the angel and the author-第11章
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would follow。 Then the horses would be put to again； the German
tourists would climb back to their places and be driven away； asking
of the coachman what the name of the place they had just left might
happen to be。
＇The Postcard as a Family Curse。＇
One presumes that even to the patient German the thing grew tiresome。
In the Fliegende Blatter two young clerks were represented discussing
the question of summer holidays。
〃Where are you going？〃 asks A of B。
〃Nowhere；〃 answers B。
〃Can't you afford it？〃 asks the sympathetic A。
〃Only been able to save up enough for the postcards；〃 answers B；
gloomily； 〃no money left for the trip。〃
Men and women carried bulky volumes containing the names and
addresses of the people to whom they had promised to send cards。
Everywhere； through winding forest glade； by silver sea； on mountain
pathway； one met with prematurely aged looking tourists muttering as
they walked：
〃Did I send Aunt Gretchen a postcard from that last village that we
stopped at； or did I address two to Cousin Lisa？〃
Then； again； maybe； the picture postcard led to disappointment。
Uninteresting towns clamoured； as ill…favoured spinsters in a
photographic studio； to be made beautiful。
〃I want；〃 says the lady； 〃a photograph my friends will really like。
Some of these second…rate photographers make one look quite plain。 I
don't want you to flatter me； if you understand； I merely want
something nice。〃
The obliging photographer does his best。 The nose is carefully toned
down； the wart becomes a dimple； her own husband doesn't know her。
The postcard artist has ended by imagining everything as it might
have been。
〃If it were not for the houses；〃 says the postcard artist to himself；
〃this might have been a picturesque old High street of mediaeval
aspect。〃
So he draws a picture of the High street as it might have been。 The
lover of quaint architecture travels out of his way to see it； and
when he finds it and contrasts it with the picture postcard he gets
mad。 I bought a postcard myself once representing the market place
of a certain French town。 It seemed to me； looking at the postcard；
that I hadn't really seen Francenot yet。 I travelled nearly a
hundred miles to see that market place。 I was careful to arrive on
market day and to get there at the right time。 I reached the market
square and looked at it。 Then I asked a gendarme where it was。
He said it was therethat I was in it。
I said； 〃I don't mean this one； I want the other one； the picturesque
one。〃
He said it was the only market square they had。 I took the postcard
from my pocket。
〃Where are all the girls？〃 I asked him。
〃What girls？〃 he demanded。
＇The Artist's Dream。＇
〃Why； these girls；〃 I showed him the postcard； there ought to have
been about a hundred of them。 There was not a plain one among the
lot。 Many of them I should have called beautiful。 They were selling
flowers and fruit； all kinds of fruitcherries； strawberries； rosy…
cheeked apples； luscious grapesall freshly picked and sparkling
with dew。 The gendarme said he had never seen any girlsnot in this
particular square。 Referring casually to the blood of saints and
martyrs； he said he would like to see a few girls in that town worth
looking at。 In the square itself sat six motherly old souls round a
lamp…post。 One of them had a moustache； and was smoking a pipe； but
in other respects； I have no doubt； was all a woman should be。 Two
of them were selling fish。 That is they would have sold fish； no
doubt； had anyone been there to buy fish。 The gaily clad thousands
of eager purchasers pictured in the postcard were represented by two
workmen in blue blouses talking at a corner； mostly with their
fingers； a small boy walking backwards； with the idea apparently of
not missing anything behind him； and a yellow dog that sat on the
kerb； and had given up all hopejudging from his expressionof
anything ever happening again。 With the gendarme and myself； these
four were the only living creatures in the square。 The rest of the
market consisted of eggs and a few emaciated fowls hanging from a
sort of broom handle。
〃And where's the cathedral？〃 I asked the gendarme。 It was a Gothic
structure in the postcard of evident antiquity。 He said there had
once been a cathedral。 It was now a brewery； he pointed it out to
me。 He said he thought some portion of the original south wall had
been retained。 He thought the manager of the brewery might be
willing to show it to me。
〃And the fountain？〃 I demanded； 〃and all these doves！〃
He said there had been talk of a fountain。 He believed the design
had already been prepared。
I took the next train back。 I do not now travel much out of my way
to see the original of the picture postcard。 Maybe others have had
like experience and the picture postcard as a guide to the Continent
has lost its value。
The dealer has fallen back upon the eternal feminine。 The postcard
collector is confined to girls。 Through the kindness of
correspondents I possess myself some fifty to a hundred girls； or
perhaps it would be more correct to say one girl in fifty to a
hundred different hats。 I have her in big hats； I have her in small
hats； I have her in no hat at all。 I have her smiling； and I have
her looking as if she had lost her last sixpence。 I have her
overdressed； I have her decidedly underdressed； but she is much the
same girl。 Very young men cannot have too many of her； but myself I
am getting tired of her。 I suppose it is the result of growing old。
＇Why not the Eternal Male for a change？＇
Girls of my acquaintance are also beginning to grumble at her。 I
often think it hard on girls that the artist so neglects the eternal
male。 Why should there not be portraits of young men in different
hats； young men in big hats； young men in little hats； young men
smiling archly； young men looking noble。 Girls don't want to
decorate their rooms with pictures of other girls； they want rows of
young men beaming down upon them。
But possibly I am sinning my mercies。 A father hears what young men
don't。 The girl in real life is feeling it keenly： the impossible
standard set for her by the popular artist。
〃Real skirts don't hang like that；〃 she grumbles； 〃it's not in the
nature of skirts。 You can't have feet that size。 It isn't our
fault； they are not made。 Look at those waists！ There would be no
room to put anything？〃
〃Nature； in fashioning woman； has not yet crept up to the artistic
ideal。 The young man studies the picture on the postcard； on the
coloured almanack given away at Christmas by the local grocer； on the
advertisement of Jones' soap； and thinks with discontent of Polly
Perkins； who in a natural way is as pretty a girl as can be looked
for in this imperfect world。 Thus it is that woman has had to take
to shorthand and typewriting。 Modern woman is being ruined by the
artist。
＇How Women are ruined by Art。＇
Mr。 Anstey tells a story of a young barber who fell in love with his
own wax model。 All day he dreamed of the impossible。 Shethe young
lady of wax…like complexion； with her everlasting expression of
dignity combined with amiability。 No girl of his acquaintance could
compete with her。 If I remember rightly he died a bachelor； still
dreaming of wax…like perfection。 Perhaps it is as well we men are
not handicapped to the same extent。 If every hoarding； if every
picture shop window； if every illustrated journal teemed with
illustrations of the ideal young man in perfect fitting trousers that
never bagged at the knees！ Maybe it would result in our cooking our
own breakfasts and making our own beds to the end of our lives。
The novelist and playwright； as it is； have made things difficult
enough for us。 In books and plays the young man makes love with a
flow of language； a wealth of imagery； that must have taken him years
to acquire。 What does the novel…reading girl think； I wonder； when
the real young man proposes to her！ He has not called her anything
in particular。 Possibly he has got as
