Part 20 (1/2)

The Prairie Marmot is a rat-like creature, but blunter, stockier, twice as big, and light brown in colour. The learned, of course, after their wont, know him by a lengthier and more imposing name. Dr. Chalmers Mitch.e.l.l, for example, who controls the Zoo so ably and with such imagination, would never say Prairie Marmot on those occasions when he has questions to ask as to its well-being in captivity. Nothing so commonplace. ”And, by the way,” he would add, having been satisfied as to the good health of the elephants and the water-beetles, the avadavats and the hartebeests,--”and, by the way, how is the _Cynomys Ludovicia.n.u.s_? Does he seem to thrive? Does he prosper and multiply, or is the compet.i.tion of the _Columba Londiniensis_” (meaning the Metropolitan pigeon) ”too much for him?” But, whatever you call him, the Prairie Marmot remains a most ingratiating creature, and when you see him with his two tiny hands holding a monkey-nut and consuming it with eager bites you feel that it must have been for him that the well-worn phrase, ”to sit up and take nourishment,” was coined.

In the unimportant intervals between these two actions--this vertical eating and the sudden transformation of himself into stone, which is his greatest gift and which he does so often that he has worn his poor tail into a threadbare stump--the Prairie Marmot is of no particular interest. He just creeps about or disappears into his crater in the bank. But as his own statue--so perfect as not only to be the despair but the bankruptcy of sculptors--he is terrific. And the change is so swift. One moment he is on all fours, and the next he is a rock, as though a magician had waved his wand.

Henceforth no visit to the Zoo will be, to me, complete without a few minutes' contemplation of the _Cynomys Ludovicia.n.u.s_ in his quick-change turn.

X

CROWDS--AND A BAD SAMARITAN

Practical jokers wis.h.i.+ng to collect a crowd--and this has always been one of their choicest efforts--stand still and intent, gazing upwards.

Even before the aeroplane was invented no lure was so powerful as this.

In a few minutes hundreds of people will a.s.semble, all looking up, while the humorist melts away. Probably were London a city of the blind there would be no concourses at all, for it is to see that brings us together.

Crowds are always looking.

I came upon two little compact knots of people the other day, in both of which I was struck by the unanimity with which every eye was, literally, fixed on the same object. Both crowds consisted wholly of men: twenty-five perhaps, watching, in Aldwych, a girl motor-mechanic at work on a broken car; while close by, another knot surrounded a Human Marvel--a red-headed boy who, lacking arms, had trained his feet to inscribe moral sentiments in coloured chalks on a slate; which, for feet, is a marvellous thing.

As I watched all these people with hungry eyes and time to spare, I reflected on the generosity of this great London of ours in the matter of side-shows, so that there is always something for the loiterer to look at. During the War the soldier on leave, with too much time on his hands and no British Museum to beguile him (for it was then closed), having to find his own British Museum in the streets, was rarely disappointed of entertainment. Armless Wonders may be rare, but there was certain to be a road-mender at work in one spot and a horse down in another, so all was well! As for me, I like to become a member of a crowd as much as anybody, but the Armless Wonder's poor toes looked so desperately cold on this particular nipping day that sheer personal discomfort urged me onwards. But for that I might be there still.

The temper of crowds indicates that mankind in the lump is genial stuff.

When standing among our fellows, watching whatever ”cynosure” has been provided by the Mother of Cities, even the worst of us become innocent: very children for inquisitiveness. Our community of curiosity leads to such an extreme as the exchange of remarks. The mere fact that two strangers are looking at the same thing, though it be only an asphalt-boilers' cauldron, brings them into harmony, and for the moment (or hour and a half) they are not strangers but friends. Then, at last tearing themselves away, they freeze again. Alas, for this tearing away!

The saddest thing about every crowd is that it has, some time, some day, to dissolve. Roads are mended, horses get on their legs again, men recover from fits. Hence eyes that arrived expectant sooner or later will be satiated. That is our tragedy.

But crowds, although normally amiable, can be ugly too, and very changeable. A friend of mine, who is of a high adventurous impulsiveness and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with humanity, had a taste of the mob's caprice, when from sheer kind-heartedness he a.s.sumed one evening, in Piccadilly Circus, the care of a homing Scotch soldier who, in an expressive idiom, had become by reason of too much conviviality ”lost to the wide.”

Never was a brave warrior more in need of a helper, and my friend threw himself into the task with a zest and thoroughness that should place him high in any decently-constructed Honours List. With infinite difficulty the journey to Euston was performed, by lift and tube, by pullings and pus.h.i.+ngs, by shakings and holdings-up, by entreaty and threat.

But a point was reached, in the station itself, where the man lay down with a supernatural solidity that no outside effort could affect. Such efforts as had to be made were the signal for the crowd to arrive, and arrive it did. So far, however, from giving my friend any a.s.sistance or sympathy, let alone admiration for his quixotry and public spirit, this particular crowd instantly took hold of the situation by the wrong handle and a.s.sumed an att.i.tude of hostility and censure. ”Hitting him when he's down!” said one. ”I call it disgusting,” said another, ”giving soldiers drink like that.” ”That's a nice thing, to make the poor fellow drunk!” said a third. ”Ought to be ashamed of himself,” said a fourth, ”giving drink to our brave lads!”--and the chorus grew.

My friend tells me that he was never so astonished in his life; and truly it is a comic situation--to give up one's time and strength in order to act the Good Samaritan to an unfortunate victim, and then be accused of being the victimizer. He was angry then, but he laughs now, and I wish you could hear him tell the story.

XI

BEFORE AND AFTER

To my astonishment I could find no trace of the old publis.h.i.+ng house which I had so often visited; nothing but scaffolding and boardings.

Like so many London premises it had ”come down” almost in a night. But my resentment was a little softened when looking through the c.h.i.n.ks between the boards I discovered that the supplanting building was to be a theatre. I could see the bare bones of an auditorium, the deep foundations for the stage and so forth. And as I stood peering there I tried to realise some of the excitement and fun which were to be engendered among those girders and stones, so soon to be animated by that blend of mirth and thrills which makes a theatrical night's entertainment? To-day the place was a wilderness; to-morrow crowds would be gathered there. How bright would be the lights, how gay the music, how the walls, now mere skeletons, would echo and re-echo to laughter and applause!

All new building is exciting, but there was something peculiarly attractive in the thought that this great hole in the ground was, when ultimately enclosed by its bricks and mortar and decoration, to be a friendly playhouse.

What so cheerless as iron girders and scaffold poles? What so enkindling as the overture to a play in a crowded, antic.i.p.atory theatre?