I had made no reference to my luncheon and I must admit that I was
considerably perplexed as to what course to pursue. Due to the abrupt
interruption of my tête-à-tête with Dianne, we had been unable to
agree upon a story. Of Mag I felt reasonably sure, for to betray me
would be to implicate herself, but what if Dianne herself should make
a slip before I could warn her? However, my short experience with that
fascinating person had revealed to me enough of the eternal feminine to
trust to her ingenuity.
My confidence was not misplaced for Dianne immediately on entering
remarked:
“My dear Acquilla, I should be a thousand miles away from here, but the
opportunity to talk a second time to your strange visitor from another
world was too tempting, even if I am going to quarrel with him over my
interpretation.”
I received this as a hint for my future attitude and answered
militantly:
“We shall quarrel certainly, for you have done dreadful things to poor
Tristan!”
I advanced and held out my hand.
“What is that for?” said Dianne, staring at it.
“Don’t you shake hands any more?” I replied perplexed in turn.
“What a funny custom. Let me try it,” said Dianne, glancing at
Acquilla. “Gracious, how strong and vibrant your hand is! Why do you
suppose people ever greeted each other like that? And your face is all
covered with hair, like a wild animal.”
I was explaining my predicament when Dulcina and Carrilla entered,
the last a statuesque blonde with a wig of flaming purple hair. When
Dulcina approached and kissed me on the cheek in the accepted modern
style, I purposely returned it with more warmth than I had shown.
Acquilla, to my delight, immediately began to consider the famous
aesthete with marked aversion, and to further aggravate her suspicions,
I confess that during the evening, I pretended to be greatly attracted.
Again, I must refer to a curious phenomenon. With Dianne I felt always
the traditional male superiority; but with Acquilla, despite every
effort, I felt myself constantly resorting to those devious ways of
concealment that left me with a bewildered sense of a transmuted sex.
Our dinner, needless to say, was of the same high order of gastronomic
delicacy as my first. The four Amazons were of faultless beauty,
slender and regal in their graceful limbs and tinted headdresses,
so that my imagination mellowed by the exquisite vintages, pictured
myself in the court of some mythological divinity surrounded by her
nymphs. Yet the fascination that Dianne had imposed on my senses from
the first view, was imperative and exclusive of all other desires.
Dinner over, the conversation naturally developed into a series of
cross-examinations on the habits and manners of the twentieth century,
which I sustained with spirit. Dulcina was particularly interested in
the aesthetic life of my sex.
“Is it true, Bogardus,” she said, “at a time when certainly women must
have discarded the absurdities of hoop-skirts, corsets and powdered
headdresses that you men continued to dress in the livery of your
butlers?”
“Dulcina, I shall not attempt to defend myself. On this point I admit
you score heavily. Nothing could have been more absurd than the clothes
to which we were subjected. In fact, in an age when societies for the
prevention of cruelty to animals flourished, no one ever thought of a
society for the prevention of cruelty to men.”
“I have seen curious drawings of the times,” said Dulcina, “but I
confess I cannot comprehend them. Explain please, Bogardus, the strange
way you dressed.”
“It is easier to explain how, than why,” I continued. “In the first
place when women’s dress did not weigh more than two to three pounds,
we were staggering about in clothes that weighed five to six times as
much. We wore heavy stiff hats, like inverted kettles and almost as
heavy, that shut out all air from our heads. We wore collars as rigid
as boards about our necks that strangled our throats in a way no human
being would have treated a dog, and at night we placed another rigid
white board over our chests and for some mysterious reason exposed
it proudly to the public view. But worst of all, while we encouraged
our women to display themselves in bright colors, exquisitely blended
and designed, we confined ourselves to browns and greys and went into
mourning each night.”
“And yet in the past--you had Rome and Athens! Even in the middle
ages, you men in your dress rivalled the male plumage in nature. How
could such an absurdity happen then? And why did you endure it so long
without a revolt?”
I shook my head.
“It has been described as a product of democracy.”
“Yet the women were never affected, Bogardus.”
“Perhaps,” said Acquilla maliciously, “it may have been that women
never really accepted democracy.”
“I make no defence,” I said shrugging my shoulders again. “I have
suffered too much.”
“Wouldn’t it be fair to say, Bogardus,” said Acquilla slyly, “that this
is another proof that men were traditional and women the pioneers of
the imagination?”
As I felt myself cornered again, I evaded the answer by saying:
“Yet the curious thing, Dulcina, is that the great designers of the
fashions were always men.”
“It is so today.”
“Really?”
“Certainly. In certain things, Bogardus, we freely admit that the
talents of men have remained supreme.” There was some objection to
this, but Dulcina persisted, “Who are the great chefs today? Men. Who
sets the fashions? The men of Paris. Who are the great producers of
masques and spectacles? Men. And of course, when you come to the great
composers and painters--”
“How about mathematics? In my day, though women distinguished
themselves in every other field--higher mathematics was a closed door.”
“Yes,” Acquilla admitted grudgingly. “In that one branch of science we
admit the natural talent of the male mind. When you go to the Astrodrome
you will see how we use it. But after all it is a deductive quality,
rather than a creative one.”
“It produced an Einstein,” I said warmly. “By the way, in your
stupefying progress, have you succeeded in understanding the Einstein
theories?”
“That exploded theory is taught in the primary schools as a scientific
curiosity,” Acquilla responded crushingly. But after a glance at the
irritation which must have been evident on my face, she said, with
that new solicitude her voice took on when she spoke to me. “However,
Bogardus, we would be most ungenerous if we devoted the evening to
an attack on the civilization of our guest. You have a treat before
you, Carrilla has promised to give us the great Stars Symphony by
Fliederfeldt, the famous composer of the twenty first century!”
The thought that came to me instantly was that my ears were now about
to be assailed by a cacophony of strident noises along the lines of
that modern school which in my day had gone over to the rhythm of
locomotives and trip hammers.
“The orchestron was not known to you,” said Acquilla, motioning me to a
seat on the couch beside her. “I think you have a surprise waiting for
you.”
Carrilla who had been unusually silent, gazing at me with that
entranced concentration I was learning to expect, allowed herself to
be persuaded after the manner of all great artists, before going to a
large instrument which resembled more an organ than a piano. At the
first bars, I exclaimed in surprise:
“But it’s impossible! She is not playing herself. It is the record of a
great symphony orchestra!”
“It is an orchestra, true,” said Dulcina, gratified by my astonishment,
“but it is played by a single performer.”
I rose and approached the instrument incredulously.
“Forgive me this interruption, my dear Carrilla,” I said, “but before
you begin, explain to me how it is possible for you to produce on a
keyboard, not only the sounds of wind instruments which our organs did
imitate, but the clear and definite notes of violins and cellos.”
“After all, it is quite simple,” Carrilla said, indicating to me an
elaborate keyboard. “If anyone had thought of it in your day, I’m
sure they would have invented it. There is but one gamut and all the
orchestron does is to reproduce the notes of all instruments. You see,
here are the strings and these delicately adjusted instruments are the
bows. As for the flutes and the horns, if a human mouth can blow into
them, surely a mechanical device can do so.”
“It is wonderfully designed,” I said, staring into the intricate
mechanism, “but how are you able to control these multiple instruments
under one direction, particularly when one part of your orchestra is
playing one theme against another?”
“It is a complicated art, of course,” said Carrilla proudly, “and
certain mechanical devices are necessary. For instance, when the
strings are carrying the theme, this device insures the repetition of
the motif. Music is after all only the mathematics of melody. It has
its repetitions, iterations and progressions. I indicate the theme on
the keyboard while underneath by these different pedals I throw it
into the different instruments I desire. Do you see? So. Here are the
flutes, now I close the flutes and bring up the cellos, now both mingle
and now one plays this simple theme against the other. Is it clear?”
“Clear as the suspension of the solar system in space. Since we see it,
it is so, but just as miraculous.”
“Recline and I shall play--just for you,” she said in a low voice,
pressing my hand.
I returned and placed myself between Acquilla and Dianne, agreeably
intoxicated by their fragrant personalities, while Carrilla began to
play. Even now I cannot believe the testimony of my senses. All I can
say is that apparently Carrilla at the keyboard seemed to play upon an
invisible orchestra as deftly as though she were rendering a simple
performance on the pianoforte. Possibly the orchestron was merely a
glorified organ. The thought occurred to me. But if so, it was unlike
any organ I had ever listened to and there was not the faintest note of
the piping tremolo I associated with that instrument.
After this divine music, Dianne without rising, sang to Carrilla’s
accompaniment, the air of Elsa from Lohengrin (Wagner alone seemed to
have survived) and another that resembled somewhat the salute to the
sun in Coq d’Or. She was so close that I could almost feel the passing
of the lovely liquid notes against my cheek. Once in an impassioned
burst I felt her hand slip into mine and lie there all tremulous with
emotion. My own senses were now in such a whirl by the magnetism of her
nearness that fearing to betray myself, I sat up at the conclusion of
her song and said:
“Carrilla and Dianne, for pity’s sake, no more! If I listen any longer
to your ravishing music, I shall feel myself back on Calypso’s island
bewitched by the songs of sirens. And you know what happened to those
who listened?” I drew a long sharp breath and to recover some calm
added, “Oh, by the way, I have one complaint to make, but that is a
serious one. Who emasculated the rôle of Tristan in the otherwise
perfect performance I witnessed yesterday?”
The Amazons glanced at one another in surprise.
“Emasculate? Just what do you mean, Bogardus?” said Acquilla at length.
“While it is true that the passion of love overwhelms each at the
drinking of the love potion, Tristan is a magnificent male, a hero of a
hundred battles, one of the famous knights of legend. But you make him
a pliant shrinking personality dominated by Isolde.”
“But after all, Tristan is a man!” exclaimed Dianne, after a chorus of
exclamations.
“Even a love potion could not have made the regal Isolde fall in love
with an invertebrate like that.”
“Historically he is right,” said Dulcina, “I have always maintained
that we should produce the opera to represent the times.”
“The public would never understand it!” said Acquilla.
“Where could you find a man today to play the part differently!”
“My dear ladies, let me tell you frankly that what you defend is
nothing but nature faking. Why, in the second act,” I continued,
boiling at the recollection, “in the sublimest love scene of all drama,
how do you represent it? By Isolde putting her arm around Tristan and
pillowing his head on her shoulder! If you don’t see the absurdity of
that, there is no sense of humor left in the world. No, really it is
too funny!”
At this memory, and the blank seriousness of their looks, I was seized
with a sudden uncontrollable spasm of hilarity. I laughed, holding my
sides until the tears ran down my cheeks.
“There he is doing it again,” said Acquilla in a whisper.
“Are you in such dreadful pain,” cried Dianne, seizing my arm with a
warmth that should have betrayed her personal interest, while Dulcina
and Carrilla stood frightened and helpless staring at me.
“Pain, no! I am laughing,” I managed to cry out.
“Laughing, that’s what he called it,” Acquilla explained. “No, I assure
you he is not suffering. He will be quite normal in a moment!”
I mastered my emotion, but the ludicrousness of their perplexed concern
for me so overcame me, that again I doubled up. When at last I was
master of myself, I said:
“It is true you have abolished laughter! What a revelation!” I
cried, struck by a sudden enlightenment. “It must be true then, that
women never really had a sense of humor and only counterfeited our
inexplicable amusement!”
“But why do you laugh, Bogardus?” said Dulcina, curiously.
“How can I explain the nature of laughter to those who have never
laughed? And yet, wise women of the twenty-second century, don’t you
realize that laughter has overthrown kings and gods? When men slunk in
the woods and feared the night and the storm and shivered under the
tyranny of fear and superstition, it was the first man who dared to
laugh at a clay god, who made men gods of men themselves. You want to
know what it is to laugh?” I concluded. “I will teach you as we taught
our babies!”
“I am willing to try,” said Acquilla, nerving herself in the interest
of science.
“Very well. Slip off your sandal--so. Put out your foot.”
Wondering, Acquilla obliged, while the others craned about us.
I took the lovely ankle firmly in my hand and ran my fingertips lightly
over the sole of her foot.
“Oh! Oh!” cried Acquilla, with a convulsive shiver.
“It is not painful, is it?” I demanded, maliciously.
“No--but it’s very strange. No, Bogardus, let go of my foot. I can’t
stand any more. It--it--”
“Tickles?”
“Oh how--oh, how it tickles!” she cried and suddenly began to laugh.
“Oh, how funny--how queer--but oh, how delightful. I do, I do like it!”
Dulcina, Carrilla and Dianne each in their turn clamored for the
experiment, and each was hilariously initiated into the lost art.
“There,” I exclaimed, pointing to Acquilla, who was laughing at their
first contortions, “now she is laughing at you.”
“I am laughing because they are making such strange faces,” said
Acquilla, wiping the tears from her eyes.
At this moment Mag entered with a tray. I waited my moment and suddenly
pulled the rug from under her. The four women burst out laughing at the
sudden sprawling descent. But all at once Acquilla frowned and with a
gesture of dismissal to the maid, said:
“Bogardus, is laughter then so cruel!”
I saw my mistake and tried to rectify it.
“Laughter in that case was simply an atavistic sense of superiority.
It was because Mag was placed in a ludicrous light, that our
self-superiority expressed itself in a laugh. But that is only a
trivial and a very obvious side.”
“Wait!” Acquilla stopped me with a frown. “You have done a daring and
it may be an unwise thing, Bogardus. There are illimitable consequences
to what you have taught us. Perhaps this is what was meant by the fruit
of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.”
“Acquilla, how ridiculous!” exclaimed Dulcina, and to my horror began
to giggle.
“There you see,” said Acquilla sombrely. “The poison has already begun
to act! Bogardus, answer my question.”
When Acquilla was in this mood the effect was terrifying. A sudden hush
ensued and I caught an admonishing glance from Dianne.
“You say, Bogardus, that laughter has overthrown tyrannies and
superstitions. That is good. But answer me truthfully: has it never
destroyed the reputation of a genius or caused the decadence of a great
civilization?”
“You are thinking of some particular instance?” I said, to gain time.
“Of many, Bogardus. Was not Pericles driven out by ridicule and weren’t
the greatest of the Greek tragedians made the butt of the coarse humor
of Aristophanes and his school? And in a larger sense, did not the
most brilliant of your civilizations lapse into an intellectual and
political decadence when the Athenians had learned to turn everything
into ridicule?”
“You are ascribing to one cause what must have been the result of
many. And I may remind you that Æschylus, Euripides and Sophocles have
remained among the immortals.”
“You are adroit, Bogardus, but you are temporizing. Let us go further.
Answer me honestly. Was not the spirit of irony directed against your
most sacred institutions? And wasn’t the object of your so-called
humorists to ridicule everything you held by; the family relationship,
marriage, the established church, your statesmen, your professors and
your traditions?”
“True. Our satirists and comedians amused themselves at the expense of
marriage, love, fidelity, domestic bliss, the older generation; but
Acquilla,” I added artfully, “was the attack unjustified? And since you
have abolished marriage and the home, and parentage and romance, is it
not fair to ascribe some part in the new enlightenment to that same
masculine spirit of irony which undermines with ridicule what you have
destroyed with your logic?”
“You argue glibly,” said Acquilla, in the usual feminine way, “but one
thing is clear from your own words--this thing you exalt as laughter,
which I call the spirit of irony, has been a cruel and destructive
force, and when it dominates a society it destroys it. I see the danger
now, and Dulcina, Carrilla, Dianne, I expressly enjoin on you that what
has happened here tonight, through a careless whim, must go no further.”
“Really, my dear,” said Dulcina, laughing, “you are just a little put
out by the brilliant exposition of a mere man and trying to magnify
into an affair of state what is a game for children.”
“I think Bogardus has argued brilliantly and revealed to us a
surprising breadth of view. I am more of a masculinist than ever,”
said Carrilla, coming to me and looking deep into my eyes. “And if he
displeases you I shall be delighted to take him home with me.”
“Carrilla, you are frivolous,” said Dianne, rising angrily. “I quite
agree with Acquilla, and I am confident that when Bogardus has had
time to become acquainted with our institutions he will be the last to
advocate the introduction of any spirit of criticism.”
“Why, I thought you stood for the regeneration of men,” said Dulcina,
turning on Dianne. “At least you have said so a hundred times. It is
you who are inconsistent! I agree with Carrilla--Bogardus has convinced
me. The suppression of the male sex as it is carried on today is
contrary to nature and justice!” She turned to me and taking my hand
added: “Bogardus, all you say interests me intensely, and I invite you
now to return with me and let me personally act as your guide.”
“Why, the idea!” said Carrilla acidly. “I asked him first.”
“Suppose we leave the choice to Bogardus himself,” said Dianne, looking
angrily at the other two.
Acquilla, who had watched this scene with frowning brow interrupted
with a peremptory gesture. “For shame! We are acting like a group of
silly men! Enough! When I need advice or assistance I shall know where
to find it.” She rose, ending the evening. “It is late and Bogardus is
still in need of strength and sleep. Good night!”
Carrilla and Dulcina shrugged their shoulders and embraced me, with a
warmth that had been entirely lacking in their first contact, but when
I felt the lovely arms of Dianne about me, my pulse began to race.
“Be careful, Jacko,” she whispered in my ear. “You went too far.
Acquilla is alarmed and Acquilla is implacable. Good night, my adorable
one!”
The sensation of having thrown the apple of discord among these
beautiful creatures was, I confess, humorously satisfactory to my
vanity. But heeding Dianne’s warning look, and intimidated by the angry
fire in the eyes of Acquilla, I resolved that discretion was the better
part of valor. When we were left alone, I held out my hand and said,
smiling:
“Dear Acquilla, I see that even now discussions are dangerous between
the sexes, but since we are alone, let me admit that I see a great deal
for serious consideration in what you have said.”
“They are only Histriones and Æsthetes,” said Acquilla, her brow
clearing, “and their faculties are all emotional. You are a man of
such sound sense that I am confident of your final judgment. But
meanwhile no more such experiments as tonight, Bogardus.”
“I promise,” I replied, smiling a relieved smile. “So it’s understood
we shall laugh no more!”
“Oh, well,” replied Acquilla, looking at me with a tender light in her
eyes. “I don’t say never. It wasn’t so painful. But only when we are
alone, dear.”
She came toward me with a radiant smile, opening her arms.
Again I felt a swift metamorphosis.
“When you look at me like that,” I said, with assumed dizziness, “my
head goes round. I--I feel--”
Acquilla sprang forward and lifted me clear in her strong arms as I
pretended to reel and fall.
“Poor dear! You are still not strong!” she said, holding me as a child,
and bending over my eyes. “Forgive me! I must take better care of you.
Better, dear?”
“Yes, but--but, I don’t understand why I am so weak.”
Thanks to my duplicity, I was carried upstairs and put to bed, but the
kiss that Acquilla laid on my lips burned into me. Again I lay awake a
long time dreaming of Dianne and Acquilla, realizing all at once the
dangers and perplexities with which my situation was now fraught;--I,
of the now decidedly weaker sex, alone and unprotected, at the mercy of
this resplendent but ruthless and unmoral Amazon.