CHAPTER XIV
Marcus Aurelius in America – Chairmen I have had – American, English, and Scotch Chairmen – One who had Been to Boulogne – Talkative and Silent Chairmen – A Trying Occasion – The Lord is Asked to Allow the Audience to See my Points
New York, January 22.
There are indeed very few Americans who have not either tact or a sense of humor. They make the best of chairmen. They know that the audience have not come to hear them, and that all that is required of them is to introduce the lecturer in very few words, and to give him a good start. Who is the lecturer that would not appreciate, nay, love, such a chairman as Dr. R. S. MacArthur, who introduced me yesterday to a New York audience in the following manner?
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” said he, “the story goes that, last summer, a party of Americans staying in Rome paid a visit to the famous Spithöver’s bookshop in the Piazza di Spagna. Now Spithöver is the most learned of bibliophiles. You must go thither if you need artistic and archæological works of the profoundest research and erudition. But one of the ladies in this tourists’ party only wanted the lively travels in America of Max O’Rell, and she asked for the book at Spithöver’s. There came in a deep guttural voice – an Anglo-German voice – from a spectacled clerk behind a desk, to this purport: ‘Marcus Aurelius vos neffer in te Unided Shtaates!’ But, ladies and gentlemen, he is now, and here he is.”
With such an introduction, I was immediately in touch with my audience.
What a change after English chairmen!
A few days before lecturing in any English town, under the auspices of a Literary Society or Mechanics’ Institute, the lecturer generally receives from the secretary a letter running somewhat as follow:
Dear Sir:
I have much pleasure in informing you that our Mr. Blank, one of our vice-presidents and a well-known resident here, will take the chair at your lecture.
Translated into plain English, this reads:
My poor fellow, I am much grieved to have to inform you that a chairman will be inflicted upon you on the occasion of your lecture before the members of our Society.
In my few years’ lecturing experience, I have come across all sorts and conditions of chairmen, but I can recollect very few that “have helped me.” Now, what is the office, the duty, of a chairman on such occasions? He is supposed to introduce the lecturer to the audience. For this he needs to be able to make a neat speech. He has to tell the audience who the lecturer is, in case they should not know it, which is seldom the case. I was once introduced to an audience who knew me, by a chairman who, I don’t think, had ever heard of me in his life. Before going on the platform he asked me whether I had written anything, next whether I was an Irishman or a Frenchman, etc.
Sometimes the chairman is nervous; he hems and haws, cannot find the words he wants, and only succeeds in fidgeting the audience. Sometimes, on the other hand, he is a wit. There is danger again. I was once introduced to a New York audience by General Horace Porter. Those of my readers who know the delightful general and have heard him deliver one of those little gems of speeches in his own inimitable manner, will agree with me that certainly there was danger in that; and they will not be surprised when I tell them that after his delightfully witty and graceful little introduction, I felt as if the best part of the show was over.
Sometimes the chair has to be offered to a magnate of the neighborhood, though he may be noted for his long, prosy orations – which annoy the public; or to a very popular man in the locality who gets all the applause – which annoys the lecturer.
“Brevity is the soul of wit,” should be the motto of chairmen, and I sympathize with a friend of mine who says that chairmen, like little boys and girls, should be seen and not heard.
Of those chairmen who can and do speak, the Scotch ones are generally good. They have a knack of starting the evening with some droll Scotch anecdote, told with that piquant and picturesque accent of theirs, and of putting the audience in a good humor. Occasionally they will also make apropos and equally droll little speeches at the close. One evening, in talking of America, I had mentioned the fact that American banquets were very lively, and that I thought the fact of Americans being able to keep up such a flow of wit for so many hours, was perhaps due to their drinking Apollinaris water instead of stronger things after dessert. At the end of the lecture, the chairman rose and said he had greatly enjoyed it, but that he must take exception to one statement the lecturer had made, for he thought it “fery deeficult to be wutty on Apollinaris watter.”
Another kind of chairman is the one who kills your finish, and stops all the possibility of your being called back for applause, by coming forward, the very instant the last words are out of your mouth, to inform the audience that the next lecture will be given by Mr. So-and-So, or to make a statement of the Society’s financial position, concluding by appealing to the members to induce their friends to join.
Then there is the chairman who does not know what you are going to talk about, but thinks it his duty to give the audience a kind of summary of what he imagines the lecture is going to be. He is terrible. But he is nothing to the one who, when the lecture is over, will persist in summing it up, and explaining your own jokes, especially the ones he has not quite seen through. This is the dullest, the saddest chairman yet invented.
Some modest chairmen apologize for standing between the lecturer and the audience, and declare they cannot speak, but do. Others promise to speak a minute only, but don’t.
“What shall I speak about?” said a chairman to me one day, after I had been introduced to him in the little back room behind the platform.
“If you will oblige me, sir,” I replied, “kindly speak about – one minute.”
Once I was introduced to the audience as the promoter of good feelings between France and England.
“Sometimes,” said the chairman, “we see clouds of misunderstanding arise between the French – between the English – between the two. The lecturer of this evening makes it his business to disperse these clouds – these clouds – to – to – But I will not detain you any longer. His name is familiar to all of us. I’m sure he needs no introduction to this audience. We all know him. I have much pleasure in introducing to you Mr. – Mosshiay – Mr. – ” Then he looked at me in despair.
It was evident he had forgotten my name.
“Max O’Rell is, I believe, what you are driving at,” I whispered to him.
…
The most objectionable chairmen in England are, perhaps, local men holding civic honors. Accustomed to deliver themselves of a speech whenever and wherever they get a chance, aldermen, town councilors, members of local boards, and school boards, never miss an opportunity of getting upon a platform to address a good crowd. Not long ago, I was introduced to an audience in a large English city by a candidate for civic honors. The election of the town council was to take place a fortnight afterward, and this gentleman profited by the occasion to air all his grievances against the sitting council, and to assure the citizens that if they would only elect him, there were bright days in store for them and their city. This was the gist of the matter. The speech lasted twenty minutes.
Once the chair was taken by an alderman in a Lancashire city, and the hall was crowded. “What a fine house!” I remarked to the chairman as we sat down on the platform.
“Very fine indeed,” he said; “everybody in the town knew I was going to take the chair.”
I was sorry I had spoken.
More than once, when announced to deliver a lecture on France and the French, I have been introduced by a chairman who, having spent his holidays in that country once or twice, opened the evening’s proceedings by himself delivering a lecture on France. I have felt very tempted to imitate a confrère, and say to the audience: “Ladies and Gentlemen, as one lecture on France is enough for an evening, perhaps you would rather I spoke about something else now.” The confrère I have just mentioned was to deliver a lecture on Charles Dickens one evening. The chairman knew something of Charles Dickens and, for quite a quarter of an hour, spoke on the great English novelist, giving anecdotes, extracts of his writings, etc. When the lecturer rose, he said: “Ladies and Gentlemen, two lectures on Charles Dickens are perhaps more than you expected to hear to-night. You have just heard a lecture on Charles Dickens. I am now going to give you one on Charles Kingsley.”
Sometimes I get a little amusement, however (as in the country town of X.), out of the usual proceedings of the society before whose members I am engaged to appear. At X., the audience being assembled and the time up, I was told to go on the platform alone and, being there, to immediately sit down. So I went on, and sat down. Some one in the room then rose and proposed that Mr. N. should take the chair. Mr. N., it appeared, had been to Boulogne (to B’long), and was particularly fitted to introduce a Frenchman. In a speech of about five minutes duration, all Mr. N.’s qualifications for the post of chairman that evening were duly set forth. Then some one else rose and seconded the proposition, re-enumerating most of these qualifications. Mr. N. then marched up the hall, ascended the platform, and proceeded to return thanks for the kind manner in which he had been proposed for the chair and for the enthusiasm (a few friends had applauded) with which the audience had sanctioned the choice. He said it was true that he had been in France, and that he greatly admired the country and the people, and he was glad to have this opportunity to say so before a Frenchman. Then he related some of his traveling impressions in France. A few people coughed, two or three more bold stamped their feet, but he took no heed and, for ten minutes, he gave the audience the benefit of the information he had gathered in Boulogne. These preliminaries over, I gave my lecture, after which Mr. N. called upon a member of the audience to propose a vote of thanks to the lecturer “for the most amusing and interesting discourse, etc.”
Now a paid lecturer wants his check when his work is over, and although a vote of thanks, when it is spontaneous, is a compliment which he greatly appreciates, he is more likely to feel awkwardness than pleasure when it is a mere red-tape formality. The vote of thanks, on this particular occasion, was proposed in due form. Then it was seconded by some one who repeated two or three of my points and spoiled them. By this time I began to enter into the fun of the thing, and, after having returned thanks for the vote of thanks and sat down, I stepped forward again, filled with a mild resolve to have the last word:
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” I said, “I have now much pleasure in proposing that a hearty vote of thanks be given Mr. N. for the able manner in which he has filled the chair. I am proud to have been introduced to you by an Englishman who knows my country so well.” I went again through the list of Mr. N.’s qualifications, not forgetting the trip to Boulogne and the impressions it had left on him. Somebody rose and seconded this. Mr. N. delivered a speech to thank the audience once more, and then those who had survived went home.
Some Nonconformist societies will engage a light or humorous lecturer, put him in their chapel, and open his mouth with prayer. Prayer is good, but I would as soon think of saying grace before dancing as of beginning my lecture with a prayer. This kind of experience has been mine several times. A truly trying experience it was, on the first occasion, to be accompanied to the platform by the minister, who, motioning me to sit down, advanced to the front, lowered his head, and said in solemn accents: “Let us pray.” After I got started, it took me fully ten minutes to make the people realize that they were not at church. This experience I have had in America as well as in England. Another experience in this line was still worse, for the prayer was supplemented by the singing of a hymn of ten or twelve verses. You may easily imagine that my first remark fell dead flat.
I have been introduced to audiences as Mossoo, Meshoe, and Mounzeer O’Reel, and other British adaptations of our word Monsieur, and found it very difficult to bear with equanimity a chairman who maltreated a name which I had taken some care to keep correctly spelt before the public. Yet this man is charming when compared with the one who, in the midst of his introductory remarks, turns to you, and in a stage whisper perfectly audible all over the hall, asks: “How do you pronounce your name?”
Passing over chairman chatty and chairman terse, chairman eloquent and chairman the reverse, I feel decidedly most kindly toward the silent chairman. He is very rare, but he does exist and, when met with, is exceedingly precious. Why he exists, in some English Institutes, I have always been at a loss to imagine. Whether he comes on to see that the lecturer does not run off before his time is up, or with the water bottle, which is the only portable thing on the platform generally; whether he is a successor to some venerable deaf and dumb founder of his Society; or whether he goes on with the lecturer to give a lesson in modesty to the public, as who should say: “I could speak an if I would, but I forbear.” Be his raison d’être what it may, we all love him. To the nervous novice he is a kind of quiet support, to the old stager he is as a picture unto the eye and as music unto the ear.
…
Here I pause. I want to collect my thoughts. Does my memory serve me? Am I dreaming, or worse still, am I on the point of inventing? No, I could not invent such a story, it is beyond my power.
I was once lecturing to the students of a religious college in America. Before I began, a professor stepped forward, and offered a prayer, in which he asked the Lord to allow the audience to see my points.
Now, I duly feel the weight of responsibility attaching to such a statement, and in justice to myself I can do no less than give the reader the petition just as it fell on my astonished ears:
“Lord, Thou knowest that we work hard for Thee, and that recreation is necessary in order that we may work with renewed vigor. We have to-night with us a gentleman from France [excuse my recording a compliment too flattering], whose criticisms are witty and refined, but subtle, and we pray Thee to so prepare our minds that we may thoroughly understand and enjoy them.”
“But subtle!”
I am still wondering whether my lectures are so subtle as to need praying over, or whether that audience was so dull that they needed praying for.
Whichever it was, the prayer was heard, for the audience proved warm, keen, and thoroughly appreciative.
CHAPTER XV
Reflections on the Typical American
New York, January 23.
I was asked to-day by the editor of the North American Review to write an article on the typical American.
The typical American!
In the eyes of my beloved compatriots, the typical American is a man with hair falling over his shoulders, wearing a sombrero, a red shirt, leather leggings, a pair of revolvers in his belt, spending his life on horseback, and able to shoot a fly off the tip of your nose without for a moment endangering your olfactory organ; and, since Buffalo Bill has been exhibiting his Indians and cowboys to the Parisians, this impression has become a deep conviction.
I shall never forget the astonishment I caused to my mother when I first broke the news to her that I wanted to go to America. My mother had practically never left a lovely little provincial town of France. Her face expressed perfect bewilderment.
“You don’t mean to say you want to go to America?” she said. “What for?”
“I am invited to give lectures there.”
“Lectures? in what language?”
“Well, mother, I will try my best in English.”
“Do they speak English out there?”
“H’m – pretty well, I think.”
We did not go any further on the subject that time. Probably the good mother thought of the time when the Californian gold-fields attracted all the scum of Europe, and, no doubt, she thought that it was strange for a man who had a decent position in Europe, to go and “seek fortune” in America.
Later on, however, after returning to England, I wrote to her that I had made up my mind to go.
Her answer was full of gentle reproaches, and of sorrow at seeing that she had lost all her influence over her son. She signed herself “always your loving mother,” and indulged in a postscript. Madame de Sévigné said that the gist of a woman’s letter was to be found in the postscript.
My mother’s was this:
“P.S. – I shall not tell any one in the town that you have gone to America.”
This explains why I still dare show my face in my little native town.
…
The typical American!
First of all, does he exist? I do not think so. As I have said elsewhere, there are Americans in plenty, but the American has not made his appearance yet. The type existed a hundred years ago in New England. He is there still; but he is not now a national type, he is only a local one.
I was talking one day with two eminent Americans on the subject of the typical American, real or imaginary. One of them was of opinion that he was a taciturn being; the other, on the contrary, maintained that he was talkative. How is a foreigner to dare decide, where two eminent natives find it impossible to agree?
In speaking of the typical American, let us understand each other. All the civilized nations of the earth are alike in one respect; they are all composed of two kinds of men, those that are gentlemen, and those that are not. America is no exception to this rule. Fifth Avenue does not differ from Belgravia and Mayfair. A gentleman is everywhere a gentleman. As a type, he belongs to no particular country, he is universal.
When the writer of some “society” paper, English or American, reproaches a sociologist for writing about the masses instead of the classes, suggesting that “he probably never frequented the best society of the nation he describes,” that writer writes himself down an ass.
In the matters of feeling, conduct, taste, culture, I have never discovered the least difference between a gentleman from America and a gentleman from France, England, Russia, or any other country of Europe – including Germany. So, if we want to find a typical American, it is not in good society that we must search for him, but among the mass of the population.
Well, it is just here that our search will break down. We shall come across all sorts and conditions of Americans, but not one that is really typical.
A little while ago, the Century Magazine published specimens of composite photography. First, there was the portrait of one person, then that of this same face with another superposed, then another containing three faces blended, and so on up to eight or nine. On the last page the result was shown. I can only compare the typical American to the last of those. This appears to me the process of evolution through which the American type is now going. What it will be when this process of evolution is over, no one, I imagine, can tell. The evolution will be complete when immigration shall have ceased, and all the different types have been well mixed and assimilated. While the process of assimilation is still going on, the result is suspended, and the type is incomplete.
But, meanwhile, are there not certain characteristic traits to be found throughout almost all America? That is a question much easier to answer.
Is it necessary to repeat that I put aside good society and confine myself merely to the people?
Nations are like individuals: when they are young, they have the qualities and the defects of children. The characteristic trait of childhood is curiosity. It is also that of the American. I have never been in Australia, but I should expect to find this trait in the Australian.
Look at American journalism. What does it live on? Scandal and gossip. Let a writer, an artist, or any one else become popular in the States, and the papers will immediately tell the public at what time he rises and what he takes for breakfast. When any one of the least importance arrives in America, he is quickly beset by a band of reporters who ask him a host of preposterous questions and examine him minutely from head to foot, in order to tell the public next day whether he wears laced, buttoned, or elastic boots, enlighten them as to the cut of his coat and the color of his trowsers, and let them know if he parts his hair in the middle or not.
Every time I went into a new town to lecture I was interviewed, and the next day, besides an account of the lecture, there was invariably a paragraph somewhat in this style:
The lecturer is a man of about forty, whose cranium is getting visible through his hair. He wears a double eye-glass, with which he plays while talking to his audience. His handkerchief was black-bordered. He wore the regulation patent leather shoes, and his shirt front was fastened with a single stud. He spoke without effort or pretension, and often with his hands in his pockets, etc.
A few days ago, on reading the morning papers in a town where I had lectured the night before, I found, in one of them, about twenty lines consecrated to my lecture, and half a column to my hat.
I must tell you that this hat was brown, and all the hats in America are black. If you wear anything that is not exactly like what Americans wear, you are gazed at as if you were a curious animal. The Americans are as great badauds as the Parisians. In London, you may go down Regent Street or Piccadilly got up as a Swiss admiral, a Polish general, or even a Highlander, and nobody will take the trouble to look at you. But, in America, you have only to put on a brown hat or a pair of light trowsers, and you will become the object of a curiosity which will not fail very promptly to bore you, if you are fond of tranquility, and like to go about unremarked.
I was so fond of that poor brown hat, too! It was an incomparably obliging hat. It took any shape, and adapted itself to any circumstances. It even went into my pocket on occasions. I had bought it at Lincoln & Bennett’s, if you please. But I had to give it up. To my great regret, I saw that it was imperative: its popularity bid fair to make me jealous. Twenty lines about me, and half a column about that hat! It was time to come to some determination. It was not to be put up with any longer. So I took it up tenderly, smoothed it with care, and laid it in a neat box which was then posted to the chief editor of the paper with the following note:
Dear Sir:
I see by your estimable paper that my hat has attracted a good deal of public attention during its short sojourn in your city. I am even tempted to think that it has attracted more of it than my lecture. I send you the interesting headgear, and beg you will accept it as a souvenir of my visit, and with my respectful compliments.
A citizen of the Great Republic knows how to take a joke. The worthy editor inserted my letter in the next number of his paper, and informed his readers that my hat fitted him to a nicety, and that he was going to have it dyed and wear it. He further said, “Max O’Rell evidently thinks the song, ‘Where did you get that hat?’ was specially written to annoy him,” and went on to the effect that “Max O’Rell is not the only man who does not care to tell where he got his hat.”
Do not run away with the idea that such nonsense as this has no interest for the American public. It has.
American reporters have asked me, with the most serious face in the world, whether I worked in the morning, afternoon, or evening, and what color paper I used (sic). One actually asked me whether it was true that M. Jules Claretie used white paper to write his novels on, and blue paper for his newspaper articles. Not having the honor of a personal acquaintance with the director of the Comédie-Française, I had to confess my inability to gratify my amiable interlocutor.
Look at the advertisements in the newspapers. There you have the bootmaker, the hatter, the traveling quack, publishing their portraits at the head of their advertisements. Why are those portraits there, if it be not to satisfy the curiosity of customers?
The mass of personalities, each more trumpery than the other, those details of people’s private life, and all the gossip daily served up in the newspapers, are they not proof enough that curiosity is a characteristic trait of the American?
This curiosity, which often shows itself in the most impossible questions, gives immense amusement to Europeans. Unhappily, it amuses them at the expense of well-bred Americans – people who are as innocent of it as the members of the stiffest aristocracy in the world could be. The English, especially, persist in not distinguishing Americans who are gentlemen from Americans who are not.
…
And even that easy-going American bourgeois, with his childish but good-humored nature, they often fail to do justice to. They too often look at his curiosity as impertinence and ill-breeding, and will not admit that, in nine cases out of ten, the freedom he uses with you is but a show of good feeling, an act of good-fellowship.
Take, for instance, the following little story:
An American is seated in a railway carriage, and opposite him is a lady in deep mourning, and looking a picture of sadness; a veritable mater dolorosa.
“Lost a father?” begins the worthy fellow.
“No, sir.”
“A mother, maybe?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah! a child then?”
“No, sir; I have lost my husband.”
“Your husband! Ah! Left you comfortable?”
The lady, rather offended, retires to the other end of the car, and cuts short the conversation.
“Rather stuck up, this woman,” remarks the good Yankee to his neighbor.
The intention was good, if the way of showing it was not. He had but wanted to show the poor lady the interest he took in her.
After having seen you two or three times, the American will suppress “Mr.” and address you by your name without any handle to it. Do not say that this is ill placed familiarity; it is meant as an act of good-fellowship, and should be received by you as such.
If you are stiff, proud, and stuck-up, for goodness’ sake, never go to America; you will never get on there. On the contrary, take over a stock of simple, affable manners and a good temper, and you will be treated as a friend everywhere, fêted, and well looked after.
In fact, try to deserve a certificate of good-fellowship, such as the Clover Club, of Philadelphia, awards to those who can sit at its hospitable table without taking affront at the little railleries leveled at them by the members of that lively association. With people of refinement who have humor, you can indulge in a joke at their expense. So says La Bruyère. Every visitor to America, who wants to bring back a pleasant recollection of his stay there, should lay this to heart.
Such are the impressions that I formed of the American during my first trip to his country, and the more I think over the matter, the more sure I am that they were correct. Curiosity is his chief little failing, and good-fellowship his most prominent quality. This is the theme I will develop and send to the Editor of the North American Review. I will profit by having a couple of days to spend in New York to install myself in a cosy corner of that cosiest of clubs, the “Players,” and there write it.
It seems that, in the same number of this magazine, the same subject is to be treated by Mr. Andrew Lang. He has never seen Jonathan at home, and it will be interesting to see what impressions he has formed of him abroad. In the hands of such a graceful writer, the “typical American” is sure to be treated in a pleasant and interesting manner.