The Genial Idiot: His Views and Reviews - John Bangs 2 стр.

Forty-four, corrected the Lawyer.

Pardon me forty-four, said the Idiot. When you are in the roaring forties, five or six years more or less do not really count. Lots of men who are really only forty-two behave like sixty, and I know one old duffer of forty-nine who has the manners of eighteen. The age question does not really count.

No you are proof of that, said the Bibliomaniac. You have been twenty-four years old for the last fifteen years.

Thank you, Mr. Bib, said the Idiot. You are one of the few people in the world who really understand me. I have tried to be twenty-four for the past fifteen years, and if I have succeeded, so much the better for me. Its a beautiful age. You feel that you know so much when youre twenty-four. If it should turn out to be the answer to How old is Ann? the lady should be congratulated. But, as a matter of fact, you can be an Ideal Husband at any old age.

Humph! At seven, for instance? drawled Mr. Brief.

Seven is not any old age, retorted the Idiot. It is a very certain old youth. Nor does it depend upon the color of the eyes, so long as they are neither green nor red. Nobody could ever make an Ideal Husband out of a green-eyed man, or a chap given to the red eye, either

It all depends upon the kind of a man you are, eh? said the Bibliomaniac.

Not a bit of it, said the Idiot. It depends on the kind of wife youve got, and thats why I say that the Ideal Husband varies to the extent of the latest count of the women in the world. Take the case of Mr. Pedagog here. Mrs. Pedagog accuses him of being an Ideal Husband, and he, without any attempt at evasion, acknowledges the corn, like the honorable gentleman he is. But can you imagine Mr. Pedagog being an Ideal Husband to some lady in the Four Hundred, with a taste for grand opera that strikes only on the box; with a love for Paris gowns that are worth a fortune; with the midnight supper and cotillion after habit firmly intrenched in her character; with an ambition to shine all summer at Newport, all autumn at Lenox, all winter at New York, with a dash to England and France in the merry, merry springtime? Do you suppose our friend John Pedagog here would be in it with Tommie Goldilocks Van Varick as the Ideal Husband of such a woman? Not on your life. Well, then, take Tommie Goldilocks Van Varick, whod be the Ideal Spouse of this brilliant social light Mrs. Van Varick. How would he suit Mrs. Pedagog, rising at eleven-thirty every day and yelling like mad for the little blue bottle which clears the head from the left-over cobwebs of yesterday; eating his egg and drinking his coffee with a furrow in his brow almost as deep as the pallor of his cheek, and now and then making a most awful grimace because the interior of his mouth feels like a bargain day at the fur-counter of a department store; spending his afternoon sitting in the window of the Hunky Dory Club ogling the passers-by and making bets on such important questions as whether more hansoms pass up the Avenue than down, or whether the proportion of red-haired girls to white horses is as great between three and four P.M. as between five and six

I dont see how a woman could stand a man like that, said Mrs. Pedagog. Indeed, I dont see where his ideal qualities come in, anyhow, Mr. Idiot. I think you are wrong in putting him among the Ideal Husbands even for Mrs. Van Varick.

No, I am not wrong, for he is indeed the very essence of her ideal because he doesnt make her stand him, said the Idiot. He never bothers Mrs. Van Varick at all. On the first of every month he sends her a check for a good round sum with which she can pay her bills. He presents her with a town house and a country house, and a Limousine car, and all the furs she can possibly want; provides her with an opera-box, and never fails, when he himself goes to the opera, to call upon her and pay his respects like a gentleman. If she sustains heavy losses at bridge, he makes them good, and when she gives a dinner to her set, or to some distinguished social lion from other zoos, Van Varick is always on hand to do the honors of his house, and what is supposed to be his table. He and Mrs. Van Varick are on the most excellent terms; in fact, he treats her with more respect than he does any other woman he knows, never even suggesting the idea of a flirtation with her. In other words, he does not interfere with her in any way, which is the only kind of man in the world she could be happy with.

Its perfectly awful! cried Mrs. Pedagog. If they never see each other, what on earth did they ever get married for?

Protection, said the Idiot. And it is perfectly splendid in its results. Mrs. Van Varick, being married to so considerate an absentee, is able to go about very much as she pleases backed with the influence and affluence of the Van Varick name. This as plain little Miss Floyd Poselthwaite she was unable to do. She has now an assured position, and is protected against the chance of marrying a man who, unlike Van Varick, would growl at her expenditures, object to her friends, and insist upon coming home to dinner every night, and occasionally turn up at breakfast.

Sweet life, said the Bibliomaniac. And what does the Willieboy husband get out of it?

Pride, protection, and freedom, said the Idiot. Hes as proud as Punch when he sees Mrs. Van V. swelling about town with her name kept as standing matter in every society column in the country. His freedom he enjoys, just as she enjoys hers. If he doesnt turn up for six weeks she never asks any questions, and so Van Varick can live on easy terms with the truth. If he sits up all night over a game of cards, theres nobody to chide him for doing so, and

But where does his protection come in? Thats what I cant see, said the Bibliomaniac.

Its as plain as a pike-staff, said the Idiot. With Mrs. Van Varick on the tapis, Tommie is safe from designing ladies who might marry him for his money.

Well, hes a mighty poor ideal! cried Mr. Pedagog.

He certainly would not do for Mrs. Pedagog, said the Idiot. But you would yourself be no better for Mrs. Van Varick. The red Indian makes an Ideal Husband for the squaw, but hed never suit a daughter of the British nobility any more than the Duke of Lacklands would make a good husband for dusky little Minnehaha. So I say whats the use of discussing the matter any further with the purpose of arbitrarily settling on what it is that constitutes an Ideal Husband? We may all hope to be considered such if we only find the girl that likes our particular kind.

Then, said Mr. Brief, with a smile, your advice to me is not to despair, eh?

Thats it, said the Idiot. I wouldnt give up, if I were you. Theres no telling when some one will come along to whom you appear to be the perfect creature.

Good! cried Mr. Brief. You are mighty kind. I dont suppose you can give me a hint as to how soon I may expect to meet the lady?

Well no, I cant, said the Idiot. I dont believe even Edison could tell you about when to look for arrivals from Mars.

III

THE IDIOTS VALENTINE

WELL, old man, said the Poet, as the Idiot entered the breakfast-room on the morning of Valentines day, how did old St. Valentine treat you? Any results worth speaking of?

Oh, the usual lay-out, returned the Idiot, languidly. Nine hundred and forty-two passionate declarations of undying affection from unknown lady friends in all parts of the civilized world; one thousand three hundred and twenty-four highly colored but somewhat insulting intimations that I had better go way back and sit down from hitherto unsuspected gentlemen friends scattered from Maine to California; one small can of salt marked St. Valentine to the Idiot, with sundry allusions to the proper medical treatment of the latters freshness, and a small box containing a rubber bottle-stopper labelled Cork up and bust. I cant complain.

III

THE IDIOTS VALENTINE

WELL, old man, said the Poet, as the Idiot entered the breakfast-room on the morning of Valentines day, how did old St. Valentine treat you? Any results worth speaking of?

Oh, the usual lay-out, returned the Idiot, languidly. Nine hundred and forty-two passionate declarations of undying affection from unknown lady friends in all parts of the civilized world; one thousand three hundred and twenty-four highly colored but somewhat insulting intimations that I had better go way back and sit down from hitherto unsuspected gentlemen friends scattered from Maine to California; one small can of salt marked St. Valentine to the Idiot, with sundry allusions to the proper medical treatment of the latters freshness, and a small box containing a rubber bottle-stopper labelled Cork up and bust. I cant complain.

Well, you did come in for your share of it, didnt you? said Mr. Brief.

Yes, said the Idiot, I think I got all that was coming to me, and I wouldnt have minded it if I hadnt had to pay three dollars over-due postage on em. I dont bother much if some anonymous chap off in the wilds of Kalikajoo takes the trouble to send me a funny picture of a monkey grinding a hand-organ with the loving regards of your brother, or if somebody else who is afraid of becoming too fond of me sends me a horse-chestnut with a line to the effect that here is one I havent printed, I dont feel like getting mad; but when I have to pay the postage on the plaguey things it strikes me it is rubbing it in a little too hard, and if I could find two or three of the senders Id spend an hour or two of my time banging their heads together.

I got off pretty well, said the Bibliomaniac. I only got one valentine, and though it cast some doubt upon the quality of my love for books, I found it quite amusing. Ill read it to you.

Here the Bibliomaniac took a small paper from his pocket and read the following lines:

What do you think of that? asked the Bibliomaniac, with a chuckle, as he folded up his valentine and stowed it away in his pocket once more.

I think I can spot the sender, said the Idiot, fixing his eyes sternly upon the Poet. It takes genius to get up a rhyme like men and chain you, and I know of only one man at this board or at any other who is equal to the task.

If you mean me, retorted the Poet, flushing, you are mightily mistaken. I wouldnt waste a rhyme like that on a personal valentine when I could tack it on to the end of a sonnet and go out and sell it for two-fifty.

Then you didnt do it, eh? demanded the Idiot.

No. Did you? asked the Poet, with his eyes twinkling.

Sir, said the Idiot, if I had done it, would I have had the unblushing effrontery to say, as I just now did say, that its author was a genius?

Well, were square, anyhow, said the Poet. You cast me under suspicion, to begin with, and it was only fair that I should whack back. I got a valentine myself, and I suspect it was from the same hand. It runs like this:

Well, ejaculated the Idiot, I dont see what there is in that to make you angry. Seems to me theres some very nice compliments in that. For instance, your stuff when tis

according to your anonymous correspondent. If hed been vicious he might have said something like this:

The Poet grinned. Im not complaining about it. Its a mighty nice little verse, I think, and my only regret is that I do not know who the chap was who sent it. Id like to thank him. I had an idea you might help me, he said, with a searching glance.

I will, said the Idiot. If the man who sent you that ever reveals his identity to me I will tell him you fell all over yourself with joy on receiving his tribute of admiration. How did you come out, Doctor?

Oh, he remembered me, all right, said the Doctor. Quite in the same vein, too, only hes not so complimentary. He calls me The Humane Surgeon, and runs into rhyme after this fashion:

He must have had some experience with you, Doctor, said the Idiot. In fact, he knows you so well that I am inclined to think that the writer of that valentine lives in this house, and it is just possible that the culprit is seated at this table at this moment.

I think it very likely, said the Doctor, dryly. Hes a fresh young man, five feet ten inches in height

Pooh pooh! said the Idiot. Thats the worst description of Mr. Brief I ever heard. Mr. Brief, in the first place, is not a young man, and he isnt fresh

I didnt mean Mr. Brief, said the Doctor, significantly.

Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself to intimate that Mr. Whitechoker, a clergyman, would stoop to the writing of such a rhyme as that, cried the Idiot. People nowadays seem to me to be utterly lacking in that respect for the cloth to which it is entitled. Mr. Brief, if you really wrote that thing you owe it to Mr. Whitechoker to own up and thus relieve him of the suspicion the Doctor has so unblushingly cast upon him.

I can prove an alibi, said the Lawyer. I could no more turn a rhyme than I could play Parsifal on a piano with one finger, and I wouldnt if I could. I judge, from what I know of the market value of poems these days, that that valentine of the Doctors is worth about two dollars. It would take me a century to write it, and inasmuch as my time is worth at least five dollars a year it stands to reason that I would not put in five hundred dollars worth of effort on a two-dollar job. So that lets me out. By-the-way, I got one of these trifles myself. Want to hear it?

I am just crazy to hear it, said the Idiot. If any man has reduced you to poetry, Mr. Brief, hes a great man. With all your many virtues, you seem to me to fit into a poetical theme about as snugly as an automobile with full power on in a china-shop. By all means let us have it.

This modern St. Valentine of ours has reduced the profession to verse with a nicety that elicits my most profound admiration, said Mr. Brief. Just listen to this:

The author of these valentines, said the Doctor, is to be spotted, the way I diagnose the case, by his desire that professional people should be constantly giving away their services. He objects to the Doctors bill and he slaps sarcastically at the Lawyer because he doesnt give advice. Thats why I suspect the Idiot. Hes a professional Idiot, and yet he gives his idiocy away.