No such mystery hangs about the death of the Art of Paying Calls. Here it was a case of plain every-day murder—and what is more, the murderer still lives. Millions of electric volts are pumped into him every day, but he still lives—the more electricity we give him the livelier he grows. He is the Telephone, and the Telephone is the murderer of the Art of Calling.
Poor old Art of Calling! We shake our heads and murmur perfunctory regrets—“good old chap,” and all that sort of thing, but really in our heart of hearts, let me whisper it very low—we don’t really miss him very much; to tell the truth, we are rather, that is to say, quite glad he is dead. If anyone of us had had the courage of his conviction he would have killed him long ago. To speak plainly, the Art of Calling was a pestiferous tyrant—and he only got what he deserved.
MR. CHESTERTON AND THE SOLILOQUY
“I often talk to myself,” says Mr. G. K. Chesterton, speaking in defense of the stage soliloquy. “If a man does not talk to himself it is because he is not worth talking to.”
The deduction is obvious, but it is based upon false premises. If Mr. Chesterton is worth talking to, it is certainly not because he talks to himself. It is impossible to imagine a more foolish waste of energy than that expended in talking to one’s self. The man who talks to himself is twice damned (as a fool). First, for wasting speech on an auditor who knows in advance every word he will utter. Second, for listening to a speaker whose every word he can foretell before it is uttered.
Mr. Chesterton’s argument, failing as it does to prove that he is worth talking to, is still less happy as a defense of the stage soliloquy.
A character in a play talks to himself not, as Mr. Chesterton would have us believe, because he is worth talking to, but to enlighten the audience on points which the inexpert playwright has otherwise failed to make plain.