WISDOM OF GILBERT / Saw the D’Oyly Carte opera company perform H.M.S. Pinafore, which I first saw them do when I was twelve and which I have seen roughly ten times since. Pondered upon this piece and the Gilbert and Sullivan operas in general. Though not a fanatic I am fond of them, not only because they are true works of art in themselves but because of the orderly, reasonable, intelligent and literate Victorian world of which they are a distorted reflection. There is a background of good sense and real wit to Gilbert’s libretti; this afternoon, at a tenth view, I saw more clearly than before what a wry and pungent piece of work Pinafore is; like Gulliver’s Travels you may take it as a pleasant phantasy, or as a powerful kick in the slats to all stratified societies, including those of the North American continent and the USSR. The Gilbert and Sullivan operas have been extravagantly praised for many reasons, but never, to my knowledge, for the savage and often melancholy wisdom that is in them; Sir William Gilbert was not a nice man, and his operas are not nice. They are something rarer; they are wise.
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• FROM MY FILES •
To Haubergeon Hydra, ESQ.
Dear Mr. Hydra:
I have been asked by several influential members of the Canadian Brotherhood of Snow Shovellers and Ploughmen to put their case to you as Pro. Tern. Sub-Re-Router of Labour, in order that you may draw it to the attention of the appropriate Minister. Here is our case in a nutshell:
(a) Some winters it snows a lot and we make money.
(b) Other winters it doesn’t snow much and we don’t make any money.
(c) We want a floor under snow. That is, in winter when the crop of snow is poor, we want the Government either to distribute false snow—salt, flour, Western wheat or something of that sort—so that we can shovel it and make money, OR—
(d) We want the Government to pay us for shovelling snow that isn’t there, so we can make money.
You will see at once that this is in the latest economic trend and a good idea. See what you can do for us, like a good fellow, and some Christmas Santa may have something in his sack for a good Civil Servant.
Love and kisses from all us snowmen,
Samuel Marchbanks.
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To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
My Dear Nephew:
Earlier this Summer your Uncle Gomeril and I observed our seventy-fifth wedding anniversary. You did not send a greeting card, for which abstention I thank you; we received several cards, all of a nauseating degree of sentimentality, bearing no conceivable relationship to the sort of domesticity your Uncle and I have waged during the past three-quarters of a century. You might, however, have sent a few flowers. Several people sent bouquets of what I learned as a girl to call “wind-flowers,” but what people now call “everlastings.” Whether this was intended as a delicate reference to the unusual durability of our match, or whether it was an ironical allusion to the hardy good health which we both enjoy I cannot determine.
We celebrated the occasion by visiting Niagara Falls for a few days, to rest and observe the great Natural Wonder. The Chamber of Commerce there offers a certificate of congratulation to all honeymoon couples, upon which appears a wish that their union may be as beautiful and enduring as the Falls itself. It occurred to me that the Falls is as much distinguished for its violence and its extreme dampness as for beauty and endurance, but as your Uncle and I completed our honeymoon and all that goes with it long ago this was a matter of merely academic concern to us.
We were, however, much affronted by the number of honey-mooners who infested the place, wandering about hand in hand, wet smiles and goggling eyes proclaiming their condition for all the world to see. When your Uncle and I were married and went to the Shetlands on our wedding trip we took great pains to look like a married couple of several years standing.
Perhaps we were foolish so to do, but I think that our reticence was preferable to the mawkish displays of unfledged connubiality which we observed at N.F.
We visited, among other places, a restaurant maintained by the Provincial Government, at which a bottle of wine cost almost twice as much as it does in a liquor store, also maintained by the Provincial Government. Your Uncle commented upon this in his accustomed ringing tones, but of what avail is it to protest against official extortion? Complaining about a government is, as Holy Writ tersely phrases it, kicking against the pricks.
Your affectionate aunt-by-marriage,
Bathsheba Marchbanks.
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To Genghis Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Cousin Genghis:
I am terribly sorry that I was unable to be present at the Gala Opening of your new pawnshop. I understand that it was a wonderful affair, and distinguished by your own special brand of hospitality. Water ran like water, I am told, and guests who had brought their own sandwiches were permitted to eat them on the premises.
Let me deal with your last letter, before bringing up anything else. No, I do not want any binoculars at specially reduced prices, nor am I in the market for the telescope which you offer cheap. I have never been able to see nearly as well through binoculars as through my own unassisted eyes. No doubt this is sheer optical obstinacy, but it is true. And I have never been able to see anything at all through a telescope.
This is not for lack of goodwill. I admire telescopes, and would love to clap one to my eye, sailor-fashion, while taking a walk in the country, or even when attending the ballet. But all a telescope does for me is to flatten my eyewinkers uncomfortably.
But I am in the market for a good concertina. Concertinas run in the Marchbanks family. Uncle Fortunatus plays one. I play one. And the other day I discovered our little niece Imoinda extracting the usual cow-stuck-in-a-swamp noises from a concertina which I discarded some years ago when I bought my super-Wheatstone. Can you find a nice instrument for Imoinda which some needy concertinist has hocked?
Your affectionate cousin,
Sam.
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To Miss Nancy Frisgig.
Charming Nancy:
I have been neglecting you shamefully; almost as shamefully as you have been neglecting me. But I write now to tell you of a discovery I have made which should be of interest to the whole female sex, and particularly to that part of it which, like yourself, is chiefly concerned with matters of fashion and allurement.
What is the greatest single beautifier available to womanhood? Is it a cream, or a top-dressing for the face, or a perfume which steals away the critical judgement of the beholder? No, poppet, it is shoes that fit.
How did I find this out? Well, yesterday I sat in a restaurant, munching a bowl of breakfast food—it was evening, but I practically live on breakfast food—when in came a young man with, obviously, his Best Girl. She was stylishly dressed; her hair was nicely arranged, and she wore a few gew-gaws which indicated that she came from a home of some wealth and possibly even of cultivation. But her face was the mask of a Gorgon.
They sat down near me, and immediately, under the table, I saw her kick off her shoes. And at once her face melted into that expression—half Madonna, half Aphrodite—which reduces the male to a jelly. Beauty suffused her as though the moon had sailed from behind a cloud. She ordered a steak at $6.50, and a peck of lobster and a Baked Alaska to go with it, and her escort did not even notice. It was worth it, he seemed to think, to be the companion of that girl.
Now, Nancy, if that girl means to make the most of her considerable gifts, she must either go barefoot, or get the shoes she needs. And so I say to all her sex.
Yours with warmest admiration down to the ankles,
Sam.
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To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Cousin:
I have your letter, and as someone left half a sheet of paper in the pawnshop yesterday when they were pledging their diamonds, I take my pen in hand at once to reply. You should not speak so lightly of the concertina, Cousin. Are you not aware that there is quite a little body of music composed especially for it? Tschaikowsky arrange
d his second orchestral suite so that it might be played on four concertinas. Molique wrote a concerto for the concertina, as well as a sonata for concertina and piano. Regondi, too, wrote a concerto for the instrument. Did you not know that the late Arthur Balfour was a most accomplished player, and a concertina was the solace of his idle hours during his time in Parliament? I shall get one for little Imoinda, of course, but I entreat you to see that the child realizes that she handles a sensitive instrument, and not a toy.
Your reproachful kinsman,
Genghis Marchbanks.
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To Amy as Pilgarlic, ESQ.
Dear Pil:
I was reading an interesting book the other day about the worship of the Bull-god, Minos, in early Crete. It appears that the High Priest had a golden head, like that of a bull, which he wore over his own head when greeting visitors. He then removed it, and carried on conversation face to face. When he thought that the interview had gone on long enough or that he wanted his visitor to go, he put the bull’s head back on again, in sign that the talk was over.
Don’t you think that something of this kind could be worked out for people like myself, who never know how to bring an interview to a close? I don’t suppose a gold bull’s head would really do. It might seem a little eccentric and ostentatious. But a simple brass head, made in the shape of my own face, but stern and impassive, might be just the thing. Or, on second thoughts, better make it bronze. Brass has such a nasty smell, as anyone can learn by sniffing the bell of an old bugle.
There are for sale in joke shops rubber masks, which give one the appearance of a gorilla. I think I shall get one and try it out. If it works I shall get a bronze job done. Do you know of any good cheap foundry which would undertake such a commission?
Yours faithfully,
Sam.
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To Mervyn Noseigh, M.A.
Dear Mr. Noseigh:
When you put the question to me so baldly—“What led you to become a writer?”—I am momentarily nonplussed. On what level do you expect me to answer? The objective? If so, I became a writer because it looked like easy money. But that won’t look well in your PH.D. thesis, so let us try the subjective approach.
On this level, I became a writer because I suffered the early conditioning of the Unconscious that makes writers. That is to say, my Oedipus Complex was further complicated by the Warmefläsche-reaktion.
You know how this works. Think of the Infantile World as a Huge Bed; on one side lies Mum, on the other side lies Dad, and in the middle is Baby Bunting. The normal thing, of course, is for B.B. to work out his Oedipus Complex; he wants to kill Dad and mate with Mum—thereby fitting himself for some normal occupation like the Civil Service. But sometimes B.B., for reasons still unknown to science, turns from Mum and snuggles up to Dad who quite understandably shoves B.B. down to the bottom of the bed and warms his feet on him as if he were a hot-water bottle (or (Warmefläsche). Thus, in the very dawn of his existence, B.B. acquires that down-trodden cast of mind that marks the writer.
Very often Dad kicks B.B. right out of bed onto the cold linoleum, bringing about that sense of Utter Rejection which turns B.B. into a critic.
I can hardly wait to read your thesis.
Reverently,
Samuel Marchbanks (your topic).
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• FROM MY NOTEBOOKS •
THE UNIVERSAL FRIEND / As I stood on Yonge Street this afternoon, a man approached me with a happy smile. He stopped in front of me, rocked on his heels, puffed out a cloud of boozy breath and said, “Well, well, well!” As I am peculiarly attractive to persons in his condition, I feigned ignorance of his presence, but he came nearer, and peeped searchingly into my eyes. “Ain’t goin’ to speak fan ole pal?” he said, coyly. “How do you do,” I said, stiffly. “Cheest,” said he “I wouldna thought ole Jock would gimme the brushoff.” “You are mistaken, my good fellow,” said I. “Gwan,” said he; “you’re old Jock McGladdeny.” “No,” said I, firmly. He looked at me, and a gummy tear crept sluggishly down one cheek. “Ole Jock,” said he, “an’ he won’t speak t’an old pal.” He took his cigar out of his mouth and prodded me with the wet end of it. “God love yuh, anyway, Jock,” he said, and stumbled on, and as he receded I heard him murmur, “Old Jock a Judas; Cheest!” … I wonder why I am so often mistaken for somebody else, especially by drunks? Do my features in some mysterious way suggest a Universal Friend—a man whom everybody, at some time or other, has known? This is a cross I bear with very ill grace.
VEXATIOUS VERGE / As winter draws on I sigh with gratitude, for soon one of the problems of Marchbanks Towers will be out of my hands for a few months. I refer to the condition of what I think of as My Verge. Outside my fence is a section of miserable grass which belongs not to me but to the whole community; and the whole community, when passing, throws candy-wrappers, cellophane, cigarette boxes, used paper handkerchiefs, banana skins, dead cats and soiled undergarments upon it, quite casually and without malice. But if I do not occasionally clean up this community trash-heap the Towers begins to look as though it were situated in the middle of a dump. So I stumble brokenly about, with a bag and a nail on the end of a stick, picking up junk, and little children say, “Mummy, shall I give that poor old man a nickel?” when they pass. But with the coming of winter the snow flings its veil of pristine whiteness over my Verge, and conceals the trash, eventually imbedding it in ice. There have been times when I have considered following the example of those citizens of Newfoundland, who have their lawns paved with asphalt, for I notice that few people throw trash on the sidewalks. But I am still a public park-keeper, and will probably continue in my servitude.
DIET SADISM / I have been reading a lot of books about dieting, for my physician has spoken prayerfully to me on this subject. What annoys me about diet books is that they are written either by people who are funny, or people who are angry. The funny ones think it is the most hilarious thing in the world to be compelled to eat less than one wants, of foods that one would not ordinarily choose; they write as though a diet were a huge joke. The angry ones are worse: they threaten the dieter with quick and unpleasant death if he doesn’t lose his excess weight, and they speak scornfully of the kind of life (cocktails and two-helpings-of-everything) which makes diets necessary. Both kinds of writers are crypto-Calvinists who have an addiction to gelatin in food; everything they recommend seems to contain either lettuce or gelatin. Now it so happens that an uncle of mine, Bellerophon Marchbanks, has devoted his life to the manufacture of gelatin and also of glue, and I cannot separate the two in my mind. Gelatin in moderation I accept; unlimited gelatin turns me cold and shaky to begin, and then produces the effect anyone could foresee as proceeding from a diet of glue—anyone but a doctor, that’s to say.
THE MEASURED STEP / A few weeks ago I bought myself a toy—a pedometer, which measures how far I walk when I am wearing it. Apparently I don’t walk very much. I have always assumed that in the course of an ordinary day’s work I walked four or five miles, but according to the pedometer an eighth of a mile is nearer the correct figure. The only time the pedometer gets much of a workout is when I am cutting my lawn, and then the miles tick up at a surprising rate. The instrument is worn on the right leg, and it has a psychological effect; it makes me stamp with that leg to make sure that the dial registers properly, and I am developing a gait like the Giant Blunderbore, or possibly Peg-Leg Pete the Pirate. The Pedometer cheats, too; when I am riding in a car it registers a step whenever the car goes over a bump; on a long journey I can cover as much as a quarter of a mile, according to the pedometer, although I have not exerted myself in the least. I have no desire to clock astonishing scores on this gadget; I merely want to know if I do much walking. I am disappointed by what it tells me, but at least I am now in a position to lure other people to boast of the walking they do in an ordinary day’s work, so that I may contradict them, and gain face as a statistician.
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• FROM MY ARCHIVES •
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Sir:
It comes to our ears from a professional source that you are bringing suit against your neighbour, Richard Dandiprat, whom you accuse of imprisoning a skunk (Mephitis Canadensis) in your motor car, with resultant damage to same.
We learn also that the success of your suit is jeopardized by your inability to bring forward a single witness who saw Dandiprat commit this misdemeanour.
May we offer our services? For a modest fee we can provide witnesses who will give your case all the corroboration which it needs, ensuring your success. We feel that three capable witnesses (two men and a woman) would amply meet your requirements, and we will provide these for five hundred dollars and expenses. You will agree that this is a ridiculously low sum, and it is only because we work on a very large scale that we are able to make this very special price. All correspondence strictly confidential.
Yours, etc.,
False Witness, Inc.
Telegraphic Address:
“ANANIAS”