him asleep if he can. He doesn't like to
let it wake up and look around at the world, because it asks awful
questions--about death, or truth--and that makes him uncomfortable. He
wants to be cheery and he hates to have his soul interfere. The soul is
too serious and the best thing to do is to deaden it.

Humor is an opiate for the soul, says Francis Hackett. Laugh it off:
that's one way of not facing a trouble. Sentimentality, too, drugs the
soul; so does business. That's why humor and sentimentality and business
are popular.

In Russia, it's different. Their souls are more awake, and less covered.
The Russians are not businesslike, and they're not sentimental, or
humorous. They are spiritually naked by contrast. An odd, moody people.
We look on, well wrapped-up, and wonder why they shiver at life.

"My first interest," the Russian explains, "is to know where I stand: I
must look at the past, and the seas of space about me, and the intricate
human drama on this little planet. Before I can attend to affairs, or be
funny, or tender, I must know whether the world's any good. Life may all
be a fraud."

The Englishman and American answer that this is not practical. They
don't believe in anyone's sitting down to stare at the Sphinx. "That
won't get you anywhere," they tell him. "You must be up and doing. Find
something that interests you, then do it, and--"

"Well, and what?" says the Russian.

"Why--er--and you'll find out as much of the Riddle in that way as any."

"And how much is that?"

[Illustration]

"Why, not so very damn much perhaps," we answer. "But at least you'll
keep sane."

[Illustration: But why stay sane?]

"Why keep sane?" says the Russian. "If there is any point to so doing I
should naturally wish to. But if one can't find a meaning to anything,
what is the difference?"

And the American and Englishman continue to recommend business.

Odd Countries

When I go away for a vacation, which I don't any more, I am or was
appalled at the ridiculous inconveniences of it. I have sometimes gone
to the Great Mother, Nature; sometimes to hotels. Well, the Great Mother
is kind, it is said, to the birds and the beasts, the small furry
creatures, and even, of old, to the Indian. But I am no Indian; I am not
even a small furry creature. I dislike the Great Mother. She's damp: and
far too full of insects.

And as for hotels, the man in the next room always snores. And by the
time you get used to