The Parisian
shopman harbors similar ambitions - only he expresses them with
more attention to detail. The noon hour arriving, the French
shophand doffs his apron and his air of deference. He puts on a
high hat and a frock coat that have been on a peg behind the door
all the morning, gathers up his cane and his gloves; and, becoming
on the instant a swagger and a swaggering boulevardier, he saunters
to his favorite sidewalk cafe for a cordial glassful of a pink or
green or purple drink. When his little hour of glory is over and
done with he returns to his counter, sheds his grandeur and is
once more your humble and ingratiating servitor.
In residential London on a Sunday afternoon one beholds some weird
and wonderful costumes. On a Sunday afternoon in a sub-suburb of
a Kensington suburb I saw, passing through a drab, sad side street,
a little Cockney man with the sketchy nose and unfinished features
of his breed. He was presumably going to church, for he carried
a large Testament under his arm. He wore, among other things, a
pair of white spats, a long-tailed coat and a high hat. It was
not a regular high hat, either, but one of those trick-performing
hats which, on signal, will lie doggo or else sit up and beg. And
he was riding a bicycle of an ancient vintage!
The most impressively got-up civilians in England - or in the world,
either, for that matter - are the assistant managers and the deputy
cashiers of the big London hotels. Compared with them the lilies
of the field are as lilies in the bulb. Their collars are higher,
their ties are more resplendent, their frock coats more floppy as
to the tail and more flappy as to the lapel, than it is possible
to imagine until you have seen it all with your own wondering eyes.
They are haughty creatures, too, austere and full of a starchy
dignity; but when you come to pay your bill you find at least one
of them lined up with the valet and the waiter, the manservant and
the maidservant, the ox and the ass, hand out and palm open to get
his tip. Having tipped him you depart feeling ennobled and uplifted
- as though you had conferred a purse of gold on a marquis.
Chapter XI
Dressed to Kill
With us it is the dress of the women that gives life and color to
the shifting show of street life. In Europe it is the soldier,
and in England the private soldier particularly. The German private
soldier is too stiff, and the French private soldier is too limber,
and the Italian private soldier has been away from the dry-cleanser's
too long; but the British Tommy Atkins is a perfect piece of work
- what with his dinky cap tilted over one eye, and his red tunic
that fits him without blemish or wrinkle, and his snappy little
swagger stick flirting the air. As a picture of a first-class
fighting man I know of but one to match him, and that is a khaki-clad,
service-hatted Yankee regular - long may he wave!
There may be something finer in the way of a military spectacle
than the change of horse-guards at Whitehall or the march of the
foot-guards across the green in St. James' Park on a fine, bright
morning - but I do not know what it is. One day, passing Buckingham
Palace, I came on a footguard on duty in one of the little sentry
boxes just outside the walls. He did not look as though he were
alive. He looked as though he had been stuffed and mounted by a
most expert taxidermist. From under his bearskin shako and from
over his brazen chin-strap his face stared out unwinking and solemn
and barren of thought.
I said to myself: "It is taking a long chance, but I shall ascertain
whether this party has any human emotions." So I halted directly
in front of him and began staring fixedly at his midriff as though
I saw a button unfastened there or a buckle disarranged. For a
space of minutes I kept my gaze on him without cessation.
Finally the situation grew painful; but it was not that British
grenadier who grew embarrassed and fidgety - it was the other party
to the transaction. His gaze never shifted, his eyes never
wavered - but I came away feeling all wriggly.
In no outward regard whatsoever do the soldiers on the Continent
compare with the soldiers of the British archipelago. When he is
not on actual duty the German private is always going somewhere
in a great hurry with something belonging to his superior
officer - usually a riding horse or a specially heavy valise. On
duty and off he wears that woodenness of expression - or, rather,
that wooden lack of expression - which is found nowhere in such
flower of perfection as on the faces of German soldiers and German
toys.
The Germans prove they have a sense of humor by requiring their
soldiers to march on parade with the goose step; and the French
prove they have none at all by incasing the defenseless legs of
their soldiers in those foolish red-flannel pants that are
manufactured in such profusion up at the Pantheon.
In the event of another war between the two nations I anticipate
a frightful mortality among pants - especially if the French forces
should be retreating. The German soldier is not a particularly
good marksman as marksmen go, but he would have to be the worst
shot in the world to miss a pair of French pants that were going
away from him at the time.
