thi 7nedds in Giiin. It is echse- dingle hbt in Giiilai." Miss Butterfield crosses our path for a mo- ment and is gone. "Mis BbttaTfild," he says, "uil ju ghiv mi e glas bv ubtaV, if ju pliS?" And that is the end of the lady. Or I think so. But there is just a possibility that it is she whom he rebukes in a Coffee House: "Mai diaV, du nbt spich bv pbllitichs in e Coffi-IIaus, fbr no travvellaT, if priudent, evvaV tbchs ebaut pbllitichs in pbb- [34] The Italian in England lick." And again it may be for Miss Butter- field that he orders a charming present (first saying it is for a lady) : "Ghiv mi thet rippitaT set uith rubes, thet straich-S tin aurS end thi hdf-aurS." Finally he embarks for Australia and quickly becomes as human as the rest of us, "Thi uind," he murmurs uneasily, "is raisin. Thi si is vere rbf. Thi mo-scion bv thi Stim-hot mech-S mi anuel. Ai fil verB sich. Mai hed is dtZZe. Ai hev got e hed-ech." But he assures a fellow-passenger that there is no cause for fear, even if a storm should come on. "Du not hi alaTmd," he says, "theaT is no dcngg-aT. Thi Chep-ten bv this Stim'-aT is e vere clevaV men. His last words, addressed apparently to the rest of the passengers as they reach Adelaide, are these: "Let bs mech hest end go tu thi Cbstbm-IfauS tu hev aur Ibgh-eggS ech-samint. In Ostrelia, thi Cbstbm-HauS OffiisaTs aV nbt hbtte, bat vere polait." [35] THE EIGHT CITIES ENGLAND has, officially and collectively, such decided views as to the immorality or undesirability of wagering and games of chance that, although most of us put and take, bet, and play cards for money, to do any of these things anywhere but in a licensed "place," such as part of a racecourse, or in private in a drawing- room or a club, is an offence against good morals and punishable by law. Right or wrong is purely a matter of locality! Since the English always enjoy the luxury of two consciences, one individual and one civic, such odd discrepancies between our personal and our national opinions will persevere, and we meanwhile shall continue to enjoy the re- spect which the rest of the world entertains for elasticity and adaptivity. No doubt of that. Having recently been watching Italy at its all-the-year-round amusement, so profitable to the revenue, of Lotto, and witnessed so little resultant distress and calamity, I am wondering if Lotto might not be introduced here as an example of taxation without tears. That it is unlikely to be, I know, even in a country where [36] The Eight Cities *» gambling by newspaper coupons and gambling through turf commission agents (who are al- lowed to advertise in the papers) is encouraged, although poor little street-corner bookmakers are hurried before the magistrate. Nor am I sure that I want the acclimatization of Lotto; but I should like England to come out into the open about gambling generally. Our present state of humbug is very disgusting. Let me, however, describe Lotto. Every Saturday in the eight principal cities of Italy — Rome, Naples, Bari, Venice, Genoa, Florence, Turin, and Milan — at two o'clock, in some public place, a company assembles, con- sisting of three or four officials and a minute charity schoolboy. (I may not have the details of the ceremony exactly right, but I am near them.) One official holds above his head a well-shaken box containing the numbers from one to (I believe) ninety. Another holds above his head a dish. Then the little boy, who is very likely blindfolded, mounts a chair, and, reaching up, takes out a number from the box and places it in the other receptacle, and so on until he has taken five. Another citizen, utterly above suspicion, then, in the full view of such on- lookers as have gatlicrcd, collects and announces these five numbers, and they are given to the press for immediate publication. All the fore- [37] Givinof and Receiving going precautions, I should say, are taken to prevent the possibility of any of the numbers being previously known, or the possibility of any substitution. That is what has happened, say, in Milan, to ascertain what Milan's five numbers are. Pre- cisely similar means have meanwhile been taken in Rome, Naples, Bari, Turin, Venice, Florence and Genoa to obtain five numbers each. The result is as soon as possible tabulated in every Banco di Lotto window for the lucky to gloat over and the unlucky (who, I need hardly say, are more numerous) to deplore to the mur- mured accompaniment, "If only I had " We must now go backwards and see what has been happening all over Italy from morning to night ever since the previous Monday. To the various Government offices (you have seen little shops called Banco di Lotto constantly in Ital- ian streets everywhere), the people have been flocking, all intent on the precarious task of finding numbers that will come up on the fol- lowing Saturday afternoon, and putting money on them for purposes of gain. Every one has a flutter at Lotto at some time or other; many people make an effort every week. The insti- tution might almost be called the silver lining of life. You can have as many chances to win as you like to pay for, and arrange your bets [38] The Eight Cities as you will. You may try to name the numbers for all the eight towns, but the odds here would be so great that the Italian Exchequer could hardly pay you if you won. To get all five numbers right for one town is worth a fortune, and it has only once or twice been done. Tlie ordinary single bet is on three numbers for one town, the odds against which are refreshingly heavy, but most people distrib- ute their numbers over all the eight — the rota, as it is called — or, perhaps, only three of them. The lowest amount that can be ventured is twenty-five centisimi — which used to be just under two-pence, but. is now (1922) nearer a halfpenny. As I say, this wagering has been going on all the week, and all classes of society are represented, either in person or by deputy. The priests are great hands at it. But the real congestion is to be seen on Saturday morning, because the superstitious believe in waiting till the last moment, always hoping for further light from the gambler's heaven. At two the offices close, and then life becomes a feverish blank until the newspaper boys begin to rush through the streets with the fatal results from the eight cities. The winnings, however, are not paid until Monday, and tlien only the smaller ones. For a real coup to be liquidated the winner must wait, because Italy knows just [39] Giving and Receiving as well as we do what red tape is, even though she may lack our glaring inconsistencies. I used just now the phrase, "the supersti- tious," as though there were some followers of the Lotto gleam distinguished by possessing superstition as against others who have none. That was, of course, absurd, because all of them are superstitious. In the unceasing search for lucky numbers — for hints and suggestions — civilisation and nature are equally ransacked. Everything has numerical connotation, and espe- cially dreams. There is even a big book — usually kept in the kitchen, but frequently sent for to be consulted "upstairs" — wliich is alpha- betically arranged, giving all the dreams that a sensible Italian gambler is likely to have, with their corresponding numbers. Then there are lucky-number providers, such as Capuchin monks and hunchbacks. Many people when they go to be blessed by the Pope take a scheme of numbers with them, because when the Pope blesses you his blessing extends to all that you have upon you. Or so it is thought. Other persons find their inspiration in dates, such as the birthday of a lover; in the numbers of rail- way compartments and cabs ; in hours and min- utes, such as the exact time at which they are happiest; in the ages of chance acquaintances; [40] The Eiffht Cities ^fc> and, in short, in a thousand and one of the capricious ways that only gamblers know. To those who can aiford it, Lotto is an amus- ing enough experience. To the poor I have no doubt it is a snare, but not a very perilous one. Watching the faces of the eager scanners of Saturday afternoon papers, I used sometimes to see some very dazed and forlorn expressions, but nothing really tragic. More unhappiness, I fancy, could be suffered during the week by the undecided from their doubts as to whether twenty-one was not wiser than twenty, than on Saturday, from missing the prize. Wherever bets are made, whether on thoroughbreds or on numbers, these unfortunates are to be found — the most anxious and joyless of all the votaries of excitement. Italy's passion for Lotto may not be more fierce than our own for betting on horses ; but it is more desirable, for, as I say, it has the merit of being open, and also the State profits by it, whereas our State, so long as it refuses to countenance the pari-mutuel system, gains, from racing, nothing. A sidciiglit on the universality of betting in puritanical England was mine the other day during a visit to the country. "What strange things words are !" said my [41] Giving and Receiving hostess as we strolled along the herbaceous border. "How do you mean?" I asked. "Well," she said, "I have a man and his wife to help here, and when work is slack the man is allowed to take any small job he can find. After breakfast this morning I put to the wife the most natural and, on the face of it, most un- ambiguous question in the world. I said, 'What is your husband doing to-day.''' "It never occurred to me that there could be more than one way of taking such a form of words as that. But there is. For what do you think she replied? She said, 'I can't remember the name. Ma'am, but he wrote it on a piece of paper and told me to give it to the milkman and the grocer's boy. The three-thirty, he said. Each way.' " [42] A FORERUNNER OF D'ANNUNZIO D'ANNUNZIO is not the only liberator who entered Fiume. I was there myself in 1889, in the same role, but with less ambition. Nor did I arrive in a motor car — it could not be done in those distant days- — but in a tramp steamer. Fiume is a white and yellow town, built along the narrow strip of flat shore or clinging to the sides of the mountains. It is divided in interest between the sea and the soil, half the place be- ing concerned with shipping and the harbour, and the other half with vineyards. There is, however, a little interchange, for the peasants must descend the slopes in order to get their wine to the ships, wliile sailors who wish to re- turn thanks for safety during tempests, or to ensure a prosperous voyage, have to climb high above the town to a ledge on which the mariners* chapel is perched. Hire, if they are thinking only of the future, they merely light a candle, but if they have had a narrow escape they de- posit a votive offering, which chiefly takes the form of a crude but vivid oil painting of a vessel under the direst difliculties, amid boiling indigo [43] Giving and Receiving waves, with lier name intensely visible, while in one of the top corners, set in an oval effulgence, is the Virgin calmly surveying the storm and seeing that, in spite of the disturbance, all is well, or not too ill, with her faithful follower. Several artists in the town make a living by depicting these scenes. Outside the church sat (when I was there) an old woman who sold charms against the perils of the deep. Since I bought some, for myself, for the captain of our ship, for the mates and the engineers, and we came safely back to England, I know that they were all that she said of them. Our ship was taking on raw Hungarian or Dalmatian wine (which, by and by, such is the iniquity of vintners, was to be unloaded at Bordeaux and transformed into genuine French claret), and during this process, with the mates left in charge, the captain and I made little ex- peditions. Just outside Fiume, to the north, is the Whitehead torpedo factory ; and we went there. Then the road runs on up the coast to Abbazia, a fashionable watering-place, where the bathing is done within a space wired against the incursion of sliarks; and we went there in a carriage and pair, and sat among Austrians eat- ing immoderately of veal. But it was too hot for much enterprise, and [44] A Forerunner of D'Annunzio for the most part we sat in the shade and sipped, and smoked long cigars with straws in them, or played a variety of billiards with no pockets and little ninepins in the middle of the table. And what of the liberation? Ah, yes, but it was so small a deed (compared with Gabriele's) that I was hoping you had forgotten about it. However, since it happened, and at Fiume, perhaps I had better tell. One afternoon, after walking a little way out of the town, we came to a retired cottage inn, with tables under its trees, and decided that to repose there would be a more delectable pro- ceeding than to adventure further. We therefore sank into chairs and ordered something to drink from a woman whose very forbidding appear- ance was the only discordant note. So haggish indeed was she that but for our lassitude and the pleasantness of the situation we should have hurried on. Tlie wine, however, was refreshing, and the captain, wlio was a great performer on the monologue, resumed his narrative, either of a triumph of navigation or of love (his two themes), I forget which. But while he talked on, and tlie Adriatic, spreading itself as a mirror to the sun, increased the heat, my attention strayed and I became aware of a fluttering beat- ing noise near by and little distressful eliirps, and I saw that, nailed to the cottage wall, by tlie [45] Giving and Receiving door, in the full sunliglit, was a tiny wooden cage, such as is made for birds to be carried in, not to dwell in, and in it was a rebellious and very unhappy goldfinch. The poor thing flung itself from side to side of its narrow prison in a disorder which was rapidly becoming a frenzy. The woman emerging at this moment, I left my seat and made her look at the wretched captive ; but she only laughed, and when I would have unhooked the cage to place it out of the sun she stopped me with a malignant gesture. Very well, there was nothing to be done but what D'Annunzio would have done. I had to employ craft and address. Waiting till the harridan was well within the house again, I advanced to the cage, opened it and watched the goldfinch dart out and fly thankfully away ; and then we also took to our wings, the captain not with less fear than I, but unsustained by any of the moral enthusiasm which seemed to me my due. He had, however, to retire equally fast, the heat being forgotten in the necessity for escape from that terrifying monster the inn- keeper. When we considered it safe we sat by the roadside to rest, and there exchanged felicita- tions on the fortunate circumstance that we sailed the next day. I was rather hoping for a [46] A Forerunner of D'Anniinzio cordial word or two about my courage and humanity; but none came. "Let me see," said the captain, "where was I when you interrupted me to interfere with that bird?" [47] THE EVOLUTION OF WHIMSICALITY THE title shall stand, because I like it; but it does not say all. By whimsicality, I ouglit to explain, I mean, broadly, modern humour, as distinguished from that which we find before the end of the eighteenth century. It may comprise all the earlier forms, but it is different, perhaps in its very blending, and it has one ingredient which the older forms lacked, and which, like the onion in the bowl of salad, as celebrated by one of its masters — Sydney Smith — "animates the whole." I refer to its unreluctant egoism. It is this autobiographical quality that is its most noticeable characteristic — the author's side-long amused canonization of himself; his frankly shameless assumption that if a thing is interesting to the writer it must therefore be of interest to the world. And with the development of whimsicality (as I call it) are bound up also the development of slippered ease in literature and the stages by which we have all become funnier. To-day every one can grow the flower, with more or less success, for every one has the seed. Although the new humour comprises the old, [48] The Evolution of Wiimsicality it has never reached its predecessor's heights in certain of its branches. Only in parody and nonsense have we gained. There has, for exam- ple, been no modern satire to equal Pope's and Dryden's and Swift's; no irony more biting than Swift's and Defoe's, or more delicate and ingratiating than Goldsmith's ; no such cynical or grotesque humour as Shakespeare exults in ; no rough-and-tumble buffoonery like Fielding's and Smollett's. In nonsense and in parody alone we have improved, the old days having nothing to offer to be compared with Lewis Carroll or Calverley ; but in burlesque we cannot compete with "The Rehearsal," "The Beggar's Opera," or "The Critic." But all those authors were impersonal. They suppressed themselves. We have no evidence as to whether Shakespeare was more like Falstaff or Prospero; probably he resembled both, but we cannot know. Goldsmith is the only auto- biographer among them, but even he always affected to be some one else ; he had not the courage of the first person singular, and Steele and Addison, eminently fitted as they were to inaugurate the new era, clung to tradition and employed a stalking horse. Even Sterne only pretended to be himself, although whimsicality in the strictest meaning of the word undoubt- edly was his. [49] Givinpf and Receiving The period wlien wliimsicality came in — the end of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth century — was the period when a return to nature in poetry was in gestation ; a movement beginning subconsciously with Cow^er and Crabbe and finding its most elo- quent conscious prophets in Wordsworth and Coleridge^ and its gospel in the preface to the second edition of the Lyrical Ballads in 1800. Coleridge and Wordsworth were the great wave. Beneath the impressive surface of the ocean which they crested, in the calm waters where letter writing is carried on (if I may be par- doned not the best of metaphors), the other development was in progress; correspondents were becoming more familiar. I would not allege that humour and the epistolary art were strangers until, say, 1780 — there is, indeed, very good evidence to the contrary — but it was somewhere about that time that a more conscious facetiousness crept in, and just as Wordsworth's revolutionary methods held the field and ousted the heightened conventional language of the eighteenth-century poets, so did this new and natural levity gain strength. Hitherto men had divided themselves strictly between their light and their grave moods. But now gradually these moods were allowed to mingle, and in course of time quite serious people let their [50] The Ev^olutlon of Whimsicality- pens frisk as merrily as the professional wags. It was left for Charles Lamb so to confuse deshabille and full dress that ever after him no author had any rigid need to keep them apart; but Lamb was not the fountain head. He had a predecessor; and we come to that predecessor, the real father of whimsicality, the first writer of our modern Immorous prose, in a phrase in a letter of Lamb's on December 5, 1796 — thus keeping the chain intact. Writing to Coleridge, Lamb refers to Cowper's "divine chit-chat," and although that phrase no doubt applied to "Table Talk" and "The Task" and other poetical monologues, we may here borrow it to describe the ease and fun and unaffected egoism which in Cowper's letters are for the first time found in perfection in English literature. As early as 1778 he was writing like this (to William Unwin) : We arc indebted to you for your political intelli- gence, hut have it not in our power to pay you in kind. Proceed, however, to give us such information as cannot hf learned from tlie newspapers: and when anything arises at Olney, that iu not in the thread- hare style of daily oceurrenceB, you shall hear of it in return. Nothing of this sort has happened lately, except that a lion was imported here at the fair, seventy years of age, and was as tame as a goose. Your motlier an» zi In the next act the bull is engaged and en- raged by the banderilleros, who, holding a rib- boned dart in each hand, mana?uvre until it is in position and then fling them into his skin in a sensitive part just behind the head where they prick and sting and infuriate. There seemed to be some peril in this pro- ceeding, but attendant capeadores, all ready with distractions, dilute it. XII And then came the final scene when the matador administers the fatal thrust. For the bull has no sporting chance. He never escapes. With his long sharp rapier concealed by his cloak — although not so concealed, I fancied, that the bull was without suspicion, or shall I say (for he must have been tiring of so much life) without hope.'' — the famous artist played with his victim for a few minutes with perfect composure and mastery, and then, seizing his opj)ortunity, plunged the steel into its side, near the shoulder, and left it there. The bull staggered a little, regained its steadiness, looked round at us all wonderingly [215] Giving and Receiving and with a hint of reproach, and made an effort to regain its strength; and then its knees bent and it rolled over and, quivering, expired. It was a record kill, I understand, and the spectators were rapturous. And then in trotted the two teams of mules with their tackle, one of which dragged the carcass of the bull out of the arena that he had dignified, and the other the carcass of the grey horse, which had been left where it fell, dead, done for and negligible. And the great gay concourse, of which I made one, lit new cigarettes and exchanged criticisms on the merits of the fray, and prepared for the next encounter. ZIII But I had seen enough. My ticket entitled me to witness the deaths of five more of the handsomest bulls in Anda- lusia ; but I came away. And now, and henceforward, whenever I see a grey horse . . . [216] (A cK 3(£5-9 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILIP* AA 000 591 127 6 COLONIAL BOOK SERVICE 45 FOURTH AVt. New York City 3, GRamercy S-8354