Bigfoot Joe, and Others: Figments of Fancy by H. Bedford-Jones - HTML preview

THE LITTLE VISITORS

It was lately my good fortune—and I so term it advisedly—to entertain a budding Bolshevist in my midst.

He was an excellent young man and a fellow writer, who had been discharged as an officer of the nation's armed forces. Not knowing him intimately, I invited him, with his brother, to spend a part of the summer in a cottage which I maintained as an office.

In due time the twain arrived and were heartily welcomed. They were made quite at home in my studio, which was furnished to my own fancy with books, rugs, tools of the trade, rare and curious objects from foreign parts, and, what occasioned much interest, an amount of correspondence filed away.

The young gentlemen made themselves very much at home, and, in the course of a few days' intimacy, confessed to a boyishly intense sympathy with the Bolsheviki. They reveled in a white-collar abstinence, oblivious that the hated uniforms were vastly more becoming than their present garb, and took a keen delight in tearing to shreds the integrity of the press and the administration. One must admit that the latter was rather silly; but to think the press of the world in a vast conspiracy of lies against Lenine et al., savored too much of a de Quincy phantasy.

Political creeds, of course, could not mar the pleasure of the visit. But in course of time it gradually dawned upon me that my guests were rather exacting in their way of taking things for granted.

They acquired a happy faculty of letting me run their errands, or of utilizing my services as chauffeur. The only argument against this was its matter-of-course air. I presume that the Bolsheviki, like the Arabs, feel any expression of gratitude to be unworthy them.

Still, this was but a small cavil against great writers—men of genius who had accomplished high things in their profession and were attaining a worthy place in literature!

It was with some misgivings, however, that I observed certain very odd tendencies; such as, for example, plying the gentle arts of Munchausen upon the despised caste of editors.

When one delicately hinted that this might hardly be considered as strictly ethical, the notion was greeted with roars of scornful laughter. Ethics were individual things entirely, much beneath the consideration of free artists. And what was an editor compared with one who wrote literature? Less than the dust!

However, the suggestion that it was the editor who wrote the checks, proved to be sobering—amazingly sobering.

The days wore breezily on, with much writing and earnest endeavor, and much discussion of why no man in the writing game today deserved the place he held; that is, no man at the top. One or two had some facility; a little plot, perhaps, a gift of words, a lilt to paragraphs—but this was "all they had." The heroic dead, happily, possessed virtues.

There began to be a Bolshevik atmosphere about the place, a vague and unsatisfied air of much begun and little finished. Oddly enough, my friend were working on anti-red propaganda; excellent work, too, if it did come but slowly. Curious how antipathy to white collars seems to involve in its anathema all forms of hard labor!

The visitors found the country lonely. One evening I dropped in unexpectedly at the office, and my presence seemed to excite an odd embarrassment. It developed that my friends were giving a party, so of course I at once withdrew gracefully.

Some time later, a young man about town informed me, grinningly, that them letters I got from editors were suttinly rich! Upon inquiry I found that my guests kindly elucidated the art of writing, to their local acquaintance, by means of my correspondence.

Nor did they deny the matter. They were so puzzled at my objections that anger could not exist; since I did object, of course it would occur no more. In the face of so charming a simplicity, what could the ruffled course of hospitality do but resume the even tenor of its way?

But little things, as is their habit, in time grow onerous. Around the books, the rare and curious objects, the writing tools, climbed filth and squalor unbelievable. In despair, seeking the kindliest way out of the impasse, I was summoned away for a month or so. Not without some misgivings—quite justified by events.

When I returned to the office, I found that my guests had departed. So had many of my books and things. In their stead remained castoff raiment and much misplaced matter.

I have now adopted the firm rule of invariably inquiring into the politics of a friend before erecting him into the status of a guest.

Sonnet au Lecteur

I hailed you, reader, after ancient wont,
 Crying "Bonjour!" upon my first fair page;
 Closes my book in type of gloomier font—
 For we are come into a perilous age.
 Gone are the golden days of merry wage,
 Of nymphs and laughing gods, of kings who ranted,
 Of sober men who jeered me for a child,
 Of merry fools who jeered me for a sage.
 In factioned strife our troubled time is veiled,
 Our poets sing, with politics inflamed;
 Yet shall I not be counted to have failed
 If you, who read me, read me once again!
 And if two words my wisdom may contain,
 Let them be Joy and Folly, unashamed!

HERE ENDS THE BOOK