The Cheerful Workman

THE cheerful workman has, at one time or another, and at various hands, received at least his due meed of praise. I myself, have in times past ignorantly joined the chorus of laudation. Recently, however, when I have been dwelling by sufferance in a house inhabited by carpenters, plumbers, painters, and their respective satellites, I have been led to wonder whether the perfect artisan — could such be found — would not be profoundly glum.

It is one thing to be waked by the heavy tread of the hod-carrier; it is another to hear him mixing mortar at seven-thirty to the rhythm of Calabrian song. It is one thing to meet on one’s furtive way to the bath a painter making a round of the house to admire his superior brush-work; it is a far more trying adventure to have him herald his inevitable approach by whistling a few bars from operatic comedy, and emphasize his unwelcome presence by a cheery matutinal greeting. He is an intimate, of course, but the closest friends do well to be inconspicuous and silent when encountered before breakfast. At breakfast, moreover, there is little to be said for the interchange of pleasantries overheard between carpenters in the next room. Better the pounding hammer and the rasping saw than this forced introduction to the humors of the craft. And in the dead vast and middle of a summer afternoon what could be less desirable than the voice of an adventurous plumber uplifted in patriotic song?

The reader may accuse me of being splenetic. Perhaps I am. Yet ordinarily I am not devoid of interest in the manifestations of human nature. I am not displeased by the sight of the plumber, or his ‘ helper,’ when the day’s work is ended, making merry even upon a roller-coaster. What I complain of is that, to most of the workmen among whom I dwell, every day is a lark, a playing holiday. To me the hanging of doors and the setting up of radiators seem a serious business. I am bewildered by the light-heartedness that they appear professionally to beget.

Why, since they take such pleasure in it, should the workmen of the world have demanded and obtained a shorter day? Why should they not wish to labor on from dawn to dusk? The plumber and the mason frequently rest and sing; the carpenter enjoys unequaled opportunities for conversation; and the painter, whereas after five o’clock he must pay for his beer, before five may drink the beer for which I have paid. The only reason, indeed, why the so-called working-day should perhaps be of its present length is the necessity, felt by every man, of escaping monotony. Perhaps the painter wishes another kind of beer than mine, and perhaps the carpenter wishes daylight in which to tell his wife all about it.

From my point of view, moreover, there can be no question that the eighthour day is a blessing. The low-comedy mason, the crab-like plumber’s helper, the loquacious carpenter, and the cheerfully informative paper-hanger all depart, and leave behind them the peace of perfect tranquillity. What though there are chevaux-de-frise of step-ladders in the hall, mounds of shavings in what may some time be the drawing-room, muddy streaks upon an adventurous vanguard of rugs, and the smell of paint everywhere? The cheerful workman has left the scene of his merry-making.

Is he thereafter transformed, one wonders? It does not seem humanly possible that he can be so jovial for twenty-four hours on end. I should be very sorry if it were so, but I strongly suspect that out of my hearing, and at home, he becomes the morose husband and the stern parent. I should like him better, on the whole, if from eight till five he were gloomy and did his work in silence, reserving his manifestations of happiness for his own circle. I should prefer to have him automatic, easy-running, and (let me add) inexpensive to operate, like all the many devices of domestic machinery by which I have been tempted in the months past. If I knew how, I should make a workman of steel, mount him on pneumatic tires, and run him by electricity — for the greater quiet of the world. I detest, his actual resemblance to sounding brass.