Chapter 6 No.6

The Herr Director and the "Missoury" Spirit

THE anteroom of the editor's office was crowded when the Herr Director and I arrived to meet the men of the staff at luncheon.

The Herr Director is a publicist himself, and has edited one of the best known German newspapers. Having called on him when he was trying to mould an already moulded public opinion I made some interesting comparisons which he did not approve. I could not forbear reminding him how, when I once called on him in his office, I had to wait in a similar anteroom over an hour, that I had to pass through a number of other rooms with a longer or shorter period of waiting in each, and was finally admitted to his august presence as if he were a king on his throne.

As editor in chief, he was a more or less cloistered mystery, and not the man of affairs one is likely to be over here. Whatever comparisons I made in spite of the Herr Director's protest, were not entirely fair; for editors are scarcely a species anywhere, and the particular one upon whom we were calling was an uncommon editor of an uncommon journal. Neither he nor it has a counterpart in Germany if anywhere in the world; they are both products of our Spirit and have had no small share in shaping it and giving it expression.

While I was explaining to the Herr Director the functions of this journal and how intelligently it interprets current events, and was extolling the virtues of its editors who, in spite of being persons of national reputation and great importance, have retained their simple, democratic ways, they emerged from the inner sanctum.

After a vigorous hand-shake all around to which the Herr Director visibly braced himself, the first contact was made, and we were taken to a handsomely appointed dining-room in the same building, where luncheon was served.

Beneath all the outer simplicity and democratic demeanor of our host, beneath his smoothly shaven, well groomed, correctly tailored exterior, the Herr Director recognized a dignified reserve and consciousness of power, which made him whisper to me, "His Majesty and suite," at the same time soothing with his left hand his aching right hand, just released from the vise-like grip of the editor.

Although I assured him that to me they were all just the editors of my favorite journal and after that plain, American citizens, I too am often impressed by that sense of dominance and power emanating from these men and others in similar positions. The feeling is not unrelated to that I have experienced the few times I have been in the presence of royalty.

In our public men of exalted position there may be lacking the mystical element by which monarchs are surrounded; but the sovereign American has more physical energy and force.

Should the thrones of Europe suddenly become vacant, I know dozens of our men who could occupy them, without their subjects becoming conscious of much change; and as far as queens are concerned we could easily furnish a surplus.

The Herr Director and I had been chosen to sit in the places of honor, and we (or at least I) forgot to eat, and spent my time studying these superb types of Americans.

The Herr Director, being more sophisticated, absorbed both the food and the company, and in his lectures on "Die Leitenden Maenner in Den Vereinigten Staaten," which he has delivered since returning to Germany, there are evidences that he remembered the minutest details of the menu, as well as every word which fell from the lips of the editor in chief.

Of course we spoke of many, if not all, the perplexing problems which vex this problem-ridden age, and each of us had a proprietary interest in one or more of them which we hoped to solve. The editor as a man of affairs knew our particular problems as well as we knew them, and had read all that any of us had written; so the conversation was animated enough, and certainly illuminating.

My specialty being immigration, and having just returned from the Pacific coast where I had studied the problem as it concerns the Oriental, the conversation was finally dominated by that interesting and somewhat delicate theme.

Can we assimilate all these varied elements which come to us? Can we make of them one people, and eliminate all those ethnic, national and religious inheritances which are frequently at variance with our own?

The editor believed we can assimilate all or most of them with the exception of the Oriental, "Who, having separated from the ethnic root in the Pleistocene period, represents too varied a physical and mental type to be assimilated by the Occidental." I think I am quoting him correctly, although not word for word.

As I did not quite agree with him, I expressed my views, and so did the Herr Director. I said I thought I noticed among the Chinese and even among the Japanese the influence of this new environment, and could tell of conversations with groups of graduates of our colleges, in which not only the influence of this country was noticeable, but the influence of the particular institution from which they graduated. Anecdotes are not easily accepted as scientific proof; but this being an informal luncheon, I ventured a few of them which every one seemed to relish except the Herr Director, and he is not to blame for that, as anecdotes are rarely international. I do blame him, however, for telling me that he had never heard stupider jokes in his life. One of these ethnic anecdotes I told upon the authority of the Bishop of the Yangtsze district. Perhaps like all anecdotes it may have grown in the telling.

The Bishop had picked out an unusually bright Chinese lad to have educated in the United States and then become his curate. When he returned to China, after having attended both a college and a theological seminary, he was assisting the Bishop. Evidently he had not thoroughly mastered the ritual of the church; for this Oriental, who had "separated himself from the ethnic root," moved close to the Bishop, poked his elbow into the ecclesiastical ribs of his superior and asked: "Say, Bishop, where do I butt in?"

Our host wanted to know whether I was sure that he did not say: "Bish"; I thought to reach the point of being able to express himself so briefly and directly the Oriental would need at least another geologic period.

One of the staff asked whether that anecdote was not my invention; to which I took the liberty of replying that if I could invent such good stories he might offer me an editorship. How imperfectly, after all, the Oriental may absorb the spirit of our language, I told in the story which is supposed to have its origin at the University of Michigan; although like all such stories it may be claimed by innumerable birthplaces.

A Hindoo student, who had not quite finished his academic career and had to return home on account of illness in his family, wrote back to his faculty adviser, notifying him of the death of his mother-in-law, in this characteristic, brief, Occidental way: "Alas! the hand which rocked the cradle has kicked the bucket."

The Herr Director thought this anecdote funny enough, but it proved the opposite from that for which I was contending. "Who but an Oriental could invent such highly picturesque figures of speech?"

The conversation drifted into soberer channels when our host took up the question as to what constitutes the American, who after all is hybrid and frequently so mixed that he does not know just how he is ethnically constituted.

"For instance," he said, "I am part German, part revolutionary Yankee stock" (it seemed to me that he put the emphasis upon the revolutionary), "part French, part Scandinavian, part Irish."

I have forgotten just how many racial strains he said were running in his veins, but a variety large enough to be exceedingly useful to him in claiming kinship with all sorts of folk, and in making political speeches. That the ancestors of the average American belong to the great fighting stocks of humanity may explain if not excuse his love for physical combat. Each guest around the table followed the editor's example and accounted for his ancestry, showing that all but two of the Americans were mixtures, ranging from three to eight more or less greatly differentiated races, using that term in its broadest sense.

One of these unmixed Americans gave the outlines of his family tree, all of it growing out of the rugged New England soil; but every one of his daughters had married a man of foreign birth, or of foreign parentage. His sons-in-law are German, Polish, French and Jewish. He added: "My German and French sons-in-law are great chums."

The other pure American was myself, although of course my ancestors did not come over in the Mayflower, and I have never been in New England long enough for my family tree to take root in its historic soil.

After all, though, the best thing a nation or race has to bequeath to its children is not always handed down upon the racial channel. I think it is the Apostle Paul who discovered this long ago, and his missionary propaganda among the Gentiles is based upon his belief that they are not all Israelites who are of the circumcision. His converts became Israelites through adoption, through their appreciation of the Jewish Spirit which came to its full fruitage in Jesus of Nazareth.

I once heard Max Nordeau say: "Es gibt zweierlei Juden: auch Juden und Bauch Juden;" which freely translated means: "There are two kinds of Jews: those of the spirit and those of the stomach." The taste for Kosher Wurst and Gefülte Brust is inheritable to the tenth generation; but one is not always born with the passion for righteousness, the love of justice and the thirst for God. To these one must rather be born again, and the same thing is true of the American. There are Americans who have thrown overboard their spiritual inheritance, who have expatriated themselves because they could not live in the Puritan atmosphere of New England; but to whom a Sunday in the Riviera is not fully radiant, unless upon the rose-laden atmosphere there comes wafted the fragrance of codfish balls.

The Herr Director reminded the company of the fact that I was the most "Unausstehlicher Americaner" he had ever met; to which the editor responded that he knew one who was if anything worse than myself-a newspaper man, Jacob Riis.

"Can a nation feel secure, having to put the keeping of its Spirit into the hands of aliens?" some one asked; and what would happen in case of a conflict between the United States of America and the native country of even such thorough Americans as Jacob Riis and myself? At that time the answer was not as difficult as it is now, since there has been the possibility of such a conflict, and slumbering love of native country has been awakened by the roar of cannon and the noisier and deadlier war carried on by the press.

It has been a very trying time for those of us who have been called "hyphenated Americans"; but I doubt that the German or Austrian hyphen has been more in evidence than that which we are pleased to call Anglo-Saxon.

I can say that in spite of the fact that my native country precipitated the conflict, I felt no thrill of patriotism when Austrian troops invaded Serbia, and frequently wonder whether I have not suffered some moral deterioration, because through all these stirring times I have remained fairly rational. I have never condoned Austria's treatment of the Slavs, nor Germany's invasion of Belgium; I have not gloried in their victories, but I have suffered alike for all my fellow mortals who are involved in this most disastrous conflict. I know myself always human first, and a loyal American next. In fact, never before have I loved my adopted country as much as now, never did I have for it so profound a respect, nor a deeper realization of the blessing of our democracy, imperfect as it is.

The Herr Director insisted that we could not count on the loyalty of our immigrated citizens in case of war with their respective countries, especially as they are so frequently dealt with unjustly by our courts and exploited by our industries. The editor thought that the danger to the United States did not lie in the lack of loyalty in our new citizens, but rather in the general smugness of the average American, and in our unpreparedness for war.

The conversation drifted into a discussion of militarism, a subject which has become painfully familiar since, and he said that although the American is a fighter he is not a militarist, nor in danger of becoming one; and that personally, he, in common with all sane Americans, believed that the country ought to be prepared to protect itself and defend its national honor.

"That's what we all say," the Herr Director remarked. When the whole company laughed, he felt hurt, and it took me a long time to explain to him that he had accidentally stumbled onto a bit of American slang, which he had used most innocently, but aptly.

I wanted to know just what the editor meant by preparedness for war and just when a nation's honor was so damaged that nothing but war would restore it. There seemed to be no time left to have this question answered, and as there was some danger that we would separate with this important subject upon our minds and perhaps interfering with our digestion, I asked whether in conclusion I might tell another ethnological anecdote, which would illustrate my need of light upon that question of preparedness for war. To this they all assented if I could vouch for its being as good as the others. I thought it was better because I was sure it was true, and the joke was on me. Every one settled down expectantly except the Herr Director who never relishes my stories, having a fine collection of his own which he tells remarkably well.

I had to wait at a small station in the West for one of those periodically late trains, and was reading the only fiction available, the railroad time-table. A train which came from the opposite direction brought a gang of working men who had been shovelling the snow which had blocked the road. As they were all immigrants I had no further use for my time-table and went among them, guessing at their nationality, sorting them according to the shape of their heads, delighting my soul by talking to them as much as I could of their native country, and quizzing them about their experience in the United States.

I had succeeded splendidly with all of them and there was but one man left. As soon as I saw him I said to myself, "He is a Russian, not a common Russian, but of the Velko Russ variety which is still rare or comparatively rare among our immigrant population." I walked up to him and saluted him with the pious greeting of his class. There wasn't the slightest indication that he understood me, so I concluded that I was mistaken; but knowing that he was a Slav, I tried a greeting in Polish, and again the great, shaggy Slav seemed not to understand. When Bohemian failed, I decided that my error was merely geographical and this was a Southern, not a Northern Slav. I used all the Serbic I knew without getting anything but a stare from my victim, and then decided that he might be an Albanian. Knowing only two words of that language I tried them with the same negative result. Finally, disgusted with myself I resorted to English. Feeling sure that he would not understand, I shouted at him, "Are you a Greek?" Then a ray of intelligence passed over his stolid face. Deliberately taking his pipe out of his mouth, he laconically replied: "No, I am from Missoury."

A shout of laughter followed my story; but the Herr Director's face grew darker and darker. When we were in our taxicab going back to the hotel, he said: "One of the most remarkable things I have learned to-day about the American people is that they are very young, almost childlike."

"Why, how did you learn that?" I asked.

"Oh," he answered, "who but a childlike, na?ve people would laugh over such a stupid joke as yours? Anyway, how did you dare bring such a silly story into so serious a conversation?"

"Yes," I replied; "that is as you say a sign of our youth. The more complex and seasoned jokes belong to the older civilizations, and the love of a simple story and the ready response to it, even though it be a poor story, are a sign of our youthful health; but you know," I added, "that story I told was not so mal apropos after all." And the rest of the day I struggled mightily to convince the Herr Director that being "from Missoury" is one of the most hopeful things about the American Spirit.