DOES THE YOUNG MAN KNOW EVERYTHING WORTH KNOWING?
I AM told that American professors are “mourning the lack of ideals” atColumbia University—possibly also at other universities scattered throughthe United States. If it be any consolation to these mourning Americanprofessors, I can assure them that they do not mourn alone. I live notfar from Oxford, and enjoy the advantage of occasionally listening to thejeremiads of English University professors. More than once a Germanprofessor has done me the honour to employ me as an object on which tosharpen his English. He also has mourned similar lack of ideals atHeidelberg, at Bonn. Youth is youth all the world over; it has its ownideals; they are not those of the University professor. The explanationis tolerably simple. Youth is young, and the University professor,generally speaking, is middle-aged.
I can sympathise with the mourning professor. I, in my time, havesuffered like despair. I remember the day so well; it was my twelfthbirthday. I recall the unholy joy with which I reflected that for thefuture my unfortunate parents would be called upon to pay for me fullrailway fare; it marked a decided step towards manhood. I was now in myteens. That very afternoon there came to visit us a relative of ours.She brought with her three small children: a girl, aged six; a precious,golden-haired thing in a lace collar that called itself a boy, aged five;and a third still smaller creature, it might have been male, it mighthave been female; I could not have told you at the time, I cannot tellyou now. This collection of atoms was handed over to me.
“Now, show yourself a man,” said my dear mother, “remember you are inyour teens. Take them out for a walk and amuse them; and mind nothinghappens to them.”
To the children themselves their own mother gave instructions that theywere to do everything that I told them, and not to tear their clothes ormake themselves untidy. These directions, even to myself, at the time,appeared contradictory. But I said nothing. And out into the wilds thefour of us departed.
I was an only child. My own infancy had passed from my memory. To me,at twelve, the ideas of six were as incomprehensible as are those oftwenty to the University professor of forty. I wanted to be a pirate.Round the corner and across the road building operations were inprogress. Planks and poles lay ready to one’s hand. Nature, in theneighbourhood, had placed conveniently a shallow pond. It was Saturdayafternoon. The nearest public-house was a mile away. Immunity frominterference by the British workman was thus assured. It occurred to methat by placing my three depressed looking relatives on one raft,attacking them myself from another, taking the eldest girl’s sixpenceaway from her, disabling their raft, and leaving them to drift without arudder, innocent amusement would be provided for half an hour at least.
They did not want to play at pirates. At first sight of the pond thething that called itself a boy began to cry. The six-year-old lady saidshe did not like the smell of it. Not even after I had explained thegame to them were they any the more enthusiastic for it.
I proposed Red Indians. They could go to sleep in the unfinishedbuilding upon a sack of lime, I would creep up through the grass, setfire to the house, and dance round it, whooping and waving my tomahawk,watching with fiendish delight the frantic but futile efforts of thepalefaces to escape their doom.
It did not “catch on”—not even that. The precious thing in the lacecollar began to cry again. The creature concerning whom I could not havetold you whether it was male or female made no attempt at argument, butstarted to run; it seemed to have taken a dislike to this particularfield. It stumbled over a scaffolding pole, and then it also began tocry. What could one do to amuse such people? I left it to them topropose something. They thought they would like to play at “Mothers”—notin this field, but in some other field.
The eldest girl would be mother. The other two would represent herchildren. They had been taken suddenly ill. “Waterworks,” as I hadchristened him, was to hold his hands to his middle and groan. His facebrightened up at the suggestion. The nondescript had the toothache. Ittook up its part without a moment’s hesitation, and set to work toscream. I could be the doctor and look at their tongues.
That was their “ideal” game. As I have said, remembering that afternoon,I can sympathise with the University professor mourning the absence ofUniversity ideals in youth. Possibly at six my own ideal game may havebeen “Mothers.” Looking back from the pile of birthdays upon which I nowstand, it occurs to me that very probably it was. But from theperspective of twelve, the reflection that there were beings in the worldwho could find recreation in such fooling saddened me.
Eight years later, his father not being able to afford the time, Iconducted Master “Waterworks,” now a healthy, uninteresting, gawky lad,to a school in Switzerland. It was my first Continental trip. I shouldhave enjoyed it better had he not been with me. He thought Paris a“beastly hole.” He did not share my admiration for the Frenchwoman; heeven thought her badly dressed.
“Why she’s so tied up, she can’t walk straight,” was the only impressionshe left upon him.
We changed the subject; it irritated me to hear him talk. The beautifulJuno-like creatures we came across further on in Germany, he said weretoo fat. He wanted to see them run. I found him utterly soulless.
To expect a boy to love learning and culture is like expecting him toprefer old vintage claret to gooseberry wine. Culture for the majorityis an acquired taste. Speaking personally, I am entirely in agreementwith the University professor. I find knowledge, prompting toobservation and leading to reflection, the most satisfactory luggage withwhich a traveller through life can provide himself. I would that I hadmore of it. To be able to enjoy a picture is of more advantage than tobe able to buy it.
All that the University professor can urge in favour of idealism I amprepared to endorse. But then I am—let us say, thirty-nine. At fourteenmy candid opinion was that he was talking “rot.” I looked at the oldgentleman himself—a narrow-chested, spectacled old gentleman, who livedup a by street. He did not seem to have much fun of any sort. It wasnot my ideal. He told me things had been written in a language calledGreek that I should enjoy reading, but I had not even read all CaptainMarryat. There were tales by Sir Walter Scott and “Jack Harkaway’sSchooldays!” I felt I could wait a while. There was a chap calledAristophanes who had written comedies, satirising the politicalinstitutions of a country that had disappeared two thousand years ago. Isay, without shame, Drury Lane pantomime and Barnum’s Circus called to memore strongly.
Wishing to give the old gentleman a chance, I dipped into translations.Some of these old fellows were not as bad as I had imagined them. Aparty named Homer had written some really interesting stuff. Here andthere, maybe, he was a bit long-winded, but, taking him as a whole, therewas “go” in him. There was another of them—Ovid was his name. He couldtell a story, Ovid could. He had imagination. He was almost as good as“Robinson Crusoe.” I thought it would please my professor, telling himthat I was reading these, his favourite authors.
“Reading them!” he cried, “but you don’t know Greek or Latin.”
“But I know English,” I answered; “they have all been translated intoEnglish. You never told me that!”
It appeared it was not the same thing. There were subtle delicacies ofdiction bound to escape even the best translator. These subtledelicacies of diction I could enjoy only by devoting the next seven oreight years of my life to the study of Greek and Latin. It will grievethe University professor to hear it, but the enjoyment of those subtledelicacies of diction did not appear to me—I was only fourteen at thetime, please remember—to be worth the time and trouble.
The boy is materially inclined—the mourning American professor hasdiscovered it. I did not want to be an idealist living up a back street.I wanted to live in the biggest house in the best street of the town. Iwanted to ride a horse, wear a fur coat, and have as much to eat anddrink as ever I liked. I wanted to marry the most beautiful woman in theworld, to have my name i
n the newspaper, and to know that everybody wasenvying me.
Mourn over it, my dear professor, as you will—that is the ideal of youth;and, so long as human nature remains what it is, will continue to be so.It is a materialistic ideal—a sordid ideal. Maybe it is necessary.Maybe the world would not move much if the young men started thinking tooearly. They want to be rich, so they fling themselves frenziedly intothe struggle. They build the towns, and make the railway tracks, hewdown the forests, dig the ore out of the ground. There comes a day whenit is borne in upon them that trying to get rich is a poor sort ofgame—that there is only one thing more tiresome than being a millionaire,and that is trying to be a millionaire. But, meanwhile, the world hasgot its work done.
The American professor fears that the artistic development of Americaleaves much to be desired. I fear the artistic development of mostcountries leaves much to be desired. Why the Athenians themselvessandwiched their drama between wrestling competitions and boxing bouts.The plays of Sophocles, or Euripides, were given as “side shows.” Thechief items of the fair were the games and races. Besides, America isstill a young man. It has been busy “getting on in the world.” It hasnot yet quite finished. Yet there are signs that young America isapproaching the thirty-nines. He is finding a little time, a littlemoney to spare for art. One can almost hear young America—not quite soyoung as he was—saying to Mrs. Europe as he enters and closes the shopdoor:
“Well, ma’am, here I am, and maybe you’ll be glad to hear I’ve a littlemoney to spend. Yes, ma’am, I’ve fixed things all right across thewater; we shan’t starve. So now, ma’am, you and I can have a chatconcerning this art I’ve been hearing so much about. Let’s have a lookat it, ma’am, trot it out, and don’t you be afraid of putting a fairprice upon it.”
I am inclined to think that Mrs. Europe has not hesitated to put a goodprice upon the art she has sold to Uncle Sam. I am afraid Mrs. Europehas occasionally “unloaded” on Uncle Sam. I talked to a certain dealerone afternoon, now many years ago, at the Uwantit Club.
“What is the next picture likely to be missing?” I asked him in thecourse of general conversation.
“Thome little thing of Hoppner’th, if it mutht be,” he replied withconfidence.
“Hoppner,” I murmured, “I seem to have heard the name.”
“Yeth; you’ll hear it a bit oftener during the next eighteen month ortho. You take care you don’t get tired of hearing it, thath all,” helaughed. “Yeth,” he continued, thoughtfully, “Reynoldth ith played out.Nothing much to be made of Gainthborough, either. Dealing in that lotnow, why, it’th like keeping a potht offith. Hoppner’th the coming man.”
“You’ve been buying Hoppners up cheap,” I suggested.
“Between uth,” he answered, “yeth, I think we’ve got them all. Maybe afew more. I don’t think we’ve mithed any.”
“You will sell them for more than you gave for them,” I hinted.
“You’re thmart,” he answered, regarding me admiringly, “you thee througheverything you do.”
“How do you work it?” I asked him. There is a time in the day when he isconfidential. “Here is this man, Hoppner. I take it that you havebought him up at an average of a hundred pounds a picture, and that atthat price most owners were fairly glad to sell. Few folks outside theart schools have ever heard of him. I bet that at the present momentthere isn’t one art critic who could spell his name without reference toa dictionary. In eighteen months you will be selling him for anythingfrom one thousand to ten thousand pounds. How is it done?”
“How ith everything done that’th done well?” he answered. “By earnethteffort.” He hitched his chair nearer to me, “I get a chap—one of yourthort of chapth—he writ’th an article about Hoppner. I get another toanthwer him. Before I’ve done there’ll be a hundred articleth aboutHoppner—hith life, hith early thruggie, anecdo’th about hith wife. Thena Hoppner will be thold at public auchtion for a thouthand guineath.”
“But how can you be certain it will fetch a thousand guineas?” Iinterrupted.
“I happen to know the man whoth going to buy it.” He winked, and Iunderstood.
“A fortnight later there will be a thale of half-a-dothen, and the prithewill be gone up by that time.”
“And after that?” I said.
“After that,” he replied, rising, “the American millionaire! He’ll juthtbe waiting on the door-thtep for the thale-room to open.”
“If by any chance I come across a Hoppner?” I said, laughing, as I turnedto go.
“Don’t you hold on to it too long, that’th all,” was his advice.
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