The BLOWER of BUBBLES
BY
ARTHUR BEVERLEY BAXTER
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
1920
Copyright, 1920, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO
MY MOTHER
PREFACE
It was one of Dumas' characters, I believe, who said: "I do notapologize—I explain." The purpose of this brief preface is to explainthe many imperfections which of necessity appear in this volume.
It was at a dance after Armistice, given by American officers in thePalace Hotel, London, that I met a young lady who had landed from NewYork two days previously.
"My goodness!" she said, "they don't have any furnaces in their houseshere; and I've been trying all day to buy some rubbers, and no one knewwhat I meant. My goodness! but they're backward over here."
I looked at her face and recognized the joyful mania of the explorer.She was "discovering" England.
Before the war, England was "discovered" fairly often—but during thewar it became the passion of hundreds of thousands, Americans,Australians, New Zealanders, Canadians, Newfoundlanders, SouthAfricans—we all brought our particular national viewpoint and centeredit on the "tight little Island," nor were we backward about telling theEnglish of their faults. Each one of us stated (or implied) that hisown country was the special acreage of God, and that the Kaiser oughtto be made to live in foggy London as a punishment.
And for more than four years the Old Country listened patiently as thethrongs of adventurers poured in from the world's outskirts. Thestately homes of England were opened in their stately, hospitable way;English taxicab drivers insulted and robbed us just as cheerfully asthey did their own countrymen; English girls proved the best ofcomrades; and the Englishman proper continued to be the world'sgreatest enigma.
So, in claiming admittance to that vast throng that has alreadydiscovered England, I do so with a certain humility but a hope that,when my words are sifted, some little ore of truth may be discovered atthe bottom.
In three of the five stories of this collection, I have usurped thepower of the Wizard of Oz, and have looked through three pairs ofglasses. In "The Blower of Bubbles" an Englishman subjects his owncountry to analysis; in "Mr. Craighouse of New York, Satirist," theglasses used are American and the medium is a New Yorker; in "The AiryPrince" (the last and favorite child) a girl of sixteen from Picardy istransplanted by aeroplane for one full day in wartime London.
In the remaining two stories I have endeavored to paint something ofcity life in Canada in the one, and in the other to do some littlejustice to that least understood type—the French Canadian.
During an interesting but undistinguished career of nearly four yearswith the Canadian Forces, I realized that, although the army gives oneplenty of food for thought, it sometimes fails to supply facilities forassimilation. Par exemple: "Mr. Craighouse of New York,Satirist," was started in hospital at Abbéville, France, where myfellow-patients