Writings and Drawings Page 3

  “For what?”

  “For all this discrepancy. Obviously it just didn’t happen. It couldn’t just have happened. It had to make some sense—nature is like that. So he—so he finally—ah—what he did was tell her, see? I mean he asked her.”

  “Asked her what?”

  DR. KARL ZANER

  “He simply asked her,” said her husband in calm, almost cold tones,—“he simply asked her why she thought this was. Is there anything wrong in that? And so gradually they understood why it was. It’s as simple as that!” He looked at her triumphantly.

  “What are you talking about?” she demanded.

  “Listen,” he said at last, firmly. “Both of us speak a little French, and we might try it that way. I think I could explain better in French. Why, even little children, tiny girls, sing Auprès de ma blonde in France, and think nothing of it. It’s just a nice, wholesome idea—auprès de ma blonde—and it sounds like poetry—but take it in English and what do you get?”

  “ ‘Quite close to my blonde’ . . .” answered his wife.

  “. . . ‘Qu’il fait bon dormir,’ ” her husband hurried on.

  “ ‘How good it is to sleep,’ ” she translated.

  “Fine! Now you’re talking.”

  “Go on,” she said, “you’re talking.”

  “Well, all right, but first I wanted you to see that there is no reason to get embarrassed, because everything is lovely in French. So don’t mind my frankness.”

  “I don’t,” said the bride.

  “All right,” he began again, “Alors, now, il y a quelque chose que vous avez que je n’en ai pas, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Oui,” she said.

  “Bon,” he said. “Alors, ça c’est naturel—ah—ça c’est bien naturel . . .”

  “Par exemple,” put in his wife, a little illogically.

  “Dites,” he said, and after a great pause, “Dites donc—dites vous——”

  “You should really use ‘tu’ and ‘toi’ and not ‘vous,’ ” said his wife; “it’s more intimate.”

  “All right,” he responded. “Now, tu as quelque chose, tu as . . . toi.”

  “Comment?” she demanded.

  “I just don’t know enough words,” said the bridegroom, wretchedly. The bride put her hand on his arm.

  “Let’s try ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ in English,” she suggested.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “Well, all right. Now thee has——”

  “Hath,” she corrected.

  “Thee hath certain—ah——”

  “Differences,” she supplied. “But isn’t it ‘thou hath’—or is it ‘thee hath’?”

  “To hell with it!” cried her husband. “In all thy life hast never been around, for Pete’s sake?”

  “Certainly, and thou—and you have no right to talk to me like that!”

  “I’m sorry,” said the young man. “I’m sorry.” He rose to his feet. “Ye gods! to think this had to happen to me! Ah, well. Listen. I tell you what, I’ll write it out for you. How about that? And if you don’t like the idea, why, all right, I suppose.”

  EMOTIONAL CHARADES. PLATE I.

  “One young man every night tenderly placed, with much strange clucking, a basket near the hearth into which he had some expectation that a baby would be deposited by a stork.”

  It was the next day that the young husband, who had sat up all night in the hotel lobby, thinking and writing, visited Dr. Tithridge. I am happy to report that, as not infrequently happens in such cases, a solution was finally arrived at. However, in a great number of cases the difficulty is never overcome. The home becomes a curious sort of hybrid, with overtones of the botanical garden and the aviary. The husband grows morose and snappish, the wife cross and pettish. Very often she takes up lacrosse and he goes in for raising rabbits. If allowed to go on, the situation can become so involved and intricate that not all the analysts from the time of Joan of Arc down could unravel it.

  The problem is by no means any simpler where the wife is cognizant of things as they are and the husband is ignorant. I know of one young man who every night tenderly placed, with much strange clucking, a basket near the hearth into which he had some expectation that a baby would be deposited by a stork. (Plate I.) Another young husband constructed at considerable expense a water-lily pond in his back yard and fondly rowed about in it, twilight after twilight, searching for infants, laying his finger to his lip, making “tchk, tchk” noises at his wife, who watched him in profound amazement. In both these cases the wives were fine women of strong character, with a background of sturdy pioneer stock, and they soon put a stop to such charades, once they divined the curiously entangled Wish Motives behind them. It may be said, indeed, that young wives are more candid and direct in their explanations of natural phenomena than young husbands, when they have to be.

  The existence of such deplorable ignorance is a sad commentary on the sentimentality of a nation which sets itself up to be frankly sexual. There is much reason to be hopeful, however. The future parents of the land will doubtless come straight to the point in matters of this sort, when talking with their children. The children of today will be the parents of tomorrow, and you know how the children of today are.

  FROM

  THE OWL IN THE ATTIC

  AND OTHER PERPLEXITIES

  Mr. Monroe Holds the Fort

  THE COUNTRY HOUSE, on this particular wintry afternoon, was most enjoyable. Night was trudging up the hill and the air was sharp. Mr. Monroe had already called attention several times to the stark beauty of the black tree branches limned, as he put it, against the sky. The wood fire had settled down to sleepy glowing in the grate.

  “It is a little lonely, though,” said Mrs. Monroe. (The nearest house was far away.)

  “I love it,” said her husband, darkly. At moments and in places like this, he enjoyed giving the impression of a strong, silent man wrapped in meditation. He stared, brooding, into the fire. Mrs. Monroe, looking quite tiny and helpless, sat on the floor at his feet and leaned against him. He gave her shoulder two slow, reflective pats.

  “I really don’t mind staying here when Germaine is here—just we two,” said Mrs. Monroe, “but I think I would be terrified if I were alone.” Germaine, the maid, a buxom, fearless woman, was in town on shopping leave. The Monroes had thought it would be fun to spend the weekend alone and get their own meals, the way they used to.

  “There’s nothing in the world to be afraid of,” said Mr. Monroe.

  “Oh, it gets so terribly black outside, and you hear all kinds of funny noises at night that you don’t hear during the day.” Mr. Monroe explained to her why that was—expansion (said he) of woodwork in the cold night air, and so on. From there he somehow went into a discussion of firearms, which would have betrayed to practically anyone that his knowledge of guns was limited to a few impressive names like Colt and Luger. They were one of those things he was always going to read up on but never did. He mentioned quietly, however, that he was an excellent shot.

  “Mr. Farrington left his pistol here, you know,” said Mrs. Monroe, “but I’ve never touched it—ugh!”

  “He did?” cried her husband. “Where is it? I’d like to take a look at it.” Mr. Farrington was the man from whom they had taken, on long lease, the Connecticut place.

  “It’s upstairs in the chest of drawers in the back room,” said Mrs. Monroe. Her husband, despite her protests, went up and got it and brought it down. “Please put it away!” said his wife. “Is it loaded? Oh, don’t do that! Please!” Mr. Monroe, looking grim and competent, was aiming the thing, turning it over, scowling at it.

  “It’s loaded all right,” he said, “all five barrels.”

  “Chambers,” said his wife.

  “Yes,” he said. “Let me show you how to use it—after all, you can never tell when you’re going to need a gun.”

  “Oh, I’d never use it—even if one of those convicts that escaped yesterday came right up the stair
s and I could shoot him, I’d just stand there. I’d be paralyzed!”

  “Nonsense!” said Mr. Monroe. “You don’t have to shoot a man. Get the drop on him, stand him up with his face against a wall, and phone the police. Look here—” he covered an imaginary figure, backed him against the wall, and sat down at the phone table. “Always keep your eye on him; don’t look into the transmitter.” Mr. Monroe glared at his man, lifted up the receiver, holding the hook down with his finger, and spoke quietly to the phone. In the midst of this the phone rang. Mr. Monroe started sharply.

  “It’s for you, dear,” he said presently. His wife took the receiver.

  How curiously things happen! That is what Mr. Monroe thought, an hour later, as he drove back from the station after taking his wife there to catch the 7:10. Imagine her mother getting one of those fool spells at this time! Imagine expecting a grown daughter to come running every time you felt a little dizzy! Imagine—well, the ways of women were beyond him. He turned into the drive of the country house. Judas, but it was dark! Dark and silent. Mr. Monroe didn’t put the machine in the garage. He got out and stood still, listening. Off toward the woods somewhere he heard a thumping noise. Partridge drumming, thought Mr. Monroe. But partridge didn’t thump, they whirred—didn’t they? Oh, well, they probably thumped at this time of year.

  Burglars Flitting About in the Attic of a House in Which the Master Is Home Alone

  It was good to get inside the house. He built up the fire, and turned on the overhead lights—his wife never allowed them turned on. Then he went into a couple of other rooms and turned on more lights. He wished he had gone in town with her. Of course she’d be back in the morning on the 10:10, and they’d have the rest of that day—Sunday—together. Still . . . he went to the drawer where he had put the revolver and got it out. He fell to wondering whether the thing would work. Long-unused guns often jammed, or exploded. He went out into the kitchen, carrying the pistol. His wife had told him to be sure and get himself a snack. He opened the refrigerator door, looked in, decided he wasn’t hungry, and closed it again. He went back to the living-room and began to pace up and down. He decided to put the pistol on the mantel, butt toward him. Then he practiced making quick grabs for it. Presently he sat down in a chair, picked up a Nation and began to read, at random: “Two men are intimately connected with the killing of striking workers at Marion, North Carolina. . . .” Where had those convicts his wife mentioned escaped from? Dannemora? Matteawan? How far were those places from this house? Maybe having all the lights on was a bad idea. He got up and turned the upper lights off; and then turned them on again. . . . There was a step outside. Crunch! crunch! . . . Mr. Monroe hurried to the mantel, knocked the gun on to the floor, fumbled for it, and stuck it in a hip pocket just as a knock sounded at the door.

  “Wha-” began Mr. Monroe, and was surprised to find he couldn’t say anything else. The knocking continued. He stepped to the door, stood far to one side, and said, “Yeh?” A cheery voice responded. Reassured, Mr. Monroe opened the door. A motorist wanted to know how to get to the Wilton road. Mr. Monroe told him, speaking quite loudly. Afterwards, lifted up by this human contact, he went back to his reading in the Nation: “Around 1:30 A.M. one of the foremen approached young Luther Bryson, 22, one of the victims, and harangued him: ‘If you strike this time, you ——, we will shoot it out with you.’ . . .” Mr. Monroe put the magazine down. He got up and went to the victrola, selected a jazz record, and began to play it. It occurred to him that if there were steps outside, he couldn’t hear them. He shut the machine off. The abrupt silence made him stand still, listening. He heard all kinds of noises. One of them came from upstairs—a quick, sliding noise, like a convict slipping into a clothes closet . . . the fellow had a beard and a blue-steel gun . . . a man in the dark had the advantage. Mr. Monroe’s mouth began to feel stuffy. “Damn it! This can’t go on!” he said aloud, and felt bucked up. Then someone put his heel down sharply on the floor just above. Mr. Monroe tentatively picked up a flashlight, and pulled the pistol from his pocket. The phone rang sharply. “Good God!” said Mr. Monroe, backing against a wall. He slid on to the chair in front of the phone, with the gun in his right hand, and took up the receiver with his left. When he spoke into the transmitter his eyes kept roving around the room. “H’lo,” he said. It was Mrs. Monroe. Her mother was all right. Was he all right? He was fine. What was he doing? Oh, reading. (He kept the gun trained on the foot of the steps leading upstairs.) Well, what would he think if she came back out on that midnight train? Her mother was all right. Would he be too sleepy to wait up and meet her? Hell, no! That was fine! Do that! . . .

  Mr. Monroe hung up the receiver with a profound sigh of relief. He looked at his watch. Hm, wouldn’t have to leave for the station for nearly two hours. Whistling, he went out to the refrigerator (still carrying the gun) and fetched out the butter and some cold meat. He made a couple of sandwiches (laying the gun on the kitchen table) and took them into the living-room (putting the gun in his pocket). He turned off the overhead lights, sat down, picked up a Harper’s and began to read. Abruptly, that flitting, clothes-closety sound came from upstairs again. Mr. Monroe finished his sandwiches hurriedly, with the gun on his lap, got up, went from room to room turning off the extra lights, put on his hat and overcoat, locked several doors, went out and got into his car. After all, he could read just as well at the station, and he would be sure of being there on time—might fall asleep otherwise. He started the engine, and whirled out of the drive. He felt for the pistol, which was in his overcoat pocket. He would slip it back into the chest of drawers upstairs later on. Mr. Monroe came to a crossroads and a light. He began to whistle.

  The Pet Department

  Q. I enclose a sketch of the way my dog, William, has been lying for two days now. I think there must be something wrong with him. Can you tell me how to get him out of this?

  Mrs. L. L. G.

  A. I should judge from the drawing that William is in a trance. Trance states, however, are rare with dogs. It may just be ecstasy. If at the end of another twenty-four hours he doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere, I should give him up. The position of the ears leads me to believe that he may be enjoying himself in a quiet way, but the tail is somewhat alarming.

  Q. Our cat, who is thirty-five, spends all of her time in bed. She follows every move I make, and this is beginning to get to me. She never seems sleepy nor particularly happy. Is there anything I could give her?

  MISS L. MC.

  A. There are no medicines which can safely be given to induce felicity in a cat, but you might try lettuce, which is a soporific, for the wakefulness. I would have to see the cat watching you to tell whether anything could be done to divert her attention.

  Q. My husband, who is an amateur hypnotizer, keeps trying to get our bloodhound under his control. I contend that this is not doing the dog any good. So far he has not yielded to my husband’s influence, but I am afraid that if he once got under, we couldn’t get him out of it.

  A. A. T.

  A. Dogs are usually left cold by all phases of psychology, mental telepathy, and the like. Attempts to hypnotize this particular breed, however, are likely to be fraught with a definite menace. A bloodhound, if stared at fixedly, is liable to gain the impression that it is under suspicion, being followed, and so on. This upsets a bloodhound’s life, by completely reversing its whole scheme of behavior.

  Q. My wife found this owl in the attic among a lot of ormolu clocks and old crystal chandeliers. We can’t tell whether it’s stuffed or only dead. It is sitting on a strange and almost indescribable sort of iron dingbat.

  MR. MOLLEFF

  A. What your wife found is a museum piece—a stuffed cockatoo. It looks to me like a rather botchy example of taxidermy. This is the first stuffed bird I have ever seen with its eyes shut, but whoever had it stuffed probably wanted it stuffed that way. I couldn’t say what the thing it is sitting on is supposed to represent. It looks broken.

  Q. Our gull
cannot get his head down any farther than this, and bumps into things.

  H. L. F.

  A. You have no ordinary gull to begin with. He looks to me a great deal like a rabbit backing up. If he is a gull, it is impossible to keep him in the house. Naturally he will bump into things. Give him his freedom.

  Q. My police dog has taken to acting very strange, on account of my father coming home from work every night for the past two years and saying to him, “If you’re a police dog, where’s your badge?”, after which he laughs (my father).

  ELLA R.

  A. The constant reiteration of any piece of badinage sometimes has the same effect on present-day neurotic dogs that it has on people. It is dangerous and thoughtless to twit a police dog on his powers, authority, and the like. From the way your dog seems to hide behind tables, large vases, and whatever that thing is that looks like a suitcase, I should imagine that your father has carried this thing far enough—perhaps even too far.

  Q. My husband’s seal will not juggle, although we have tried everything.

  GRACE H.

  A. Most seals will not juggle; I think I have never known one that juggled. Seals balance things, and sometimes toss objects (such as the large ball in your sketch) from one to another. This last will be difficult if your husband has but one seal. I’d try him in plain balancing, beginning with a billiard cue or something. It may be, of course, that he is a non-balancing seal.

  Q. We have a fish with ears and wonder if it is valuable.

  JOE WRIGHT

  A. I find no trace in the standard fish books of any fish with ears. Very likely the ears do not belong to the fish, but to some mammal. They look to me like a mammal’s ears. It would be pretty hard to say what species of mammal, and almost impossible to determine what particular member of that species. They may merely be hysterical ears, in which case they will go away if you can get the fish’s mind on something else.