• OF THE HANDSHAKE •
I ATTENDED A GATHERING today at which I met a large number of people for the first time, and all greeted me with a handclasp. Or perhaps handclasp is the wrong word; ninety per cent of them gave me what appeared to be a rubber glove half-filled with cold porridge, and I was expected to do the clasping. Are people with damp, chilly, squelchy hands on the increase, or am I being drawn into circles where they are common? A distressing possibility.… Being introduced to women is always a hazard, for the foolish creatures will not adopt a firm policy in such cases, and stick to it. Some of them shake hands like men; some raise a hand, and then snatch it away in fright; some put their hands behind their backs in a marked manner; still others give me a hand to hold, and then appear to forget about it, leaving me to dispose of the thing by putting it in my pocket or feeding it to a passing dog. There was a day when no woman ever shook hands; I wish they would return to that usage, or else shake hands properly. Their present habit of playing put-and-take with their hands is productive of social unease, if not downright neurosis.… No thank you, madam, I would prefer not to test your grip.
• OF MEAT BALLS •
I HAD MEAT BALLS for lunch today. This is a delicacy of which I am very fond. But I insist upon the True Meat Ball—prepared in an open pan and tasting of meat—rather than the False Meat Ball—prepared in a pressure cooker and loathsomely studded with raisins. The pressure cooker is all very well in its way, but there are some dishes with which it cannot cope, and the meat ball is one of them. A meat ball made in a pressure cooker has a mild, acquiescent taste—the sort of taste which I imagine that a particularly forgiving Anglican missionary would have in the mouth of a cannibal. Your True Meat Ball is made of sterner stuff, and if he tastes of missionary at all he tastes like some stern Jesuit, who died dogmatizing.
• HE IS OF A PIECE WITH ROYALTY •
I TOOK AN OPPORTUNITY which presented itself today to see a film about Princess Elizabeth, which showed her from earliest babyhood to the present day. I found this impressive and moving, for I admire royalty, and am sorry for nations which have none. Scores of my obscure and unmeritable ancestors have shared with the Royal House the task of building Great Britain and its Empire and Commonwealth, though I am the first to admit that the Marchbanks tribe were more active in the South Sea Bubble, the Rebecca Riots and the War of Jenkins’ Ear than in the more spectacular events of history. There were a few bad kings, and many a dubious Marchbanks, but they all wove the tapestry of history together, and will do so, I trust, for many centuries to come.
• OF A POSSIBLE CRUSADE •
I THINK SERIOUSLY of launching a crusade against the custom of removing the hat in an elevator. I wear my hat in the lobby of my hotel, and I wear it in the corridors. Nobody expects me to take it off in a streetcar or in an automobile when I ride with a woman. But as soon as a woman comes aboard an elevator all the men in it sweep off their hats as though she were the American Mother of The Year; some extremists even hold the hats over their hearts and assume that colicky look which indicates nobility of feeling in the Canadian male. The elevator operator is a woman, but nobody bothers about her. The whole thing seems to me to be false and foolish.… Frankly, I should like to see a corresponding custom decreeing that women should keep their heads covered in the presence of men, as a gesture of respect toward the Defender, Bread-Winner, Prophet, Sage, Seer and Begetter of the Race. Why should I show respect for any strange woman who flouts my manhood by running about with a bare head? A fig and a resolutely pulled-down fedora for all such hussies! … No, no, madam, it is quite unnecessary for you to cover your head with your fruit-plate. Desist, I beg!
• OF CURATIVE GROANING •
I TOOK TO MY BED last week end, for my bones ached and my tripes felt as though I had swallowed a porcupine. I treated this malady by drinking countless glasses of lukewarm water. I wish it were the fashion to groan when one is ill. I like groaning, and I believe it helps me to bear suffering; what is more, groaning helps to pass the time. But modern sickroom practice is all against groaning. In Victorian times it was different; everybody groaned when they were ill; it was considered the right thing to do. Their roars were an inspiration to their doctors and nurses, urging them on to greater flights of bleeding, purging, leeching and poulticing. Furthermore, groaning has curative powers. A Hindu, when he is ill, repeats the mystic syllable “Om” as loudly and as resonantly as he can until he is well; it is his belief that the resonance provides a gentle and beneficial massage for his suffering insides. And what is “Om,” I ask you, but a stylized groan? There is more to groaning than Western medical science has yet recognized.
• OF AN UNFORTUNATE PERSONALITY •
I SEE A LETTER to the press complaining that Toronto is terribly abused, and that the jokes about Toronto are the fosterlings of cankered minds. Personally I always think of Toronto as a big fat rich girl who has lots of money, but no idea of how to make herself attractive. She has not learned to drink like a lady, and she has not learned to laugh easily; when she does laugh, she shows the roof of her mouth; she is dowdy and mistakes dowdiness for a guarantee of virtue. She is neither a jolly country girl with hay in her hair, like so many other Ontario cities, nor is she a delicious wanton, like Montreal; she is irritatingly conscious of her own worthiness.… Toronto ought to read the advertisements which explain why girls are unpopular and get themselves whispered about. Maybe she needs more bulk in her diet.
• GOODWILL TOWARD MEN •
I PASSED SOME TIME today laughing at the crowds of Christmas shoppers. I settled my Christmas problems weeks ago, by buying a lot of magazine subscriptions and allotting them to the various people who expect presents from me. My brother Fairchild gets a year of Wee Wisdom and my nephew Gobemouche will receive The Butter and Cheese Review; my Aunt Prudence Marchbanks is to have The Police Gazette and her sister Salina will get The Canadian Jeweller and Die-Sinker; The International Snail-Watcher’s Journal will go to my Cousin Ghengis, and The Renal and Urological Quarterly will go to my Uncle Gomeril. Some people have criticized my choices, but it is really very difficult to do better. I picked all the magazines which could be had for a dollar a year, or less, and distributed them as best I could. After all, it is the thought that counts.
• OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE •
HAVING A LITTLE spare time this afternoon, I renewed my sketchy acquaintance with the Anglo-Saxon tongue, and was impressed anew with its beauty and utility. In this language, as you probably know, a body is called a “bone-house”; this is the only Anglo-Saxon word I have ever been able to get thoroughly into by head. It has enabled me, however, to make a rather charming translation of one of Bobbie Bums’ best-known verses, thus:
Gin a bone-house meet a bone-house
Comin’ through the rye;
Gin a bone-house greet a bone-house
Need a bone-house cry?
I think that the mingling of Scots and Anglo-Saxon is rather moving. But as I say, I found my old Anglo-Saxon grammar in the attic, where it had been used to mend a leak in the roof, and re-discovered that a boss used to be called a “ring-giver” before the Norman Conquest, and that the language contained no words for “union leader,” “closed shop” or “nationalization.” Would Britain have been wiser not to develop her language to quite the degree of subtlety which distinguishes it today? What a topic for a debating society!
• OF THE DIVINE WILL •
I HAD A LETTER this morning from some association which is agitating for the repeal of the Sales Tax which is, its pamphlet assures me, “a straight violation of the laws of God.” This is fascinating. Not long ago one of the larger Canadian churches notified me of its intention to “prepare a statement of God’s Will concerning marriage.” How lucky we are to live in a country where God’s Will and His Laws are so thoroughly understood, and so zealously publicized!
• OF HIS IGNORANCE •
I TRIED TO READ a book on economics today and got through a
bout thirty pages, of which I remember nothing. This is a recurrent disappointment. For months at a time I read articles in newspapers and magazines which are full of references to the Law of Supply and Demand, to Diminishing Returns, to Undistributed Assets, to Non-perpetuating Wages (I think I understand this, because mine have always been of the non-perpetuating kind) to Good Money Driving Out Bad, and all those things with which the intelligent world seems to be on such easy terms, and I don’t understand any of them. So from time to time I get a book which professes to make economics clear even to lunk-heads like myself, and I read it solemnly, but I can never remember what it says. This is one reason why I shall always be a member of the exploited proletariat. Why, I never even understand what Money is. The books tell me that it is merely a variable medium of exchange, representing a variable amount of goods or services, but I can never remember these discreditable facts about good old money, which is probably my favourite commodity. It’s a terrible thing to be ignorant.
• OF VICE PRESIDENCIES •
I RECIEVED A LETTER this morning informing me that I had been appointed to a Committee; it did not tell me, however, what the Committee was formed to do, or whether it would ever meet, or whether the members were merely expected to become pen-pals. I am already a member of a vast number of committees, associations, commissions, ginger-groups, pepper sprinklers and mustard pots and they rarely expect me to do anything, so I shall lie low and wait until this new Committee shows its hand; if it reveals any disquieting signs of life I shall send the chairman a letter signed with a false name, saying that I am dead, and that will be the end of that.… I find it very useful to be a member of plenty of committees; I can point to the list whenever I am asked to do anything which might involve real work, and ask how I can be expected to shoulder any new duties? In a few more years I am going to begin collecting Vice Presidencies; they ensure that one’s name will be kept high on the official stationery of several important bodies, and it is only once in a blue moon that a Vice President (like Mr. Truman) is called upon to do anything. Besides, in our North American civilization any man over a certain age is expected to be Vice President of a few organizations, if he is not a moron or one of Nature’s secretaries.
• OF JUVENILE LITERATURE •
I WAS LOOKING through a pile of books this afternoon, which I had not read since I was a boy. To my astonishment I found that I remembered the stories in some detail. But in those days my mind was young and impressionable, and had not been subjected to the horrible wear and tear of book reviewing; nowadays my poor brain is a sort of incinerator, which seizes upon huge amounts of literary garbage, quickly reduces it to ashes, and spits them out, retaining only a disgusting slime upon its walls.… As I leafed over the pages of these boys’ books, I was delighted by the unambiguous style in which they were written, and particularly the way in which the characters were named. When in a boy’s story, you find a character called “Sir Judas Snake” you can be pretty sure that he is up to no good, and will probably get seriously in the way of the hero, who is quite likely to be called “Justyn Bloodygood” or “Samkin Steelheart.” Indeed, it is amazing how closely these villains resemble one another; they are all fancy dressers, they are all thin, they all talk in a nastily grammatical manner, and they are all cowards at heart. My life has not brought me into close association with many important criminals, but I have known a few very unpleasant types who were fat, sloppy, illiterate and braver than the average Good Citizen. But then, art is always superior to truth.
• OF HIS LINK WITH THE QUEEN MOTHER •
THE PAPERS tell me that Queen Mary will be eighty next Monday. There is an interesting link between myself and the Queen Mother which I do not think Her Majesty would see any reason to suppress, and of which I am very proud. In the days when I earned my living in the disreputable but amusing profession of an actor I once played the role of Snout the Tinker in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Old Vic in London; Her Majesty brought her granddaughters to a matinee, and in one of the intervals summoned the stars of the play (I was not one of them) to her box. “You know, I once played in The Dream when I was a girl,” she said; “I played Snout.” When this news was told to me, I immediately prepared myself for a summons to the Royal Box, being sure that the Queen would wish to discuss the fine points of the role with me; after all it is not every day that a couple of veteran Snouts get together. But, alas, the summons never came. An oversight, no doubt, or some jealousy of me in Court circles.
• OF PERFORMING ANIMALS •
I WENT TO A CIRCUS last night and the first thing on the programme was a girl who exhibited some trained goats. My mind immediately flew to Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris, in which the heroine, Esmeralda, had a trained goat which could spell out the name of her lover, Phoebus de Chateaupers, which is no small feat, when you think about it. There are plenty of stenographers who couldn’t do as well. But the circus goats were not nearly so accomplished, and the act retired in disgrace after the star goat fell off a bar on which it was walking, and almost hanged itself in its halter.… There are people who object strongly to performances given by animals. Indeed, I believe that there is an organization called The Jack London Society, the members of which are pledged to rise and leave any place in which a performing animal appears—even if it be only on a movie screen. I think that is carrying humanitarianism to extremes. When I see a dog like Lassie or Rin-Tin-Tin in the films, I realize that it is the pampered darling of the studio, and has more money in the bank than I have, and probably rides to its job in a Dusenberg with special body work.
• OF IDLENESS •
YES, INDEED it was a beautiful day—the first this summer—and I could do nothing but admire the weather. I strove to write, as usual, but, in Spenser’s lines:
… words came halting forth, wanting invention’s stay;
Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows,
And others’ feet seemed still but strangers in my way.
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
Fool, said my muse to me, look in thy heart and write …
I looked in my heart, but found nothing there save a great longing to be idle.
• OF ENNOBLED MUMMERS •
THE KING HAS MADE Laurence Olivier a knight “in spite of the fact,” says one paper, “that Mr. Olivier was divorced in 1939.” I wonder if this is the first time that a divorced actor has been given such an honour? Usually theatrical knighthoods are distributed for good conduct more than for ability, and I have even heard wicked actors refer to such a knighthood, sneeringly, as The Order of Chastity. The first actor to be knighted was Henry Irving, about whom Queen Victoria had never heard anything bad, and who had in the highest degree the Victorian ability to look noble and spotless; his runnerup in the contest for the title of Most Respectable-Looking Victorian was, of course, Mr. Gladstone, and it is a well-known fact that the heads of the Landseer lions in Trafalgar Square are a composite portrait of Gladstone and Irving.
• OF CURIOUS MEDICAMENTS •
THE LADY ON MY LEFT was telling me a few minutes ago two “cures” which were highly esteemed in the time of her grandmother (who was born in 1800). The first was a cure for “gathered face” (what we now call an abscessed tooth) and it consisted of digging up the skull of a dead horse and carrying it under the arm for a few days, or until the gathered face ungathered itself. The second was a sure cure for goitre, which was brought about by stroking the goitre six times with the hand of a dead Negro. In spite of occasional evidence to the contrary it seems to me that medicine has advanced a good deal in Ontario during the past 150 years. Hand a horse’s skull to a modern doctor, and he probably wouldn’t recognize it as a valuable medicament at all; very likely he would make an ash tray out of it.… You wish I wouldn’t speak of such things? Very well, eat your sautéed brains in silence, madam.
• OF SPLENDID
ACTING •
I WENT TO SEE John Gielgud’s production of Love For Love last evening, and was carried away by the brilliance and artistic completeness with which it was presented. The drama, in its finest flights, gives me a satisfaction, an elation and a re-creation which makes the pleasures of the greatest music seem thin and chilly in comparison. Music is an intellectual extract of life; drama is life itself, raised to the highest pitch. I reflected also that great acting (and there were some rare examples of it in this play) makes heavy physical demands on the actor. To move with grace and vigour, to speak complex prose so as to be heard and understood everywhere in a large theatre, and to look exactly right at every moment of a long part requires no mean athletic equipment and physical stamina. How hard these actors worked, and yet how easy and inevitable seemed everything that they did! How strong an actor has to be, in every muscle, in order to be graceful without seeming affected! It is in this physical aspect of acting, as well as in imaginative grasp that our amateurs are disappointing.… It is not often that we see a play perfectly done in Canada, but when we do we chew the cud on it for months and sometimes for years.