A HUMORIST'S NOTE-BOOK
I admit that (though, indeed, I can claim a very fair collection of
authors as acquaintances) I share the popular interest in the
idiosyncratic nature of the literary profession. I am as curious as to
the occult workings of the minds of authors, the esoteric process by
which subtle insinuations of inspiration are translated into works of
literary art, as though I had never seen an author--off a platform. I
would read the riddle of genius. I am fascinated by its impenetrable
mysteries. I would explore the recesses of the creative head.
Therefore, in the presence of the treasure of such incalculable value
which is before me, I experience tense intellectual excitement. In the
thought of its possession by myself I find the uttermost felicity. What
it is is this: it is _a humorous writer's note-book_.
I must tell you the wonderful story--how this came into my hands, and
how, romantically enough, it is, so to say, by the bequest of the author
himself, your own possession. The strange circumstances are as follows:
Something like a week ago I received through the post at my place of
residence an oblong package. It was similar in shape to an ordinary
brick; not so heavy, and somewhat larger. I had ordered nothing from a
shop, and so, as the parcel was plainly addressed to myself, I concluded
that it must contain a present. As I am very fond of presents, I was,
with much eagerness, about to open the package, when I suddenly
recollected the newspaper reports of the recent dastardly Bolshevist
bomb plots; the sending through the mails, by some apparently organized
agency, to prominent persons in all parts of the country these
skillfully disguised engines of death and destruction. They were
outwardly, I recalled, innocent looking parcels, which when opened blew
housemaids to bits, demolished dwellings and, in some instances,
accomplished the murder of the personage who had incurred the enmity of
the criminals.
I bounded some considerable distance away from the object before me.
Though, after a moment, I did, indeed, reflect that I was not what
would probably be regarded as an eminent citizen, and had never felt a
sense of power in the government of my country, I could not dissolve a
decided distaste toward my undoing this mysterious parcel. Also I did
not enjoy seeing it remain there on my table. And, further, I had no
inclination to carry it from the room.
In this dilemma it occurred to me to summon the janitor of the apartment
house where I reside. When I had explained to him that, because of my
having a sore thumb (which made it painful for me to handle things), I
wished him to open this package for me--, when I had explained this to
him, he told me that he was very much occupied at the moment mending the
boiler downstairs, and that he must hasten to this occupation, otherwise
the lower floors would shortly be flooded. And he withdrew without
further ceremony.
I sat down to consider the situation. I realized that it was a
bothersome moral responsibility--placing the lives of others (even if
janitors) in jeopardy. But something must be done; and done
soon--perhaps there was a time fuse in this thing. A thought came to me
(the buzzer of our dumb-waiter sounded at the moment); I decided to go
further down the scale in the value of human life to be risked. So I
communicated down the shaft to our iceman (one Jack) that I desired his
presence in the apartment. Well, the upshot of the matter is that Jack
showed no hesitation whatever about coolly putting the package in a pail
of water and afterward undoing it.
The parcel proved to be an ordinary cigar-box (labelled outside, in the
decorative fashion of cigar-box labels, "Angels of Commerce"); within
was a letter resting upon a note-book, and beneath that the manuscripts
of two short stories. The submersion of the box would have (most
disastrously) obliterated, or gone near to obliterating, the message of
the letter and the writing in the note-book and the manuscript, had not
(happily) these things been packed tightly into the box by surrounding
waste paper.
The letter was from Taffy Topaz, known to us all--a humorist if there
ever was one. I cannot say that I had been on intimate terms with Mr.
Topaz; indeed (to admit the truth) all my acquaintance with authors is
slight. I admire authors so much that it is the joy of my life to be
acceptable to them in any degree. I put myself in their way at every
opportunity. I regard it as a great privilege (as, certainly, it is) to
spend freely of my income in entertaining them at meals. And in this way
and that it is that I have attained the honor of hobnobbing with a
number of writers, when they are not otherwise engaged.
As I say, I had not been on intimate terms with Mr. Topaz; and so I was
no little surprised (and, I admit, no little flattered) at this decided
attention (whatever it might mean) to me. The letter was not (oh, not at
all!) a humorous letter. It was a very solemn letter. It said that Mr.
Topaz was just about to go to the war. I was, naturally, puzzled at
this: the war is (theoretically) over. I hunted round and found a piece
of the wrapping paper which had enclosed the box. On it was the postmark
(the paper had dried somewhat); and the stamp bore the date of October
1, 1917. I was still more puzzled as to where the box could have been
all this while. Then, I recollected the heroic labors of the post-office
in maintaining any kind of a schedule of delivery during the war. My
poor friend's box had been goodness knows where all this time!
The letter stated (as I have said) that Mr. Topaz was about to go to
the war--as a newspaper correspondent. It said (oh, it almost made one
weep, so solemn was it!) that he might never return from "over there."
In case he did not come back (the letter continued), he (Mr. Topaz)
wished me to undertake the charge of placing the enclosed manuscripts
with some magazine or magazines; the money got from them, though it was
inadequate he knew (so he said), he prayed that I would accept as
payment for the advances which I had made him from time to time. (Alas!
my poor friend, what were those miserable loans compared to the wealth
of his society! How I remember that proud day when he called me, so
pal-like, a "poor fish"!) But this is not a time to indulge one's grief;
I must press on with my story.
The remainder of his literary effects, he said (meaning, of course, the
note-book), he desired me (as he knew I had some connection with a
certain magazine) to present to the editor of that journal. Little more
remains to be said here of Mr. Topaz (my friend). He was not called upon
to lay down his life for his country (or his paper); after the armistice
he went valiantly into Germany; and there (as the papers have reported)
he contracted a marriage; and is little likely again to be seen in these
parts.
The first page of the note-book contains these entries. It is headed
JOTTINGS
"Good name for a small orphan--Tommy Crandle.
"Fat person--shrugged his stomach.
"Name for a spendthrift--Charles Spending.
"Aphorism--Fear makes cowards of us all.
"Billy Sparks--Fine name for a lawyer.
"Nice name for a landlady--Mrs. Baggs.
"Humorous Christian name for a fat boy--Moscow.
"Name for a clerk--Mr. Fife.
"Good name for someone to cry out on a dark night--Peter Clue! Peter
Clue!
"Good name for a sporting character--Bob Paddock.
"Aphorism--A fool and his foot are soon in it.
"Good name for a tea room in Greenwich Village--The Bad Egg.
"Epigrammatic remark--Though somewhat down in the mouth he kept a stiff
upper lip."
* * * * *
Then follows this on umbrellas, evidently the opening of an unwritten
essay:
And, like umbrellas, with their feathers
Shield you in all sorts of weathers.
MICHAEL DRAYTON.
"Among all the ingenious engines which man has contrived for his
ornament and protection none, certainly, is more richly idiosyncratic
than the umbrella. Literary genius has always instinctively recognized
this; and doubtless the esoteric fact has been vaguely felt even by the
unthinking; but it is a profound truth which, I fear, has had but slight
popular appreciation.
"The use of this historic and peculiarly eloquent article of personal
property, the umbrella, illustrates pictorially a proverbial allusion to
the manifestation of intelligence: it shows that a man has 'sense enough
to go in out of the rain.' It reveals not only the profundity of his
judgment but the extraordinary play of his cleverness, as it exhibits
him as the only animal who after crawling into his hole, figuratively
speaking, pulls his hole in after him, or, in other words, carries his
roof with him. Further than this, in the idea of carrying an umbrella
you find the secret of man's striking success in the world: the
intrepidity of his spirit in his tenacious pursuit of his own affairs
defies both the black cloud's downpour and the sun's hot eye."
* * * * *
There is this, headed
HUMOR
"There was once a man who was nearly dead from a disease. One day while
taking the air a friend cried to him encouragingly, 'Well, I see that
you're up and about again.' 'Yes,' replied the sick man good-naturedly,
'I'm able to walk the length of the block now.' This notion was so
irresistible that both the quick and the dying burst into laughter."
* * * * *
Among the longer entries in this note-book is the following remarkable
psychological study, having as its title
TEMPERAMENT
"That morning Kendle had seen himself famous. As he worked he began to
feel good in his brain and in his heart and in his stomach. He felt
virile, elated, full of power, and strangely happy. The joy of creating
a thing of art was upon him. Thrills ran down his spine and into his
legs. As he looked at his work he admired it. He knew that this was good
art. He felt that here was genius. He saw himself in a delectable
picture, an idol applauded of the multitude, and loved by it. For he
believed that the multitude was born, and ate and slept, and squabbled
among itself, and acquired property, and begot offspring, but to await
the arrival of genius. And the only genius he knew was genius in
eccentric painting. The only genius worth while that is, for there is a
genius that invents labor-saving machines, telephones, X-rays, and so
forth; but nobody loves that genius. It occurred to him that he was a
very lovable man, with all his faults (his faults were the lovable ones
of genius), and he would soon have achieved a distinction that would
make any woman proud of him. He determined to renew his addresses
to----.
"Somehow in the evening his intoxication had died down. He felt very
sad. His work lay before him with so little eccentricity to it that he
was ashamed. His sense of power had quite departed. And now he dismally
felt that he would never amount to anything. He was a failure. An idle,
wicked, disgraceful fellow, no good in the world, and not worth any
woman's attention. His heart felt sick when he thought this. He was very
miserable. He despised himself. So he sighed. It would have been better,
he thought, if he had apprenticed himself to the plumber's trade in his
boyhood. He would in that case have grown up happy and contented,
remained at home and done his duty, respected by his neighbors and
himself, though only a plumber. A plumber is a good honest man that pays
his debts.
"At home! Why was he not there, anyway? What good was he doing away from
there? There was his mother, in her declining years. Was his place not
by her side? He would never desert his mother, he thought. And Sis!
there was Sis. He would never desert Sis. How good they had been to him!
How they believed in him! (he squirmed) how they believed in him still.
He imagined them showing his most sensible pictures around to the
neighbors. 'My son is an artist,' he heard his mother say. His flesh
crawled. How mad he had been! How contemptible he was! Still a man was
not hopeless who had a soul for such feelings as he had now. He would
reform. He would henceforth eschew the company of such as Walker. He
enumerated his vices and renounced them one by one. He began life over
again. He would bask in the simple domestic pleasures of his mother in
her declining years, and Sis. He would get up very early every morning
and go to his humble toil before it was quite light. He felt himself
walking along in the chill of dawn--the street lamps still lit. He would
work hard all day. He would always tell the truth. Every Saturday night
he would come home tired out, with fifteen dollars in his pocket. This
he would throw into his mother's lap. 'Here, mother,' he would say in a
fine manly voice, 'here are fifteen dollars.' His mother would put her
apron to her eyes, and look at him through tears of pride and joy. He
would wear old clothes and be very honest and upright looking, the sort
of young man that Russell Sage would have approved, that Sis might
dress. He would not mind the sneers and gibes of the world, for he would
be _right_.
"He looked defiantly around the room for a few sneers and gibes."