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Once again I am in the company of my royal host, His Excelsior. The Great Axilla is showing me another section of his collection of men. We are in a vast inclosure which resembles a city park. Crossing it are shaded walks with benches at intervals, and at the intersection of these various paths, that is at the centre of the park, is a fountain. Upon the benches are seated men of different ages, some with chins almost beardless, others in the evening of life, with the harsh furrows of experience upon their features, and many who are worn into greyness.
“Look at these men,” said His Excelsior, “examine them with care and tell me what you see.”
I gazed about me with intentness, but remained silent.
“Can not you tell me what you see, slow one?” demanded the Excelsior, impatiently taking me by the elbow and turning me about face, “look at this specimen here—one with the down of youth still upon him.”
“How hollow-eyed he looks!” I whispered.
“Aye, and his belly pinched.”
“He looks up through the leafless branches as though he were dreaming and yet awake;” I added.
“Aye,” quoth the Great Axilla, “and his dreams never have and never shall come true.”
“What is he?” I asked.
“He is a misfit;” was the reply.
Then we strolled slowly on until we reached the centre where the fountain was flowing drearily. As we came to a stop, the Excelsior squeezed my arm gently to attract my attention to a man of middle age who sat upon a bench immediately beside us. I turned to study him for a passing moment. His trousers were frayed at the bottom and soiled. His beard was muddy with a growth of several days. He was leaning on the arm at the end of the bench, holding in his fingers a twig with which he was drawing strange devices upon the gravel walk, while the shadows and the light of the sun played around him. There could be no mistake in his actions. He was trying to get time behind him, and above all to occupy his mind. He was striving to distract his thoughts from himself, a ceaseless endeavor. No, there could be no doubt about the meaning of that wayward, woe-begone look.
“Tell me, what is he?” I asked in a low voice.
“He is one of the unfits;” rejoined my host, meditatively.
I had to ponder a little, too.
By this time we were near enough to the fountain to hear the water falling, falling, with its never-ending splash; and from this point we could look up and down the different avenues that stretched away from us like the spokes of a gigantic wheel, of which we were the hub.
“And who are those up that avenue? And these here, who are they?”
“Those and these, all of them,” quoth the Axilla, “the misfits and the unfits, they are the people who have nothing to do.”
“I notice that most of them stop as they pass and drink at this fountain.”
“Aye, verily,” answered the Axilla, “for these are the waters of the Fountain of Endurance.”
Before leaving this spot I did not fail to observe one among them who, by his countenance, clothing and deportment, seemed out of place. I noted that apparently he was doing exactly what I was doing, looking about and observing his fellow beings with scrutiny.
“What have you got him in here for?” I asked.
“Don’t be so petulant, little visitor,” answered the Great Axilla, “I have him here for the reason that he belongs here. He is one of the so-called dilettanti. He imagines that he is different from the horde, because he sits by and watches them, calling himself a student of human nature. But mark me, he has the streak in common with the rest of them—he is tired of it all, for he, too, has nothing to do. Follow his gaze now, and you may again query whether that spectacle is germane to this exhibit.”
I looked in the direction in which the dilettante was looking, toward the border of the park, and I saw a wide, white boulevard. Many people were driving and riding thereon, carrying whips with ribbons, or beautifully painted sun-shades. The vehicles themselves were splendid equipages, some were swung high, and some were swung low, according to the fancy and ease of the owners; and the coachmen and the footmen in their uniforms of sombre and brilliant hues made a showy spectacle to behold.
“I confess I can not see why they should be exhibited with these misfits and unfits.”
“That is because your physical eye is not near enough to see them clearly, puny one,” replied His Excelsior, “take you this strong field-glass,” continued he, offering me the instrument, “and examine the faces of those you see upon horse-back and in the various vehicles.”
I looked first at the face of a woman, protected by a gaudy parasol. She was driving in an open landau. Hers was the face of a woman far beyond maidenhood. There was something make-believe about her expression, as though in reality she was not free from care, as though her landau were neither carrying her to nor taking her from the realms of realized anticipations. Then I cast the glasses hastily upon a man on horse-back. He had the frame of one who was trying to recover a wasted constitution; but he had begun too late. A cigarette drooped languidly from his lips. He looked overfed with foods and wines that could no longer nourish him. Bah! I dropped the glasses from my eyes.
“Aha!” smiled the Excelsior, “now you perceive that they, too, have the same awful streak in their aspect.”
“But, Great Axilla,” cried I, “you surely allow them to drink also at the Fountain of Endurance?”
“Not so!” he exclaimed, “see their exclusive bowers which line the boulevard and into which they pass now and again? In those massive places they quench their thirst by sucking the juice from the acrid grapes of Ennui.”
I pondered once more, but said nothing. The path we were treading led toward the edge of the park. We walked on, fist on fist, which is a sign of cordiality in the Excelsior’s country. I had never known my host to be so familiar. Presently we came to a curve in our path, and there, hidden by a row of privet bushes was a long bench with arms at each seat for comfort. All of the occupants of this settee were women.
“I did not think that you had them in here, too;” I said sadly.
“Oh yes” said the Axilla, “that bench is reserved exclusively for them.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it looks more comfortable than the others, but in reality it is hard and poses them in unnatural postures. How they paint and powder, and their cologne fairly makes me ill. I guess that you recognize them,” concluded the Excelsior, eyeing me slyly, “they are the sort whom you meet seldom by day, and who abound late at night.”
“Yes, I imagined as much; but, sire, I am again at a loss to account for their being exhibited here.”
“You are not very bright, or else you sham stupidity,” quoth the Great Axilla, “surely you know that a strumpet is both an unfit and a misfit—isn’t she? She is a product of your civilization just as much as those poor men whom you saw sitting on the other side of this transformed, grass-growing ash heap.”
I did not have a word to reply, and I hung my head in silence.
“But,” said the Excelsior, “they enjoy a severe privilege. They drink not only at the Fountain of Endurance, but are also allowed to suck the acrid grapes of Ennui.”
As we passed out of the inclosure, my royal host turned to me and said:
“What think you is the motto that I have had placed over this exhibit of individuals who have nothing to do? Read—there it is.”
He pointed to a sign, bearing these immense letters of gold:
IDLERS ARE NOT TO BE ENVIED.
“Now, my little visitor,” quoth he, “you have wearied me sufficiently for the present. Perhaps you yourself may also enjoy a little sleep.”