Lysistrata

by Anthony M. Ludovici

From a brief survey of his fellow-countrymen, there are many strange lessons to be learnt in England to-day, by anyone who keeps his eyes open and is on his guard against taking too much for granted.

The observer has only to exchange a few words with the men, women, and children he passes by, and to look into their faces—no more is required to tell him all he wishes to know. Nor will he need to have a very high standard of human beauty to feel disappointed by the features of the great majority, while the most elementary knowledge of psychology and hygiene will enable him to see from their behaviour and expressions that they are very largely harassed, unhealthy and badly fed (i.e., not starving, but improperly nourished).

But among the first of the curious facts he will notice is this—that large masses of his fellow-countrymen appear to have become so thoroughly accustomed to living their lives with the help of every variety of artificial aids that the latter no longer provoke either shame or concern.

For instance, men and women—young and old—constantly pass by wearing glasses, and they look quite cheerfully and confidently up through these optical aids when they are addressed. To speak to others in the crowd, and to see them smile, is to recognize instantly that some or all of their teeth are bad or false. But they smile with just as much conviction, whether their dentition happens to be natural or manufactured. Numbers of the younger adults and children about have upon their faces, in the region of their eyes and brows, certain tiny, almost imperceptible, scars, revealing the fact that they were brought into the world by means of obstetric instruments. And countless others there are whose birth was just as artificial, though they bear no marks to show it. But no one seems to trouble, or to inquire how such frequent interference with a natural function might be avoided. Everywhere people are seen shaking hands, and sincerely proclaiming themselves “Quite well,” when that very morning, and many previous mornings, their intestines have functioned only through the agency of some widely advertized artificial aid. But none of them feels guilty of any grave inaccuracy in declaring himself well in the circumstances.

Mothers can be seen by the hundred thousand, serenely wheeling in perambulators, or leading by the hand, infants and children, not one of whom has ever put its lips to a human breast. The advertisements recommending the artificial foods on which these infants and children have been reared can be read on every boarding. But it never occurs either to the mothers themselves, or to the children, or to the onlookers, to consider whether this state of affairs is of a kind that justifies so much self-complacency, good cheer, indifference, and apparent contentment.

These indications of a highly standardized life, revealing almost universal imperfections of some kind in our bodies and their functions, are now so common, so much a commonplace in our midst, that nobody notices them, nobody mentions them as odd, and certainly nobody seems to show any concern or alarm about their monotonous frequency.

Mention might be made of other less obvious aids to normal functions which are in daily use among the population of these islands; but, since we are speaking of the lessons that may be learned by an ordinary observer who keeps his eyes and ears open in our streets and lanes, we may well confine ourselves to the obvious.

Now, since all marked uniformity can result only from holding similar fundamental views, similar general principles, in common, if our wanderer wishes to pursue his observations he may be led to inquire from what substratum of guiding rules, from what basic values, this uniformity arises. If he is right in concluding that the population he sees about him—the people who are regarded as well and healthy, not the people who crowd our hospitals, asylums, and homes for cripples and incurables!—are largely sub-normal, or sub-human, in the sense that they are neither complete bodily nor capable of functioning without artificial aids; if, moreover, he is right in thinking that they do not seem to be much perturbed about their sub-humanity, he may wish to know the nature of the atmosphere in which their thoughts and ideals are formed. Their readiness to declare themselves “quite well,” or “quite fit,” simply on the strength of their not being under a doctor, or on a sick-bed, is singular. The question they ask themselves is not “Am I really quite fit or well?” but “Am I just able to discharge my daily duties, walk about, shop, have a family, and take ordinary meals?” If they can answer this question in the affirmative, they reply with no conscious insincerity that they are quite fit.

Evidently, then, among this population of to-day there is no severe standard of good bodily condition, no cultivated taste about it. Or, if there is, it is surprisingly low.

Defective functioning and incomplete bodily equipment no longer debars anybody from regarding himself, or from being regarded by others, as desirable and normal. Even in the vital matter of mating, this is so—how much more customary it must be, therefore, in less vital matters! Stand up, smile, and agitate your four limbs to indicate that they are intact and still movable, and that is enough. The bias against a whole list of defects and blemishes has completely disappeared.