[Why I hate Heroes]
When I was younger, reading the popular novel used to make me sad.Ifind it vexes others also.I was talking to a bright young girl upon the subject not so very long ago.
"I just hate the girl in the novel," she confessed."She makes me feel real bad.If I don't think of her I feel pleased with myself, and good; but when I read about her--well, I'm crazy.I would not mind her being smart, sometimes.We can all of us say the right thing, now and then.This girl says them straight away, all the time.She don't have to dig for them even; they come crowding out of her.There never happens a time when she stands there feeling like a fool and knowing that she looks it.As for her hair: 'pon my word, there are days when I believe it is a wig.I'd like to get behind her and give it just one pull.It curls of its own accord.She don't seem to have any trouble with it.Look at this mop of mine.
I've been working at it for three-quarters of an hour this morning;and now I would not laugh, not if you were to tell me the funniest thing, you'd ever heard, for fear it would come down again.As for her clothes, they make me tired.She don't possess a frock that does not fit her to perfection; she doesn't have to think about them.You would imagine she went into the garden and picked them off a tree.
She just slips it on and comes down, and then--my stars! All the other women in the room may just as well go to bed and get a good night's rest for all the chance they've got.It isn't that she's beautiful.From what they tell you about her, you might fancy her a freak.Looks don't appear to matter to her; she gets there anyhow.
I tell you she just makes me boil."
Allowing for the difference between the masculine and feminine outlook, this is precisely how I used to feel when reading of the hero.He was not always good; sometimes he hit the villain harder than he had intended, and then he was sorry--when it was too late, blamed himself severely, and subscribed towards the wreath.Like the rest of us, he made mistakes; occasionally married the wrong girl.
But how well he did everything!--does still for the matter of that, Ibelieve.Take it that he condescends to play cricket! He never scores less than a hundred--does not know how to score less than a hundred, wonders how it could be done, supposing, for example, you had an appointment and wanted to catch an early train.I used to play cricket myself, but I could always stop at ten or twenty.There have been times when I have stopped at even less.
It is the same with everything he puts his hand to.Either he does not care for boating at all, or, as a matter of course, he pulls stroke in the University Boat-race; and then takes the train on to Henley and wins the Diamond Sculls so easily that it hardly seems worth while for the other fellow to have started.Were I living in Novel-land, and had I entered for the Diamond Sculls, I should put it to my opponent before the word was given to us to go.
"One minute!" I should have called out to him."Are you the hero of this novel, or, like myself, only one of the minor characters?
Because, if you are the hero you go on; don't you wait for me.Ishall just pull as far as the boathouse and get myself a cup of tea."[Because it always seems to be his Day.]
There is no sense of happy medium about the hero of the popular novel.He cannot get astride a horse without its going off and winning a steeplechase against the favourite.The crowd in Novel-land appears to have no power of observation.It worries itself about the odds, discusses records, reads the nonsense published by the sporting papers.Were I to find myself on a racecourse in Novel-land I should not trouble about the unessential; I should go up to the bookie who looked as if he had the most money, and should say to him:
"Don't shout so loud; you are making yourself hoarse.Just listen to me.Who's the hero of this novel? Oh, that's he, is it? The heavy-looking man on the little brown horse that keeps coughing and is suffering apparently from bone spavin? Well, what are the odds against his winning by ten lengths? A thousand to one! Very well!
Have you got a bag?--Good.Here's twenty-seven pounds in gold and eighteen shillings in silver.Coat and waistcoat, say another ten shillings.Shirt and trousers--it's all right, I've got my pyjamas on underneath--say seven and six.Boots--we won't quarrel--make it five bob.That's twenty-nine pounds and sixpence, isn't it? In addition here's a mortgage on the family estate, which I've had made out in blank, an I O U for fourteen pounds which has been owing to me now for some time, and this bundle of securities which, strictly speaking, belong to my Aunt Jane.You keep that little lot till after the race, and we will call it in round figures, five hundred pounds."That single afternoon would thus bring me in five hundred thousand pounds--provided the bookie did not blow his brains out.
Backers in Novel-land do not seem to me to know their way about.If the hero of the popular novel swims at all, it is not like an ordinary human being that he does it.You never meet him in a swimming-bath; he never pays ninepence, like the rest of us, for a machine.He goes out at uncanny hours, generally accompanied by a lady friend, with whom the while swimming he talks poetry and cracks jokes.Some of us, when we try to talk in the sea, fill ourselves up with salt water.This chap lies on his back and carols, and the wild waves, seeing him, go round the other way.At billiards he can give the average sharper forty in a hundred.He does not really want to play; he does it to teach these bad men a lesson.He has not handled a cue for years.He picked up the game when a young man in Australia, and it seems to have lingered with him.
