The Affable Stranger 1

The Affable Stranger 1

The Affable Stranger: Peter McArthur

 

PREFACE

 

 

To make clear the purpose of this book and to suggest possibilities to

the reader the author offers the following article which was published

in the _Toronto Globe_. Most of the chapters first appeared in the same

journal.

 

EKFRID, July 28.--This morning I got up feeling singularly cheerful and

care-free. And no wonder. Yesterday I got even with the world--said

everything I wanted to say about it right down to the last word. This

morning I feel that I am making a fresh start with all scores paid, and

I don't care whether school keeps or not.

 

The explanation of this unusual state of mind is quite simple. Yesterday

I finished writing a book, in which I said just what I wanted to

say--said what I have been aching to say for years--about the world and

things in general. No matter what happens to the book, it has already

served its purpose. It has rid my mind of "the perilous stuff, etc.,"

that accumulated during the war and since. And the result has been so

refreshing that I have no hesitation in recommending the book cure to

every one. Nowadays any one can write a book, and most every one does.

The mistake is in regarding the book as a literary venture. What you

should do is to make a pad of paper and a lead pencil your father

confessor and ease your mind of its worries. When the book is done, you

can send it out into the wilderness as the Israelites sent the

scapegoat--bearing your sins with it. Then you can make a fresh start.

If you don't want to publish it--though publication seems necessary to

complete absolution--you can tie a stone to it and throw it into the

lake, or do it up in a parcel and leave it for some one to find, just as

boys used to do with neat parcels in which they placed pebbles on which

they had rubbed their warts--hoping in that way to rid themselves of

warts. I know there are some old-fashioned people who will be shocked

at this levity in speaking of books, but they should waken up to the

fact that since the coming of the wood-pulp era no particular merit

attaches to writing a book. And if books can be given a medicinal value

to take the place of their old-time literary value, why shouldn't we

recognize the fact? Anyway, the writing of a book put me in the frame of

mind to parody Sir Sidney Smith and exclaim:

 

"Fate cannot harm me, I have had my say."

 

* * * * *

 

I have told all this merely to explain the joyous mood induced by the

writing of the book. Having finished my task, I felt not only up-do-date

with my work, but up-to-date with life. It is the ambition of every

man--whether he confesses it or not--to get even with the world. The

world is forever defeating us and defrauding us of our hopes. So let us

have our say about it, turn over a new leaf, and make a fresh start.

When I got up this morning

 

"I moved and did not feel my limbs,

I was so light--almost

I felt that I had died in sleep

And was a blessed ghost."

 

There was no feeling of responsibility about anything, and I could go to

work in a care-free frame of mind. That made me realize how care-free

all nature is, and how care-free life might be if we did not allow

ourselves to become so much entangled with its affairs. Just because I

had arranged to free myself from all other responsibilities while doing

my task, I suddenly found myself free from responsibilities and in the

only true holiday humor. It is true there was work to do, but I did not

feel any responsibility. My first chore was to churn, but I was not

responsible for the flavor and texture of the butter. It was my part to

make the barrel churn revolve with a rhythmical "plop! plop! plop!" and

when the butter came I had nothing more to do with it. By that time the

heavy dew had dried from the sheaves, and the business of hauling in

the wheat was commenced. Though I had an interest in the wheat, I was

not responsible for it, and could pitch the sheaves without worrying.

The mood left by having poured all my problems into a book was

apparently the same as that enjoyed by Kipling's devil when he "blew

upon his nails, for his heart was free from care."

 

* * * * *

 

Along in the forenoon a thunderstorm began to gather in the west, and I

was in the right mood to realize what a care-free and irresponsible

storm it was. Even though it was harvest-time, this storm was not

obliged to take any thought about what it was doing. It didn't have to

pick the just from the unjust and distribute the rain as a reward--or

punishment. It rained on both alike. Though it was such a care-free

storm, I confessed to a feeling of relief when I saw it sheering off to

the south. There are all kinds of just and unjust men living down that

way, and though they may not have wanted rain any more than we did, it

was no part of my business to worry about them. It was enough for us to

gather in our own crop and be thankful that, after all, the Hessian fly

had left us a crop worth gathering.

 

When the storm had rumbled away, the sun came out, and it was certainly

a care-free sun. It gave its stimulating warmth and heat to the weeds as

freely as to the crops. If man wanted to coddle some plants for his own

use, the sun was perfectly willing to do its part--but it did its part

just as freely and irresponsibly for the grass and the weeds. In spite

of the philosophers and teachers, Nature seemed very irresponsible

to-day. She had been irresponsible in sowing her seeds and in promoting

their growth, and it was quite evident that she would be equally

irresponsible in her work of harvesting. The free and irresponsible

winds would blow the seeds fitted with wings and parachutes to every

point of the compass and let them fall where they would. The free

streams would carry others to hospitable shores or would leave them to

rot in the lakes or even in the ocean. Other seeds provided with spines

and hooks would cling to our clothing or to the wool of the sheep and in

that way be given a wholly irresponsible distribution. Nothing in Nature

seemed to be burdened with responsibility or care or remorse or worry or

ambition or any of the things with which we fret our lives. Being in a

wholly irresponsible frame of mind, I could not help wondering if man

has not gone woefully astray in making himself responsible for so much.

Perhaps we have not interpreted properly that text about being our

brother's keeper. Certainly our brothers seldom feel grateful to us when

we concern ourselves with their affairs and try to make them realize

that we regard ourselves as their keepers. As a rule they resent our

interference, and our efforts do little good either to them or to us.

Perhaps we should learn something from the irresponsibility of Nature to

guide us in our dealings with our fellow-men.

 

Any one who cared to write a book about it could probably show that

most of the wars and afflictions that have come on the world are due to

attempts made by incompetent people to be their brothers' keepers. They

start great wars to stop little ones, cause great evils by trying to

remedy little ones, and otherwise make nuisances of themselves to the

limit of their power. Why don't these people take to writing books

instead of trying to set things right? Writing the books would free

their surcharged spirits, and the world could go its way without

bothering to read what they wrote. The more I think of it the more

convinced I am that the writing of books would cure a lot of our

evils--chiefly because it would help to rid the people who wrote the

books of their feeling of responsibility for other people and their

affairs. The fact that they had set down their views in fair type would

ease their consciences and enable them to go about the ordinary little

matters of their own lives in a care-free way. The book cure for our

personal and collective troubles is hereby seriously recommended. And

it is especially recommended to any one wanting to enjoy a holiday. You

can't enjoy a holiday if you are worrying about your business in life.

So write a book about it and get even with the world. Then you can enjoy

a holiday even while going on with your work.

 

 

 

 

CONTENTS

 

 

I. THE AFFABLE STRANGER 3

 

II. THE ELUSIVE INSULT 13

 

III. BACK TO THE PRIMITIVE 23

 

IV. GRASPING THE NETTLE 34

 

V. REGISTERING REFORM 44

 

VI. THE ACCUSED 54

 

VII. A BURDEN OF FARMERS 64

 

VIII. A WORLD DRAMA 75

 

IX. A WORLD FOR SALE 85

 

X. ORGANIZED FOR PROFIT 98

 

XI. A MAJORITY WILL BE SAVED 105

 

XII. PRINCE KROPOTKIN'S COW 117

 

XIII. OLD HOME WEEK 126

 

XIV. THE WARD LEADER 138

 

XV. THE NEW MASTER WORD 145

 

XVI. LOYALTY 153

 

XVII. THE SHIVERING TEXAN 161

 

XVIII. MANY INVENTIONS 171

 

XIX. AN EXPERIMENT IN MODESTY 179

 

XX. MY PRIVATE MAHATMA 186

 

XXI. THE SOUL OF CANADA 195

 

XXII. A LAND OF UPPER BERTHS 204

 

XXIII. EPILOGUE 213