Words for the expression of limited emotion are not too common in our language. The three I have listed above should not be allowed to die, and so far as I am concerned, they shan’t.
Yours,
Samuel Marchbanks.
*
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Dear Mr. Marchbanks:
It is with a heavy heart, Mr. Marchbanks, sir, that I write to tell you that your lawsuit against Richard Dandiprat finally came to court on Tuesday last, and that you have lost it. It was a most unhappy chance that brought a case of such delicacy to the attention of the judge the day after his birthday. His Honour had obviously been keeping the festival in the great tradition, and as soon as he took his place on the bench it was plain that his mind was occupied with old, unhappy, far-off things. Our Mr. Cicero Forcemeat was also somewhat indisposed, having been called to the bar repeatedly the day before; the lustre of his eloquence was, shall we say, dimmed. Dandiprat’s lawyers, Craven and Raven, were in like case, and the court presented an hapless picture. Nobody could hear anybody else; everybody was drinking bromoseltzer; the janitor had neglected to turn on the heat. The trial occupied precisely seven and one-half minutes. The judge was annoyed that you were not present, and has fined you $100 for contempt of court. This, with the costs of the suit, will amount to a rather larger figure than you have probably anticipated. But without the Unforeseen, Mr. Marchbanks, life would be intolerable and the law would be an exact science, instead of the tantalizing jade that she is.
A complete statement is enclosed, and prompt payment will be appreciated by
Your most faithful,
Mordecai Mouseman
(for Mouseman, Mouseman and Forcemeat).
*
To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.
Well, Sammy Old Pal:
The trial is now over, and no hard feelings, eh? All good pals as before. Drop in any time, and bring your own bottle with you. Like I say to the Little Woman—“No use getting mad at Marchbanks; it takes all kinds to make a world; so let’s be big about this thing, Goo-Ball, and forgive him for all the hard things he has thought about us; after all, like the fellow says, he’s probably an eight-ulcer man in a four-ulcer job.”
By the way, one day when you were out I borrowed your wheelbarrow, and it just came apart in my hands. You can have the pieces back any time, but you’d be better off to get a new one.
All the best for neighbourly relations,
Dick Dandiprat.
*
To Mervyn Noseigh, M.A.
Dear Mr. Noseigh:
Your last question is a humdinger. “When did you first decide to be a humorist; who were your chief humorous influences; how do you define humour?”—you ask, just like that.
I never decided to be a humorist; if I am one, I was born one, but I have never really given the matter much thought. I was once given a medal for humour, but it makes me nervous; I have tried to lose it, but I am too superstitious to throw it away. Men who bother their heads too much about being something particular—a Humorist, or a Philosopher, or a Social Being, or a Scientist, or a Humanist, or whatever—quickly cease to be men and become animated attitudes.
I suppose some of the humorists I have read have influenced me, because I think of them with affection, but never as people to be copied. I have read others, greatly praised as funny-men, who simply disgusted me. If I had to name a favourite, I suppose it would have to be Francois Rabelais, but I do not give him my whole heart; he had a golden touch with giants and pedants, but he thought ignobly of women.
Don’t you know what humour is? Universities re-define wit and satire every few years; surely it is time they nailed down humour for us? I don’t know what it is, though I suspect that it is an attribute of everything, and the substance of nothing, so if I had to define a sense of humour I would say it lay in the perception of shadows.
Sorry to be so disappointing,
Samuel Marchbanks.
*
To Mrs. Kedijah Scissorbill.
Madam:
So you are astonished that a man of my apparent good sense should believe in astrology, are you? My good woman, if you knew more of my history, you would be astonished that my good sense is still apparent.
You have heard of the Wandering Jew, who roams the earth till Judgement Day? I am his cousin, the Wandering Celt, and my branch of the family is the elder. Therefore I have had a good deal of experience in belief.
In my early days I was invited by learned men to believe in the Triple Goddess, and a very good goddess she was. But when I was Christianized I was commanded to believe in a Trinity that was also a Unity, and a goddess who looked and behaved remarkably like my Triple Goddess, though I was assured she was somebody much more up-to-date and important. Then a man named Calvin demanded that I believe in Strength through Misery, and I did till a man named Wesley told me to believe in Personal Revelation and Ecstasy, and I did. During a brief spell in New England Emerson told me to believe in a Unity that had nothing to do with a Trinity, and was itself of doubtful existence, and I did. But then I was told by people calling themselves scientists to believe in Phrenology, Animal Magnetism, the Germ Theory, Psycho-Analysis, Sociology, Relativity, Atomic Energy, Space Travel, God-is-Dead, Quasars, Spiral Time and so many new faiths that I could not keep up with them, though I tried.
Until I wearied and went back to the Triple Goddess, with Astrology thrown in for fun.
Because as a Celt, you see, I am at once credulous of everything and sceptical of everything, and not a whole-hogger, who rushes from the Mother of God to Mary Baker Eddy, and from her to LSD, expecting some revelation that will settle everything. I don’t want everything settled. I enjoy the mess.
So with all the fiery planets opposed to Uranus I am
Yours sincerely,
Samuel Marchbanks.
*
• MAUNDERINGS AT NIGHTFALL •
VOICE OF REASON / Was talking to a man about politics today, and he expressed several opinions with which I disagreed, gently but firmly. “The trouble with you is that you are disillusioned,” he said at last. “No,” said I, “that is not true; I can never recall a time when I was illusioned, if you will permit such an expression. Even as a child I had a firm grasp of the fact that human beings are that and nothing more, and that it is unreasonable to expect them to behave like angels. It is unreasonable to expect the uneducated to behave like the educated; it is unreasonable to expect the ethical to behave like the unethical; it is unreasonable to expect the hungry to behave like the replete, the poor like the rich, and the unhappy like the happy. We must not find fault with people because they often fall short of perfect virtue. We may hope for the best, but we should not be unduly downcast when it does not come to pass. A great part of the world’s misery is the result of this foolish expectation that people are always going to be on their best behaviour. Man is born sinful; the remarkable thing is not that man fails to be wholly good, but that he is as good as he is.” He continued to eye me sadly, but I knew that my Stoicism had got under his skin. But am I wise … or just a master of low-pressure platitude?
ODIOUS COMPARISON / Business took me to Ottawa and I reflected, as I do whenever I approach Ottawa by train, that it has a romantic and fairy-tale appearance. I also pondered on the fact that Ottawa, at present, has a population about equal to that of Athens in the days of Pericles, and that a city does not have to be huge in order to be great. It might be argued that great numbers of Athenians were slaves, and it could be replied that great numbers of Ottawans are slaves also, but I cannot see that this alters the comparison in any important way.
VAIN BOAST / There can be no doubt that future historians will look upon this present age as an Age of Decline. True, it will have its glories, and may be referred to in histories of philosophy and humanism as the Age of Marchbanks, but it is scarcely possible for a single man to redeem a whole era. Today, for instance, I found myself in the company of several men of business, and th
ey were boasting, which is no cause for surprise. But of what were they boasting? They were blowing, to my grief and astonishment, about the rate of Income Tax they paid. “Fifty per cent of all I make goes in Income Tax,” cried one. “Laughable pauper!” cried another, “I have paid sixty-five per cent for years!” “To the House of Refuge with you!” cried still a third, and revealed that he keeps only fifteen per cent of what he makes. When all men have left to be proud of is the poor moiety which the tax-gatherers leave them of their wealth, a greater decline than that of Imperial Rome is far advanced. Mark the words of Marchbanks the Prophet.
*
• COMMUNIQUÉ (delivered by a Dove with an olive twig in its beak) •
To Big Chief Marchbanks.
How, Marchbanks:
Not out of jail yet, Marchbanks. This awful late Spring. No want freedom. Want jail. So when day come for let me out I kick Turkey awful hard when he inspecting beds. What for you kick me, he say. Seat your pants awful shiny, I say. Dazzle my eyes. Make me think sunrise. I kick for do Sun Dance. Ha, ha. Joke Marchbanks. Turkey get red neck. O, he say, funny fellow huh. Yes, I say. So he say I get no time off for good conduct and have to stay in jail another week. This good, Marchbanks. Maybe Spring in one more week. This awful snow remind me poem my grandmother Old Nokomis teach me.
March winds
And April showers
Always a month late
In this dam country of ours.
Nokomis fine poet, eh Marchbanks?
How, again
Osceola Thunderbelly
(Chief of the Crokinoles).
*
• CULLED FROM THE APOPHTHEGMS OF WIZARD MARCHBANKS •
As Goethe said, it is the Eternal Feminine that beckons us ever onward: he did not mention the Eternal Old Woman who holds us back.
MARCHBANKS’
ALMANACK
FINIS
Robertson Davies, Samuel Marchbanks' Almanack
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