And I want new armies enrolled: the moneys now spent in offense and defense should be devoted to scientific research; schools of science must be endowed in every town on the most liberal scale, and investigators installed for original research and honored as officers. I want schools of music and art too in every city and opera houses and theatres where now are barracks; and above all hospitals instead of our dreadful prisons, and doctors instead of gaolers, nurses instead of executioners. And I want, want, want food and lodging assured to everyone and no questions asked in our poorhouses, which are merely the insurance of the rich against disaster.
My ideals are all human and all within reach, but realized, they would transfigure life.
And if this new ideal is not soon brought into life I am frightened, for the abyss yawns before us. Here is Sir Richard Gregory, the famous scientist, sounding the alarm in the daily English press of this year 1924. He tells us,
"We are on the threshold of developments by which forces will be unloosed and powers acquired far beyond our present imaginings, and if these gifts are misused, mankind must disappear from this planet."
Yet England and America, too, are spending thousands of millions on armies and navies, sets of false teeth that are no good even to bite with, as I told President Harding-to his horror.
What can I do to commend the new Ideal State and the new Ideal Individual? Very little and that little will be effective in measure as I better myself and take the motes out of my own eyes.
Death closes all; yet something ere the end Some work of noble worth may yet be done.
And so by way of art and letters and belief in a future millenium, on this friendly earth of ours, I reach love of life again and settle down to do the best in me. Can one ever forget that little verse?
The kiss of the Sun for pardon
And the song of the birds for mirth-
One is nearer God's heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on Earth.
What do I need after all but a little money to give me security, and even that is not impossible to come by, for my wants are few and I am satisfied with little so long as the spirit is interested and delighted.
And I have been helped by friends again and again. American friends whom I did not even know have sent me moneys and loving encouragement and time and again brought tears to my eyes, sweet tears of gratitude and affection. I can only do my best for them in return, better than my best if possible. And I begin with this humiliating confession.
Shakespeare said that he was more sinned against than shining. I wish I could say as much, but I feel that I have sinned against others, at least as deeply as I have been sinned against; and I am not even sure now, as I used to be, that I have been more generous to others than men have been to me.
A few will surely read this, my book, in the spirit in which it was conceived; some will even see what it has cost me.
They talk of making money by an outspoken book: it's absurd. If the book is in English, you lose by writing it; you lose by publishing it; you lose by selling it.
In French it is possible to make money by it, but even there it entails loss of prestige. Victor Marguerite, the son of the famous General, was cut out of the Legion of Honor for publishing La Garconne last year, 1923. And a professor, Edmund Gosse, knighted for mediocrity in England, writes about "the brutality of La Garconne and the foul chaos of Ulysses," though both Victor Marguerite and James Joyce are children of light, above his understanding.
A year or two ago I was honored on all hands: wherever I came I felt that men and women spoke of me with interest, curiosity at least. Since the first volume of My Life appeared, everywhere I feel the unspoken condemnation and see the sneer or the foul, sidelong grin. I have paid dearly for my boldness.
All pathmakers, I say to myself, must suffer, but unjust punishment embitters life: the Horridges in England and the Mayers in America are foul diseases.
Still, my reward is certain, though I shall never see the laurels. Many men and some few women will read me when I am dust and perhaps be a little grateful to me for having burst the fetters and led the way out of the prison of Puritanism into the open air and sunshine of this entrancing world of wonders.
The other day here in Nice, I heard a delightful limerick:
If the skirts get any shorter
Said the Flapper with a sob;
I'll have two more cheeks to powder
And a lot more hair to bob.
Is there not a laugh in it? And a good laugh is something in this ephemeral life of ours.