Florida Pier : writings and about       /       jmcvey.net

Proprieties, Absurdities, and Umbrella Carriers
Harper’s Weekly (July 31, 1909) : 29
U Michigan copy/scan (via hathitrust) : link
archive.org : link
 

      The sense of — can it be propriety? — that makes us declare we had a delightful time when that was the thing we started out to have, is singularly perplexing. It is not for our own sakes that we conceal any little disillusionment we may have met with, but, oddly enough, out of regard for the feelings of our friends. They are so obviously embarrassed if a bride remarks that it rained all the time she was on her honeymoon, or a careless person lets slip the fact that her Christmas was a gloomy affair. Every one shudders slightly at such disclosures, and there is a general feeling that the bride was not quite delicate in noticing the rain, while they supposed every one knew that a happy Christmas was synonymous with good breeding. This curious little trait tends toward cheerfulness in conversation, which is perhaps sufficient to recommend it; but there is, nevertheless, an absurdity about it. Why should petty disappointments, that would disperse utterly at the first recounting of them, be carefully concealed? Some people of course could not be trusted not to enlarge upon their little upsets, and it may be as well to take no chances; yet the absurdity remains, and to choose one’s fibs with care, letting no facts leak out that could in any way disturb one’s acquaintance — why, the thing smacks of farce. yet the absurdity remains, and to choose one’s fibs with care, letting no facts leak out that could in any way disturb one’s acquaintance — why, the thing smacks of farce.
      The conspiracy is so complete, we are all doing it. A cheerful hullaballoo is demanded of every one returning from a vacation. It is only when it has been achieved, and one in great privacy has recovered from the sadness of returning at all, that to an extremely intimate friend are whispered the words, “I sprained my ankle the day I got there and have been in bed ever since.” There are perverse souls who will indulge themselves in a childish, indiscreet truthfulness, and pig-headedly tell exactly what happened to them, but though it may relieve them to go against public opinion they are punished for it. Every one for the future regards them a little suspiciously. They are liked with reservations, and folk remark, coldly, “He may be all right — I don’t say he isn’t — only he had influenza in Venice and was confined to his room.” Now, it is hard enough to have such a thing happen, without being misjudged on account of it. But, on second thoughts, it is not because a misfortune happens to one when on a frisk, but because one does the unforgivable thing of mentioning it, that a penalty of unpopularity is demanded. To say that a good time was bungled, no allowance being made for its not having been your fault, is somehow to confess that one is more or less of a duffer. The world apparently feels that if one is a duffer it should be concealed to the last, on the principle that what is not admitted may eventually cease to be.
      So perhaps, after all, the world knows what it is about, and insists with its usual good sense that we keep the consequences of our vacations in our private memories. It is unintelligent not to enjoy a thing — so the world most properly decrees — particularly if that was one’s intention in the beginning. It is more than unintelligent. It is the height of stupidity, and nothing is more right than our being made to feel it. The dullest mind can be bored; and as for colds, bad weather, and broken legs, these come under the head of bad management. It is inspired to refuse a sympathetic hearing to people who have not enjoyed themselves. Even more stringent measures should be taken. If discontentment lurks in the eye of a returning pleasure-seeker, make his home-coming so uncomfortable that by comparison his trip will seem irreproachable. If people have not sense enough to be happy on their own hook they must be bullied into at least seeming so.

      It seems doubtful if the amiable, absent-minded people who enter your house, and seeing nothing, sit and talk to you, see, after all, even you. There is comfort in knowing that they were blind to the fact that the fire was smoking and the tea cold, would even have been quite oblivious if you had received them in the garret or the cellar; yet after a time the desire comes to have them talk a little less well, even to have them exclaim pleasantly at certain bibelots, and perhaps be a little ordinary on the subject of prints. When they high-mindedly refuse thus to scatter their attention, not so much as taking in one of your worthless little objects, you begin to wonder if you have not been overlooked with the rest of the things in the room, and are not mistaken in your idea that you are being talked to. The incident of your listening is certainly not enough to justify you in such an assumption. The voice goes on saying such uncommonly good things, talking better than any other voice that visits at your house, but, with all unwillingness to accept it, the idea will obtrude itself that you are nothing better than an eavesdropper. The voice asked for you, it shook hands with you when you came into the room, but after gaining entrance by a performance of these formalities it now seems to be getting on very well without help from any one, and you are not wholly sure that it means you to listen. On the other hand, if a visitor dashes about the room taking in and discussing every picture and book, the prospect is a bright one. With patience you await your turn; it will come in the natural order of things. After the photographs on the table, or perhaps during the visitor’s second call, he will suddenly observe you, and — who knows? may give you undivided attention. At any rate, the chances of being noticed are exceedingly good, and the mere possibility enlivens the day. Even this contenting oneself with little is infinitely preferable to watching a literary guest walk soaringly over hassocks and puppies. Such lack of concern for detail makes one fear for one’s safety and arouses a marked leaning toward the person of hovering, undistinguished mind who at any moment may, so to speak, include you in his call.

      Could umbrella carriers be appointed? They would simplify matters greatly. In the present state of affairs carrying an umbrella is fraught with much mental strain. There is the need of hasty decision on a crowded sidewalk four or five times during each block. Will the woman with the green hat duck her umbrella? If she does, will the man with the financial expression raise his on high? And if they both do these things, how high had you better raise yours in order to slide it neatly in between the other two? If this problem is not occupying your mind there are a lot of smaller ones that flurry you quite as much. The one with most vicious traits is an epidemic that spreads among the ribs of one’s umbrella for getting caught in the veils of perfectly strange women...
One knows these things beyond the shadow of a doubt, for sometimes one is the woman with the veil. The one with most vicious traits is an epidemic that spreads among the ribs of one’s umbrella for getting caught in the veils of perfectly strange women. These women are always in a great hurry and they seldom have any self-control. Their tempers are of the worst and their veils are possessed by small devils who refuse to let the end of an umbrella rib go once it is well entangled in their meshes. One knows these things beyond the shadow of a doubt, for sometimes one is the woman with the veil. Then there are the people who threaten your umbrella with punctures — they are apt to do it with especial venom on the day your umbrella is new or borrowed and there are the people who scowl at you because they think you made a calculated jab at their umbrella when you could easily prove that you did not even know of their existence. This list does not hope to include the tricks your umbrella performs on its own account when you have stuck it under your arm and are trying to hold it by muscular contraction, while doing three entirely separate things with each hand. Nor will there be any attempt made to enumerate the careless, unhumanitarian habits of people of irregular heights who carry their umbrellas on a line with other people’s persons and forget wholly the rather large circumference of an umbrella. The happily isolated few who carry their umbrella before them, holding it as they would a shield and trusting that the point will work sufficient havoc to clear them a way while they evade all consequences by hiding their faces in the depths of their weapon — these would have to be treated separately. Now that the horrors of umbrella carrying have been skimmingly outlined it brings us again to the question, Is there any way in which special, licensed carriers might be appointed? Of course none but the tallest would be wanted, and it might be made a mark of honor, so that no salaries need be paid. If this could be brought about a protecting though moving canopy would be furnished by the carriers, and the rest of the walking world could scuttle happily underneath. No umbrellas would be lost or borrowed — naturally not if they were badges of office — only a few people would need to have them, and apparently the great value of this suggestion would eliminate most of the trials of a rainy day.
 

20260823