IN DEFENSE OF ASTIGMATISM
This is peculiarly an age where novelists pride themselves on thebreadth of their outlook and the courage with which they refuse toignore the realities of life; and never before have authors had suchscope in the matter of the selection of heroes. In the days of theold-fashioned novel, when the hero was automatically Lord Blank or SirRalph Asterisk, there were, of course, certain rules that had to beobserved, but today--why, you can hardly hear yourself think for theuproar of earnest young novelists proclaiming how free and unfetteredthey are. And yet, no writer has had the pluck to make his hero wearglasses.
In the old days, as I say, this was all very well. The hero was ayoung lordling, sprung from a line of ancestors who had never doneanything with their eyes except wear a piercing glance before whichlesser men quailed. But now novelists go into every class of societyfor their heroes, and surely, at least an occasional one of them musthave been astigmatic. Kipps undoubtedly wore glasses; so did BunkerBean; so did Mr. Polly, Clayhanger, Bibbs, Sheridan, and a score ofothers. Then why not say so?
Novelists are moving with the times in every other direction. Why notin this?
It is futile to advance the argument that glasses are unromantic. Theyare not. I know, because I wear them myself, and I am a singularlyromantic figure, whether in my rimless, my Oxford gold-bordered, orthe plain gent's spectacles which I wear in the privacy of my study.
Besides, everybody wears glasses nowadays. That is the point I wish tomake. For commercial reasons, if for no others, authors ought to thinkseriously of this matter of goggling their heroes. It is an admittedfact that the reader of a novel likes to put himself in the hero'splace--to imagine, while reading, that he is the hero. What anaudience the writer of the first romance to star a spectacled herowill have. All over the country thousands of short-sighted men willpolish their glasses and plunge into his pages. It is absurd to go onwriting in these days for a normal-sighted public. The growingtenseness of life, with its small print, its newspapers read byartificial light, and its flickering motion pictures, is whittlingdown the section of the populace which has perfect sight to a merehandful.
I seem to see that romance. In fact, I think I shall write it myself."'Evadne,' murmured Clarence, removing his pince-nez and polishingthem tenderly....'" "'See,' cried Clarence, 'how clearly every leaf ofyonder tree is mirrored in the still water of the lake. I can't seemyself, unfortunately, for I have left my glasses on the parlor piano,but don't worry about me: go ahead and see!" ... "Clarence adjusted histortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles with a careless gesture, and faced theassassins without a tremor." Hot stuff? Got the punch? I should sayso. Do you imagine that there will be a single man in this countrywith the price of the book in his pocket and a pair of pince-nez onhis face who will not scream and kick like an angry child if youwithhold my novel from him?
And just pause for a moment to think of the serial and dramatic rightsof the story. All editors wear glasses, so do all theatrical managers.My appeal will be irresistible. All I shall have to do will be to seethat the check is for the right figure and to supervise the placing ofthe electric sign
SPECTACLES OF FATE
BY P. G. WODEHOUSE
over the doors of whichever theatre I happen to select for theproduction of the play.
Have you ever considered the latent possibilities for dramaticsituations in short sight? You know how your glasses cloud over whenyou come into a warm room out of the cold? Well, imagine your hero insuch a position. He has been waiting outside the murderer's denpreparatory to dashing in and saving the heroine. He dashes in. "Handsup, you scoundrels," he cries. And then his glasses get all misty, andthere he is, temporarily blind, with a full-size desperado backingaway and measuring the distance in order to hand him one with apickaxe.
Or would you prefer something less sensational, something more in theromantic line? Very well. Hero, on his way to the Dowager Duchess'sball, slips on a banana-peel and smashes his only pair of spectacles.He dare not fail to attend the ball, for the dear Duchess would neverforgive him; so he goes in and proposes to a girl he particularlydislikes because she is dressed in pink, and the heroine told him thatshe was going to wear pink. But the heroine's pink dress was late incoming home from the modiste's and she had to turn up in blue. Theheroine comes in just as the other girl is accepting him, and thereyou have a nice, live, peppy, kick-off for your tale of passion andhuman interest.
But I have said enough to show that the time has come when novelists,if they do not wish to be left behind in the race, must adaptthemselves to modern conditions. One does not wish to threaten, but,as I say, we astigmatics are in a large minority and can, if we gettogether, make our presence felt. Roused by this article to a sense ofthe injustice of their treatment, the great army of glass-wearingcitizens could very easily make novelists see reason. A boycott ofnon-spectacled heroes would soon achieve the necessary reform. Perhapsthere will be no need to let matters go as far as that. I hope not.But, if this warning should be neglected, if we have any more of thesenovels about men with keen gray eyes or snapping black eyes orcheerful blue eyes--any sort of eyes, in fact, lacking some muscularaffliction, we shall know what to do.