“Invest me in my motley; give me leave to speak my mind.... Motley’s the only wear.”
The privilege of the Court Fool is that he can tell the plain ordinary truth to the King, even with the executioner standing by, ax in hand, and risk not his head. But he must be wearing his cap and bells. Let him come but dressed as a courtier and make the same painful jest, and the headsman will step forth to relieve him of his poor-quality thinking piece. The Greek who was employed to tell his Alexander after each glorious triumph that he too must die, must have worn some shred of motley. You cannot say that sort of thing without the dress which liberates. It was the same with Diogenes. He got in so many home truths in an intolerant age because he lived in a tub. That tub was his motley. Our tramps’ gear is ours.
There are clothes which rob you of your liberty, and other clothes which give it you again. In the sinister garb called morning dress you are a close prisoner of civilization; but in the tramp’s morning dress you do not need to “mind your step.” Oh, the difference between one who has worn silk in the Temple and the same man lying in a cave in smoke-scented tweeds. Of course, it takes some time to break him down. He is still wearing a shadow topper and invisible cutaway coat weeks after he has started into the wilds. The same with a lady of fashion; she puts a hat over the glory of her hair to hide the primitive Eve—she will be still thinking of this false headgear long after she has changed into a forest nymph.
Motley has a double advantage not used by Shakespeare in his admirable clownings. It not only perhaps enables a man to jest shrewdly with the prince; it enables a prince, if he will put it on, to talk freely with an ordinary poor man. The cat can look at the King and the King can look at the cat.
Class is the most disgusting institution of civilization, because it puts barriers between man and man. The man from the first-class cabin cannot make himself at home in the steerage. He can have conversations with his fellow man down there, but fellow man will be standing to attention like private in presence of officer, or standing defiant like prisoner in presence of a condemnatory court. It is not the fault of the bottom dog, the proletarian. He scents a manner. Your bearing cannot be adjusted to equality. You are not on the level with him. You cannot rid your voice of its kind note. “Damn it, don’t be kind to me,” say the eyes of the third-class passenger. But you cannot get rid of that absurd, unwanted, kind look—that “tell me, my dear man” expression.
“How are you, aged man,” I said,
“And how is it you live?”
But his answer trickled through my brain
Like water through a sieve.
Yes, whatever he replies will seem a little bit irrelevant, like the answers to the visiting rector going the round of his parish, he having the next drag hunt on his mind.