FOR AND AGAINST

We have just seen something quite curious in London. We saw, assembled in front of a station, thousands and thousands of kids, agitated and frantic. Now, these kids, these brats, these toddlers were all the size of men. Some were two meters tall, others had thick moustaches, others still were bald and pot-bellied. Some were barely supporting themselves, had bent backs and furrowed faces. All these brats were cheering a prince who, himself, had a really serious and calm air.

The excited brats were between twenty and eighty years old. The prince, himself, was not yet ten years old. He was the kid, Jackie Coogan, the child prodigy of the magic lantern. He alone, in the distraught and screaming crowd, did not look like a child.

Grown-ups, serious people! My God, what big words! Where are the serious people? Where are the grown-ups? And what serious man, mature man, considerable man, important man can flatter himself that he is not, at certain times, a child, a very small child? His very gravity, his very application to being serious, preoccupied, considerable, is all that not still childishness?

In London, in Paris, in Tokyo, adults jostle to see a high-flyer who is making a movie. The adults who run after the brat are incontestably children, even kids, old kids.

But the old ladies who cover themselves with gems and pearls and who take pleasure in seeing their withered fingers and their poor outraged throats shine are also babies.

But the hoary novelist, who runs after glory as the Londoners ran after the "kid's" car, is a poor child.

But the old gentlemen of Deauville who amused themselves on the green carpet making big piles of money were only kids playing with sand.

But the most powerful and feared politician who believes he is doing great deeds, who believes he is speaking great words and who ultimately believes in his own authority, in his own power, is only a child in costume. He plays with power and sometimes with a big sabre, but he slips on an orange peel and is nothing more, immediately, than a miserable little man whose behind is on the ground.

A sorrow, a boo-boo, a misstep, an unexpected joy, a sudden pain and we are all children. And, besides, that is very good.

MAURICE PRAX.