On the Need of Another Conference

ONE evening not long ago the Old Gentleman Opposite came up to my study on the tenth floor of the Novomundo Apartments, to return a pleasant book which I had lent to his sister Narcissa. (I refrain from giving its title, as that might seem to him an approach to advertising methods, in regard to which his opinion will presently appear.)

I took advantage of this rare opportunity to call his attention to the view from my western windows, which constantly delights my soul. Across the lower roofs I can see the great river flowing on, plum-blue or silver-gray, or reflecting rosy cloud wings of sunset; and at night the farther bank exhibits its electric constellations, to my childish joy. I pointed out this pleasing prospect to my old friend, and misquoted with relish,

‘This beauty hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear.’

‘Hm!’ said he. ‘But it is n’t

His tone was sardonic. He began to read aloud the fiery legends blazoned upon the bank. ‘Snowdrift Sugar, Mondamin Breakfast Food, Scrubwell Soap — and what’s that glittering palace yonder? Oh, it’s the Delirium Amusement Park!’

‘Yes, it’s not the Celestial City, as the first glimpse might suggest,’ said I, ‘but the worst in this kind may be acceptable, if imagination amend it.’

He would not, however, acknowledge the spell of my magic casements. ‘All to one end,’ said he. ‘Advertisement! Beauty is now Andromeda, fastened to the rock, as a sacrifice to the beast.

This was so unusually bitter, coming from my kindly old friend, that I wondered what the cause could be. I thought his nerves needed soothing; and I offered him a choice of cigarettes.

‘No!’ he exclaimed explosively. ‘Thank you very much; but I won’t smoke Golden Treasure, and I won’t smoke Arabian Joy. Their big billboards now appear at the most beautiful points of my favorite landscapes, bearing the counterfeit presentment of a colossal young man in the present style of short-story illustration, smoking a giant cigarette. If it will not desecrate your study, I prefer a pipe.’ He took out a small French brier, and filled it from his pouch with something that presently emitted an agreeable odor. ‘An unadvertised blend,’ he explained.

He smoked awhile in silence; then, having softened somewhat, lapsed into a confidence.

‘You have perceived that something is the matter. Well, I am nursing a disappointment. . . . Did I ever tell you that I used to be a teacher?’

‘It was unnecessary,’ I answered.

‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that there is a badge that marks our tribe, though it is n’t Sufferance. That may mark our pupils. I loved mine, and I miss them still.

‘One of them came to see me last night. Walter was my special hope and pride. His poems — his tricksy little familiar essays — his light renderings of Horace — and then his sketches! Not brutal caricatures, you know, but delicately humorous, in the best spirit of Punch. I’ll show you sometime.’ . . . He smoked again, and mused.

‘Walter,’ he said at last, with the note of tragedy, ‘has gone into Advertising.’

‘Practically the best thing he could have done,’ said I. ‘That’s the field of the future. And so well paid!’

He was muttering softly to himself,

’Gold dust,’ I amended.

‘Consider,’ he resumed, ‘what is spent on this extravagant and erring business. Let us suppose for a minute, difficult as it may be, that man is a rational being. He wants something, and must know where to get it. Good. Or he makes something, and must let other people know where to get it. Good. That’s the skeleton of the situation.’

I nodded.

‘But,’ he went on, ‘it has now become “He does n’t want something, and must be made to believe that he does want it,” or “He makes something, and must induce everybody to believe that it is better than anything else of the kind.” So that the heart of the matter is, in the first instance, a specious Allurement; and, in the second instance, an unscrupulous Competition — which is War.

‘That brings me to my point. If only the producers of a given article could get together around a Table . . .’

‘A Table,’ said I. ‘There has been a superstitious notion, since the days of King Arthur, that a Table has mysterious powers. But go on.’

‘If they could agree that they would confine their advertising, perhaps at first for a limited period, to the simple statement that a certain article has positive excellences, and is for sale at a certain price in certain places, why then . . .’

‘What then?’

‘All this vast machinery, this stupendous armament of advertising, might be dispensed with. Think of the beneficial effect on human life! The immense saving of money and time and effort and ingenuity; the rediscovery of the joy of pure Beauty, delight in Beauty as its own excuse for being, dissociated from the thought of profit! And really, if some action of this kind is n’t taken soon, I can’t see what we are coming to. Advertisement has captured the radio; and now, I understand, it has captured the talking film for “cartoon comedies written around the product,” twenty-five thousand dollars a reel. It will be only one step more to the popular short story, which may also be written around the product. There will be prizes offered. . . .’

‘And what,’ I asked, ‘of the unemployment which would result from your simple scheme of a self-denying agreement?’

‘My plan would merely turn industry into other and better channels,’ he answered hopefully. ‘It would free literature and art and music for their proper functions. Yes, if we could only arrange a Great Disadvertisement Conference — around a Table . . .'

‘May I ask,’ said I, ‘whether that method appears to you, from our experience of it, to be sufficiently rapid in its operation for your purposes?’

‘It might be slow,’ he admitted sadly.

‘And it would require a good deal of preparation. The representatives of the large manufacturing interests would have to be educated. I hesitate to use the current expression, but the idea of disadvertisement would have to be sold to them — to be widely advertised, in short. . .'

The Old Gentleman rose to his feet. ‘Then there is no way out,’ said he. ‘We may certainly look forward to a time when there are more persons employed in advertising any product than in the actual manufacture of that product. The result may be a great debacle — a reaction against the conveniences of civilization, and a return to barbarism.’

His hand moved toward a coat pocket from which I have learned to expect some lyric development. I was not disappointed; but in the action of drawing out his latest effusion — which I append — he dislodged from his pocket a small stray copper coin. It rolled upon the floor. Picking it up, he looked at it thoughtfully.

‘This portrait and motto,’ said he, ‘will presently have to be changed.’

‘What would you suggest?’ I inquired.

‘A profile of P. T. Barnum, crowned with laurel,’ said he, ‘with the motto, “It pays to advertise.”’

SONNET OF THE STARK FUTURE