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Page 66
* * * * *
There is no time when we need spiritual support so much as when we
are having our hair cut, for indeed it is the only time when we are
ever thoroughly and entirely Bored. But having found a good-natured
barber who said he would not mind our reading a book while he was
shearing, we went through with it. The ideal book to read at such a
time (we offer you this advice, brave friends) is the "Tao" of
Lao-Tse, that ancient and admirable Chinese sage. (Dwight Goddard's
translation is very agreeable.) "The Tao," as of course you know, is
generally translated The Way, i.e., the Way of Life of the
Reasonable Man.
Lao-Tse, we assert, is the ideal author to read while the barber is
at his business. He answers every inquiry that will be made, and all
you have to do is hold the book up and point to your favourite
marked passages.
When the barber says, genially, "Well, have you done your Christmas
shopping yet?" we raise the book and point to this maxim:
_Taciturnity is natural to man._
When he says, "How about a nice little shampoo this morning?" we are
prompt to indicate:
_The wise man attends to the inner significance of things and
does not concern himself with outward appearances._
When, as we sit in the chair, we see (in the mirror before us) the
lovely reflection of the beautiful manicure lady, and she arches her
eyebrows at us to convey the intimation that we ought to have our
hands attended to, old Lao-Tse is ready with the answer. We reassure
ourself with his remark:
_Though he be surrounded with sights that are magnificent, the
wise man will remain calm and unconcerned._
When the shine boy offers to burnish our shoes, we call his
attention to:
_He who closes his mouth and shuts his sense gates will be free
from trouble to the end of life._
When the barber suggests that if we were now to have a liberal
douche of bay rum sprayed over our poll it would be a glittering
consummation of his task, we show him the words:
_If one tries to improve a thing, he mars it._
And when (finally) the irritated tonsor suggests that if we don't
wait so long next time before getting our hair cut we will not be
humiliated by our condition, we exhibit Lao-Tse's aphorism:
_The wise man is inaccessible to favour or hate; he cannot be
reached by profit or injury; he cannot be honoured or
humiliated._
"It's very easy," says the barber as we pay our check; "just drop in
here once a month and we'll fix you up." And we point to:
_The wise man lives in the world, but he lives cautiously,
dealing with the world cautiously. Many things that appear easy
are full of difficulties._
* * * * *
To a lot of people who are in a mortal scurry and excitement what is
so maddening as the calm and unruffled serenity of a dignified
philosopher who gazes unperturbed upon their pangs? So did we
meditate when facing the deliberate and mild tranquillity of the
priestly person presiding over the bulletin board announcing the
arrival of trains at the Pennsylvania Station. It was in that
desperate and curious limbo known as the "exit concourse," where
baffled creatures wait to meet others arriving on trains and
maledict the architect who so planned matters that the passengers
arrive on two sides at once, so that one stands grievously in the
middle slewing his eyes to one side and another in a kind of
vertigo, attempting to con both exits. We cannot go into this matter
in full (when, indeed, will we find enough white paper and enough
energy to discuss _anything_ in full, in the way, perhaps, Henry
James would have blanketed it?), but we will explain that we were
waiting to meet someone, someone we had never seen, someone of the
opposite sex and colour, in short, that rare and desirable creature
a cook, imported from another city, and she had missed her train,
and all we knew was her first name and that she would wear a "brown
turban." After prowling distraitly round the station (and a large
station it is) and asking every likely person if her name was
Amanda, and being frowned upon and suspected as a black slaver, and
thinking we felt on our neck the heated breath and handcuffs of the
Travellers' Aid Society, we decided that Amanda must have missed her
train and concluded to wait for the next. Then it was, to return to
our thesis, that we had occasion to observe and feel in our own
person the wretched pangs of one in despair facing the gentle--shall
we say hesychastic?--peace and benevolent quietness of the man at
the bulletin board. Bombarded with questions by the impatient and
anxious crowd, with what pacific good nature he answered our doubts
and querulities. And yet how irritating was his calmness, his
deliberation, the very placidity of his mien as he surveyed his
clacking telautograph and leisurely took out his schoolroom eraser,
rubbed off an inscription, then polished the board with a cloth,
then looked for a piece of chalk and wrote in a fine curly hand some
notation about a train from Cincinnati in which we were not at all
interested. Ah, here we are at last! Train from Philadelphia!
Arriving on track Number--; no, wrong again! He only change _5
minutes late_ to _10 minutes late_. The crowd mutters and fumes. The
telautograph begins to stutter and we gaze at it feverishly. It
stops again and our dominie looks at it calmly. He taps it gently
with his finger. We wonder, is it out of order? Perhaps that train
is already coming in and he doesn't know it, and Amanda may be
wandering lost somewhere in the vast vistas of the station looking
for us. Shall we dash up to the waiting room and have another look?
But Amanda does not know the station, and there are so many places
where benches are put, and she might think one of those was the
waiting room that had been mentioned. And then there is this
Daylight Saving time mix-up. In a sudden panic we cannot figure out
whether Philadelphia time is an hour ahead of New York time or an
hour behind. We told Amanda to take the one o'clock from
Philadelphia. Well, should she arrive here at two o'clock or at
four? It being now 5:10 by our time, what are we to do? The
telautograph clicks. The priestly person slowly and gravely writes
down that the Philadelphia train is arriving on Track 6. There is a
mad rush: everyone dashes to the gate. And here, coming up the
stairs, is a coloured lady whose anxiously speculating eye must be
the one we seek. In the mutuality of our worry we recognize each
other at once. We seize her in triumph; in fact, we could have
embraced her. All our anguish is past. Amanda is ours!
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