IX
SHELLS
Bethlehem, U. S. A., August 5, 1917.
When a number of gentlemen form themselves into an organization the object of which is the production of munitions of warfare, it is obvious that their customers will be nations, not mere individuals. A nation is distinctly immobile. It cannot come over to a plant and order its goods so it chooses from amongst its people representatives of more or less intelligence who settle themselves upon the organization and form themselves into a thing called a "commission," whose object is inspection. As representatives of a foreign nation, they are treated with much courtesy by the elders of the city, mostly steel magnates, and have no end of a good time. They are put up at the best clubs and if their nation still retains the ornamental practice of having kings they are usually suspected by the dowagers (local) of being dukes and viscounts in disguise. This is enjoyable for all concerned. These gentlemen naturally have no need and little desire to climb socially; upon their arrival they are placed on the very top of the local social pinnacle. I will admit that they do topple off sometimes, but generally they are received in quite the best society. They consist often of an extremely interesting and delightful crowd of people.
An American seems to like a title, not in himself perhaps, but in others, and so Sergeant Aristira, becomes Captain Aristira, and, after getting exhausted contradicting the promotion, finally believes himself to be a general in embryo.
In the main office of a big steel plant there are several dining rooms where the foreign commissions lunch. If the commission is a large one its members generally dine alone, except for the presence of certain lesser, though important, steel officials who sit at the same table and exhibit quite stately manners. When I arrived first, I thought my own countrymen's dining room interesting and savouring of an officer's mess at its worst; so, accepting the invitation of a steel company friend, I decided to dine with him. It was a good move and I have never regretted it.
In our dining room we are distinctly mixed. Often there are representatives of at least six different lesser countries. The smaller nations, especially during these times of stress when the warring nations form the big customers, are generally represented by but one man each. He has, however, his attendant steel official so one gets a kind of sandwich made up of many strata. For instance, Sweden is represented by one man, and Eddy Y—— looks after him. Great Britain's production department and France's inspection department are looked after by Captain L——. We had Greeks for a time. Then there are Chileans, Russians, Peruvians, Argentineans, Spanish, Italian, and men of all kinds from the regions about the Amazon River. The whole thing is interesting and one sighs for the gift given to the apostles when they spake with tongues.
In addition to these foreigners there sit at our table steel officials of sufficient importance to be kept within call of a telephone. The very big men of the steel company dine alone except when someone very important calls upon them.
But let me tell you about our dining room. At the beginning we had a wonderful girl to look after us called Sadie. She was priceless and worked automatically. People with more courage than decency sometimes said thrilling things to her but merely received a kindly gentle smile in return, which was very effective. We were all very fond of her, but she married and left us. Now we have Mary to wait on us. Mary has been a waitress in the steel company for five years. She is, I should think, about twenty-six years old. Why she has never married I am unable to state. I have seen many beautiful women in my day on the stage, on Fifth Avenue, in the park in London, but never have I seen anyone quite so good looking as Mary; she is a perfect type of Madonna-like beauty. She wears a simple blue frock and a large white linen apron which ends at her throat in a starched collar. I suggested to her that she should train as a hospital nurse, for she would work wonders with sick persons of both sexes. The idea did not strike her favourably.
As the representatives of some of the smaller nationalities sometimes go to New York and other diverting resorts, there are often but four steel men, one Frenchman, a Chilean, a Swede and myself. This presents possibilities and we have a wonderful time. The representative of Sweden is a ripping chap. He is about six and one-half feet tall, and if he has to engage an upper berth in a sleeper he has no difficulty in persuading the person occupying the lower to change places—the lower person obviously having for his or her motto "safety first." From this you will gather that my friend is a little large. I remember that when I first met him at the club, we chatted about international relations, and he remarked that if a man were a gentleman it did not matter a damn whether he came from Paraguay or China. We call him lovingly Peter Pan. He is a naval officer and looks it. Amongst the many friends that I have made over here I can place him very near the top of the list. He is just brimming over with fun and sympathy, and will enter into any joke that happens to be organizing.
Then there is the head steel inspector. He dislikes English people, he thinks; but, between you and me, he likes most people who are decent. I fear he will finally become a misanthropist, but I am not very sure. He is an interesting type of American and disbelieves in kings and dukes and can never understand what we mean by the thing he calls a "gentleman." However, he is "from Missouri" on this point, and of course I cannot convince him. I am not sure that I want to.
Then there is Eddy Y——. He refuses to grow up. He is at least fifty and looks forty, but is brimming over with energy and enthusiasm. He loves tragedies, and fires, and thrills and ought to have been a novelist like the Baron Munchausen. I believe he is really a foreigner, a Bromoseltzian by absorption, I have heard. He caused me some trouble once, all over Jones' baby. Let me tell you the story as Eddy told it. He himself believed it.
"Did you hear about poor Jones last night on his way to the big dinner? Very sad! He is in an awful state over it all. One baby died this morning and the mother doesn't expect the other to live through the day. Joe told me about it. Gee! it is awful the way those kids run across the road in front of cars. Jones tried to stop the car but he hadn't a chance, and he hit the bigger child right on the neck and the child's head bounced off and bruised Jones' nose. Gee! it's terrible."
We were all thrilled and very sorry for Jones. Now I know that to sympathize with a man when by accident he has killed two children is the worst possible form. Still being egotists, most of us, and regarding ourselves as specialists in the issuing of the sympathy that heals, we mostly fail. I resisted the temptation for a long time until Mr. Jones passed through my office looking very sad. I looked for the bruise on his nose, but it had healed. He stopped to chat, and I commenced to sympathize, not mentioning any details. He didn't seem very worried and I thought him hardhearted, so I went into more details and asked when the child would be buried. Mr. Jones' eyes grew wide and he said: "What the devil are you talking about?" I explained, and he roared. His mud-guard had tipped the knee of a small boy, but very slightly, and he expected to see him running about again in about two days.
Eddy has been to Russia and has had a very hectic time so we always refer to him when the subject of Russia comes up. Russia must be some place; and the women, Ma foi!
We are all very great friends and I like every one of them, especially those who can speak English. It is awkward when we all talk at once, especially if the more foreign have friends lunching with them. One day, two Greeks yelled to one another across the table in Greek, a couple of Russians seemed interested in the revolution, a Chilean spoke in a huge voice in what he regarded as English, the Swede gurgled, the Americans laughed, and I alone spoke English (sic.). Having mentioned this last fact to the man from Missouri, in other words, the chief inspector of the steel company, he looked and said: "Yesterday I thought that at last you had convinced me what a 'gentleman' really was, and you have put me back at least six points." A good "come back!" N'est ce pas?
Then there is Harry M——, one of the finest men that I have met. He is very clever and has one big thing in his life—devotion to his wonderful country which is tempered by a decent appreciation of other people's. We are great friends, but we jeer at one another a great deal, and always end up better friends than when we started. He has forgotten more than most of us know, but he loves to be insulted if it is done in fun. Then he girds himself for the combat.
Once I endeavoured to get a rise by saying that I did not believe there were any Americans at all, except the red Indians. "Eddy here is a Bromoseltzian," I remarked. "Pat and his son are Irish, Dnul is a Dane, Weiss is a Dutchman, and you, Mr. M——, are an Englishman; there ain't no such animal as an American." The last bullet in my rain of shrapnel told. He was speechless, and then, in desperation, he said: "And how, may I ask, do you regard this huge nation, with its history and Patrick Henry and George Washington, and all that sort of thing?" "Oh, as just an interesting conglomeration of comic persons," I replied. Then we all laughed and dispersed to our respective offices. I have learnt that if you are once a friend of an American you can jest and laugh with him as much as you like. Having become his friend, you have no desire in the world to say anything that will hurt him.
I have long and interesting chats with Mr. M——. He told me once that during the early days of the war, at the end of August, 1914, when Americans knew the full extent of the disaster to the French army and of our own retreat from Mons, several important members of the steel company, mostly of English descent with a little German blood mixed with it, had a meeting in our lunch room. They were very worried about us all over in England and France. They were also worried about their own sons because they knew that America would not stand by and see England and France crushed. All these men themselves, if possible, would have at once gone over to help; and they discussed plans. They also knew, and I know now, and have known all along, that if England had ever reached the stage when she needed American help it would have been possible to raise an army of several millions of Americans to fight for England. Yes, to fight for England!
I would not dare to say this to some of my American friends because they would know, as I knew, that underlying their criticism of England there is often a very deep devotion to the British Empire. The Germans have known this all along, and we can thank fortune that it still exists in spite of our failure to foster it. We established an entente cordiale with France our hereditary foe, thank goodness, and we succeeded because many of us are bad at French and consequently unable to insult the French people. We have never seriously attempted the same thing with America. It is the underlying devotion of many Americans for the home country, as some of them still call our land, which has prevented the rudeness of some of our people from doing permanent harm. The Germans have tried to remove this devotion, but they have not succeeded amongst the educated classes, because, like us, intelligent American people don't quite like the Boche until he has settled in the country for over a hundred years.
But they have succeeded with the poorer classes, who sometimes dislike us intensely. The average American working man regards his brother in England as a poor fool who is ground down by the fellow who wears a high hat. He also regards John Bull as a wicked, land-grabbing old fellow—America's only enemy.
I share an office at the moment with a couple of American boys, both married. At first I shared Dnul's office with him, but as it is necessary for him to keep up diplomatic relations with all inspectors I felt that I would be in his way, so I retired, against his will, to the office next to him. It is better so.
The boys with me are interesting. One was a National Guard captain and looks the part. He was a Canadian once, so cannot be president of the United States. It is a great pity. The other is very clever at drawings and although only twenty-seven has made the world cheerier by being the father of eight children. I have arranged to inspect them some day and he is getting them drilled. He witnessed my signature to the publisher's contract for my first book on the day of his last baby's birth. Books and babies have always been mixed in my mind since I first heard the story of St. Columba's quarrel over the manuscript belonging to some other saint which he had copied. You remember the story. The archbishop or some very superior person looked into the matter, and said: "To every cow belongs its own calf." I believe that I am quoting correctly. I hoped that this friend's signature would be a good omen.
The other fellow, he of the National Guard, has but one baby. I manage to get along very well with them both.
There are an awful lot of stenographers about; a galaxy of beauty. I hear that they are very well paid, and judging by their very smart appearance they must be. I think that they are even better looking and more smartly turned out than the young ladies employed in the machine tool department at the Ministry in London.
I met old Sir Francis N—— one day going up the stairs at the Hotel Metropole in London after it became Armament Hall, and he said that really one did not know these days whether to raise one's hat or to wink when one met a young lady on the stairs. I always maintain a sympathetic neutrality. It is better thus.
I found, at first, letter writing a little difficult. One dictates everything and one must never forget to file one's letters. In business it is considered an awful thing to insult a person in a letter. Insult him to his face, by all means, if necessary; but never write rude things. I found it difficult to distrust firmly the intelligence of the person receiving the letter. Everything must be perfectly plain and you have to imagine that the person receiving the letter knows nothing about the subject. If writing a business letter to a friend I invariably became too personal. Cold blooded though polite things are business letters. They are immortal, too, and live in files for centuries and are liable to strike back at any moment like a boomerang. If you are insulting a third person it is always good to put before your more cutting statements, "In my opinion, I think." This will save you much trouble because it is taken that you are humble, and that your opinion is not worth very much. Nevertheless it will cause the person to whom you are writing to look into the matter, whereas if you say straight out, and crudely, that Jones is an entirely useless person or that Biggs is inefficient (it is better to say inadequate, since it means the same), the person receiving the letter will at once mutter, "Newspaper talk," and will forget the matter, although he may look into your own actions with a coldly discerning eye.
It seems to be different in the army where people write most unpleasant, suggestive things to one another. I don't think that they keep files so well in the army. However, I am learning fast and am very careful.
There are many wonderful contrivances over here for the saving of labour. They do not always save time, it is true, but many of them are useful, nevertheless. It is sometimes an interesting thing to see a fellow waiting several minutes for an elevator to take him down one flight of stairs. People seldom walk anywhere, as far as I can see; but this fact does not seem to affect the national physique which is usually splendid.
Quite large numbers of men wear spectacles, not your intellectual-looking gold-rimmed pince-nez, but great horn-rimmed goggles that certainly give a man a whimsical look. It all depends upon the appearance of the fellow. If he is thin and wiry these great goggles make him look like a polite tadpole. The theatrical folk realize this and in every comic show one of the comedians generally appears in these spectacles.
Desiring to use a swimming pool open only to the students of Lehigh University, I decided to take a course of lectures on metallurgy. I shuddered when I heard that these lectures took place from eight until nine A.M. How would one fit in breakfast? However, I arrived one Monday morning and found myself with twenty other fellows sitting at the feet of a large St. Bernard dog, and a very learned professor. I looked with interest at the men around me. They all seemed pale and haggard and "By Jove, these American students must work hard!" I thought. However, after several weeks I felt very much the same on Monday mornings, because many of the fellows became my friends and we spent our week ends together in fervent study at more than one extremely diverting country club. Perhaps, however, this is unfair.
The American university man is alleged to be a hard worker. He certainly has some very stiff examinations to pass. As a matter of fact, the man who desires to get on well in the business or intellectual world has to work jolly hard at the university over here. It is possible for a man, I have heard, to work his way through college without receiving a penny from his father. A fellow may even earn money by collecting laundry from his fellow students. The glorious part about this lies in the fact that his men friends do not supply him with kindly pity, but they sincerely admire him. If he is a good sort, that's all that matters.
As far as I can glean, the average American varsity man is a great hero worshiper. One is constantly meeting fellows who are regarded by their friends as regular "princes," and the thing that draws the greatest amount of admiration is well developed personality which in America is generally allied to kindliness. These "princes" are always humble, and invariably the same in their treatment of both ordinary people, and, what we called at Cambridge "rabbits" or undergraduates of the dormouse breed.
Sometimes people over here have pointed out to me that it is impossible for an undergraduate to work his way through our older universities. I have, of course, told them that while it would be very awkward to have a fellow undergraduate calling for one's soiled linen in England, still we had a way whereby a man could work his way through any university and especially the older ones. I told them that at my college there were always at least twenty men who received no money from home, but by comparatively hard work they were able to win scholarships and exhibitions. So that really things are much the same, the only difference lying in the fact that as our colleges are much older, people have had time to die in greater numbers and consequently there have been more bequests. I cannot say that I have had much opportunity to study the person called here a "lounge lizard." Like his brother in England, he at once joined up and is now learning to be a soldier.
I must admit that the American university man is very like his brother in England, just as irresponsible, just as charming and often possessed with the same firm determination to do as little work as possible under the circumstances. The only difference lies in the fact that after leaving college he is sucked into a whirlpool of exciting business and sometimes he finds himself floating down a strong flowing river of wealth wondering if it has really been worth while.
"You know how to live in England," they often say to me. "We don't. We work too hard, and we play too hard, and we haven't the remotest idea how to rest." Perhaps they are right, but it seems to me that a little American vim introduced to an English graduate would be an excellent thing; for after he has left college and is making an ass of himself in the city he has to learn that while a Cambridge or an Oxford hall mark is an excellent thing in the vicarage drawing room, it causes its possessor some sad moments in the business world of London or of anywhere else.
Perhaps this is a bit rough on the graduate from Oxford and Cambridge; but I think most of them will admit that there is a certain amount of truth in what I say. Of course, in my experience throughout the Empire I have found the varsity man a magnificent type of Britisher, but it is obvious that he has got to learn a few lessons, and lessons are sometimes hard things to learn.