XIV
A PREMATURE
Bethlehem, U. S. A., November, 1917.
I have grown steadily to love the American people. English people I have met in this country have helped me so much. Contrasta!!
I went to Cambridge after life in New Zealand, where a spade is called a spade—and that's all about it; where, if you are strong enough, you knock a man down if he calls you a liar. At Cambridge, I discovered that no one had any desire to call anyone else a liar. Lying persons, and those who told unpleasant truths, were not on your list of acquaintances and as far as you were concerned they did not exist. "Napoo," as Tommy says.
But the people one did know and like, one studied and endeavoured to understand. One also tried to act accordingly so that even if they behaved in a peculiar fashion one avoided allowing them to even suspect disapproval.
So our older universities try valiantly to turn out, not necessarily educated persons, but persons who have a faint idea how to behave themselves when they are away from home. This does not mean merely the use of an elegant accent called here with a little amusement "English." It means that the fellow who takes a superior attitude towards anyone is merely a stupid bounder. It means also that the fellow who thinks himself, as a member of the British Nation, to be better or in any way superior to any other nation is a fool. He may be superior, of course, but the mere thought of this superiority entering his mind ruins him at once, and, as I said before, turns him into a bounder.
In other words, "Love your own country intensely and beyond all other countries, but for Heaven's sake don't let anyone suspect that you regard yourself as a good specimen of its human production." If, unfortunately, you discover, not only that you love yourself, but also that it is owing to you and your like that the British Empire is great, climb the Woolworth Building, not forgetting to pay your dime, and then drop gracefully from the highest pinnacle. You will save your nation and your countrymen much suffering and a good deal of embarrassment.
No one has ever given this advice before, I am quite sure: that probably accounts for the fact that Britishers do suffer and are embarrassed when they meet some of their fellow countrymen over here, for it is quite un-British to be a bounder, and it is quite un-Christian to be a snob. Which is a strange fact, but true nevertheless: yet, who would suspect it.
I used to think that an American was a hasty person, constantly talking about the finest thing on the earth, which he deemed everything American to be; that his wife was a competent, rather forward person, who delighted to show her liberty by upsetting our old notions of propriety. I have often heard people telling the story of the American lady who thought it funny to blow out some sacred light that had never been extinguished for centuries—and all that sort of thing. In fact, anything outrageous done in England or on the continent by a woman is at once put down to an American. We had some charming specimens of Britons on the continent in the days of peace.
And yet we sincerely like the American people. We don't mean to run them down really, but we assume a superior air that must be perfectly awful. I have been just as guilty. I remember feeling quite faint at St. John's College, Oxford, where they seemed to have the unpleasant habit of breakfasting in hall, when I heard two Rhodes' scholars talking. They were very friendly to the waiters, who hated it, and their accent disgusted me. They seemed isolated, too. At the moment, having lived for a year in America, I wonder how on earth one's attitude could have been such. Frankly, there seems no excuse: it is merely rude and unpardonable. Still, perfectly nice people have this attitude. I wish that we could change, because the effect over here is most regrettable. One would like the Americans to know us at our best, because we are not really an unpleasant people.
Of course, the sloppy individual seeking a fortune arrives "over here" and burns incense to the "Yankees," as he calls them, but they are not deceived. Some of us used to look upon the folk over here as fair game. All Americans are hospitable, even the very poor, and a stray Englishman comes in for his share of kindness. But he invariably assumes a superior attitude, although unconsciously.
The American people have mostly been with us all along in our efforts to fight the Germans. The well educated people definitely like us, but the great mass just don't. The Irish element hates us, or poses that way. People don't know this.
In England we don't seem to realize the Irish question. We regard the Irish as a delightful and amusing people. Most of our serious experience has been with the Irish gentry, really English and Scotch, who through years have assumed the delightful mannerisms of the people with whom they have lived. We also shoot and hunt with the real Irishman and find him delightful and romantic. His wonderful lies and flattery please us, but we don't for a single instant take him seriously. The great mass of people here think that we ill-treat the Irish. This is interesting. An Irishman arrives here and finds wonderful opportunities for expansion, and glorious opportunities to fight. He compares his present life with that of his former and the former looks black and horrible. An Englishman and a Scotchman of the same class feel the same way. The Irishman having been brought up on "Irish wrongs" blames the English for his past discomfort. I have heard fairly intelligent people speaking of Irish wrongs, but when asked in what way the Irish treatment differs from that meted out to the average Englishman they are unable to answer. The thing seems a little bit involved.
During this time of war there have been, of course, large numbers of Englishmen over here on duty. Their attitude varies a little, but on the whole, it is a little difficult to understand. Lieutenant Jones arrives, having been badly wounded and is unfit for further service. The folk here at once give him a wonderful time. They listen to his words and entertain him very much. So much incense is burnt to him that his head becomes pardonably swelled. Representing his government and the buyer of huge supplies he has interviews with great men, who treat him with vast respect. They ask him to spend week-ends at their houses.
The great captain of industry has risen to his present position by one of two things—either by brutal efficiency, or by terrific personality, but mostly the latter. The subaltern finds him charming and, mark you, very humble. Temporary Lieutenant Smith likes the Americans.
Millionaires and multi-millionaires are often his companions. He is receiving, possibly, three hundred dollars a month, but he seldom has to entertain himself. Familiarity breeds contempt, and he feels that he himself ought really to be a millionaire. His advice is often taken and a certain contempt for the intelligence of his friends creeps into his mind. He thinks of after-the-war days and he endeavours to lay plans. He perhaps lets a few friends know that he wants a job after the war, though I have not heard of any one seeking a millionaire's daughter.
Now arrives plain Mr. Jones who has not been to the front. American society tries him out, and, finding him wanting, to his astonishment drops him. In American society you must have something to recommend you. You must amuse and interest. The mere fact of your being a representative of Great Britain won't save you. You must also be a gentleman and behave accordingly. If you even think that the American people are rather inferior and a little awful you are done. I know several British people in America who are not known in polite society, and who seem to have fallen back upon their Britishness and spend diverting hours discussing the "damn Yankees." That is, of course, the whole trouble. People never seem to realize that the tongue is not the only method of communication. Our feelings can be communicated without a word spoken. So some of us over here talk fairly and courteously to the American people, while regarding them as something a little terrible and quite impossible socially. Our hosts realise this at once and like children they are fearfully sensitive. It either amuses them or makes them furious, generally the former.
When we visit France or Spain and endeavour to learn the language of either country, we regard ourselves as peculiarly clever persons if we can manage to cultivate the French or Spanish idioms and manners. We even return to England and affect them a little, in order that people may see that we are travelled persons. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, I suppose; but never do we imitate the Americans, or even affect their manners while here. To illustrate. In Bethlehem, and indeed in other parts of America, it is de rigeur to say that you are pleased to meet a person when introduced. It is done by the best people. In England, a person who says he is pleased to meet you is suspected of having some ulterior motive. It is not done.
I spent a happy day in Washington with some members of the Balfour mission and I noticed that one fellow, an Oxford Don, invariably said when introduced to American people: "I'm very pleased to meet you." He explained that it was the custom of the country and had to be followed. It is not wonderful that one noticed how well these fellows got on with the folk here.
Americans have a profound dislike for gossip. They seldom "crab" people. Of course, a conversation is never so interesting as when someone's reputation is getting smashed to pieces, but this is not done here. If a party of British people with their wives (and emphasis is laid on the wives) get together there are sure to be some interesting happenings. Each wife will criticise the other wife and generally there will be a certain amount that is unpleasant. In England we understand this, and expect it. The picture of people of the same blood squabbling together in a foreign country is quite diverting and interesting to Americans. One English woman will criticise another English woman, and will do so to an American who promptly tells her friends. I have heard some very interesting tales.
Frankly, my fellow countrymen have shown me many wonderful qualities amongst our cousins, and I have realized a big thing. The American people must get to know us and they must get to like us. I wonder if we shall bother to like them?