knows and no one dreams of, but which keeps a smile on your lips—a smile which has in it nothing of humor, nothing from the great without, but which-comes from the secret recesses of your own inner consciousness, where the heart of the matter lies.
I remember nothing definite about that first drive. I, for my part, saw with unseeing eyes. My sister had seen it all before, so she had the power of speech. Occasionally she prodded me and cried, "Look, oh! look quickly." But I never swerved. "I can't look. If I do I shall miss something. You attend to your own window and I'll attend to mine. Coming back I will see your side."
When we got beyond the shops I said to the cabman:
"Do you know exactly the way you have come?"
"Yes, miss," he said.
"Then go back precisely the same way."
"Have you lost something, miss?" he inquired.
"Yes," I said, "I have lost an impression, and I must look till I find it."
"Very good, miss," he said.
If I had said, "I have carelessly let fall my cathedral," or, "I have lost my orang-outang. Look for him!" an imperturbable British cabby would only touch his cap and say, "Very good, miss!"
So we followed our own trail back to "The Insular." "In this way," I said to my sister, "we both get a complete view. To-morrow we will do it all over again."
But we found that we could not wait for the morrow. We did it all over again that afternoon, and that second time I was able in a measure to detach myself from the hum and buzz and the dizzying effect of foreign faces, and I began to locate impressions. My first distinct recollections are of the great numbers of high hats on the men, the ill-hanging skirts and big feet of the women, the unsteadying effect of all those thousands of cabs, carriages, and carts all going to the left, which kept me constantly wishing to shriek out, "Go to the right or we'll all be killed," the absolutely perfect manner in which traffic was managed, and the majestic authority of the London police.
I have seen the Houses of Parliament and the Tower and Westminster Abbey, and the World's Fair, but the most impressive sight I ever beheld is the upraised hand of a London policeman. I never heard one of them speak except when spoken to. But let one little blue-coated man raise his forefinger and every vehicle on wheels stops, and stops instantly; stops in obedience to law and order; stops without swearing or gesticulating or abuse; stops with no underhanded trying to drive out of line and get by on the other side; just stops, that is the end of it. And why? Because the Queen of England is behind that raised finger. A London policeman has more power than our President.
Even the Queen's coachmen obey that forefinger. Not long ago she dismissed one who dared to drive even the royal carriage on in defiance of it. Understanding how to obey, that is what makes liberty.
I am the most flamboyant of Americans, the most hopelessly addicted to my own country, but I must admit that I had my first real taste of liberty in England.
I will tell you why. In America nobody obeys anybody. We make our laws, and then most industriously set about studying out a plan by which we may evade them. America is suffering, as all republics must of necessity suffer, from liberty in the hands of the multitude. The multitude are ignorant, and liberty in the hands of the ignorant is always license.
In America, the land of the free, whom do we fear? The President? No, God bless him. There is not a true American in the world who would not stand up as a man or a woman and go into his presence without fear. Are we afraid of our Senators, our chief rulers? No. But we are afraid of our servants, of our street-car conductors. We are afraid of sleeping-car porters, and the drivers of huge trucks. We are afraid they will drive over us in the streets, and if we dare to assert our rights and hold them in check we are afraid of what they will say to us, in the name of liberty, and of the way they will look at us, in the name of liberty.
English servants, I have discovered, have no more respect for Americans than the old-time negro of the Southern aristocracy has for Northerners. I once asked an old black mammy in Georgia why the negroes had so little respect for the white ladies of the North. "Case dey don' know how to treat black folks, honey." "Why don't they?" I persisted. "Are they not kind to you?" "Umph," she responded (and no one who has never heard a fat old negress say "Umph" knows the eloquence of it). "Umph. Dat's it. Dey's too kin'. Dey don' know how to mek us min'." And that is just the trouble with Americans here. An English servant takes orders, not requests.
I had such a time to learn that. We could not understand why we were obeyed so well at first, and presently, without any outward disrespect, our wants were simply ignored until all the English people had been attended to.
My sister had told me I was too polite, but one never believes one's sister, so I questioned our sweet English friends, and they, with much delicacy and many apologies, and the prettiest hesitation in the world—considering the situation—told us the reason.
"But," I gasped, "if I should speak to our servants in that manner they would leave. They would not stay over night." Our English friends tried not to smile in a superior way, and they succeeded, only I knew the smile was there, and said, "Oh, no, our servants never leave us. They apologize for having done it wrong."
On the way home I plucked up courage. "I am going to try it," I said, firmly. My sister laughed in derision.
"Now I could do it," she said, complaisantly. And so she could. My sister never plumes herself on a quality she does not possess.
"Are you going to use the tone and everything?" I said, somewhat timidly.
"You wait and see."
She hesitated some time, I noticed, before she rang the bell, and she looked at herself in the glass and cleared her throat. I knew she was bracing herself.
"I'll ring the bell if you like," I said, politely.
She gave one look at me and then rang the bell herself with a firm hand.
"And I'll get behind you with a poker in One hand and a pitcher of hot water in the other. Speak when you need either."
"You feel very funny when you don't have to do it yourself," she said, witheringly.
"You'll never put it through. You'll back down and say 'please' before you have finished," I said, and just then the maid knocked at the door.
I never heard anything like it. My sister was superb. I doubt if Bernhardt at her best ever inspired me with more awe. How that maid flew around. How humble she was. How she apologized. And how, every time my sister said, "Look sharp, now," the maid said, "Thank you." I thought I should die. I was so much interested in the dramatic possibilities of my cherished sister that when the door closed behind the maid we simply looked at each other a moment, then simultaneously made a bound for the bed, where we choked with laughter among the pillows. Presently we sat up with flushed faces and rumpled hair. I reached over and shook hands with her.
"How was that?" she asked.
"'Twas grand," I said. "The Queen couldn't have done it more to the manner born."
My sister accepted my compliments complaisantly, as one who should say, "'Tis no more than my deserts."
"How firm you were," I said, admiringly.
"Wasn't I, though?"
"How humble she was."
"Wasn't she?"
"You were quite as disagreeable and determined as a real Englishwoman would have been."
"So I was."
A pause full of intense admiration on my part. Then she said, "You couldn't have done it."
"I know that."
"You are so deadly civil."
"Not to everybody, only to servants." I said this apologetically.
"You never keep a steady hand. You either grovel at their feet or snap their heads off."
"Quite