Resemblance of Donald to the Norman. -- Donald marketing. --
Bearding a Barber. -- Norman Replies. -- Cant. -- Why the Whisky
was not marked on the Hotel Bill. -- New Use for the Old and New
Testaments. -- You should love your Enemies and not swallow
them. -- A modest Wish.
Friend Donald resembles the Norman very closely.
Like him, he is cunning and circumspect, with the composed exterior of
Puss taking a doze.
We say in France, "Answering like a Norman." That means, "to give an
evasive, ambiguous answer--neither _yes_ nor _no_."
They might say in England, "Answering like a Scot," to express the same
idea.
Look at Donald, with the corners of his mouth drawn back, and his eyes
twinkling as he nods at you and answers _Ay_, or shakes his head as he
says _Na_, _na_; and you will be convinced that he is compromised
neither by the one nor the other.
At market the resemblance is perfect.
He strolls into the stall as if he did not want anything more than a
look round. He examines the goods with a most indifferent eye, turns
them over and over, and finds fault with them. He seems to say to the
stall-keeper:
"You certainly could not have the impudence to ask a good price for such
stuff as this."
If he buys, he pays with a protest.
When he pockets cash, on the contrary, admire the rapidity of the
proceeding.
I one day heard a Norman, who had just been profiting by being in town
on market-day to get shaved, say to the barber, with the most innocent
air in the world:
"My word, I'm very sorry not to have a penny to give you, but my wife
and I have spent all our money; I have only a halfpenny left.... I will
owe you till next time."
Compare this Norman with the hero of the following little anecdote which
the Scotch tell.
A Scot, who sold brooms, went into a Glasgow barber's shop to get
shaved.
The barber bought a broom of Donald, and, after having shaved him, asked
what he owed him for the broom.
"Two pence," said Donald.
"No, no," said the barber; "it's too dear. I will give you a penny, and
if you are not satisfied, you can take your broom again."
Donald pocketed the penny, and asked what he had to pay for being
shaved.
"A penny," replied the barber.
"Na, na," said Donald; "I will give ye a bawbee, an' if ye are no
satisfied, ye can pit my beard back again."
This is Norman to the life.
The Scot pays when he has given his signature, or when there is no help
for it.
* * * * *
It has been said that the farthing was introduced to allow the Scotch to
be generous. This is calumny; for the Scot is charitable: but if
collections in Scotch churches were made in bags, there might be rather
a run on the small copper coin.
* * * * *
If you would see still another point of resemblance between the Scot and
the Norman, look at them as they indulge in their little pet
transgression.
When Donald orders his glass of whisky, he is always careful to say:
"Waiter, a _small_ whisky."
The Irishman asks for a "strong whisky," straight out, like a man.
Donald is modest, he asks for his _small_. That is the allowance of
sober folks, and the dear fellow is one of them. But just add up at the
end of the evening the number of _wee draps_ that he has on his
conscience, and you will find they make a very respectable total.
Now look at the Norman taking his cups of _cafe tricolore_ after dinner.
Do not imagine that he is going to take up the three bottles of brandy,
rum, and kirschwasser, and pour himself out some of their contents. No,
no; he would be too much afraid of exceeding the dose. He measures it
into his spoon, which he holds horizontally; and, to see the precautions
he takes, you would think he was a chemist preparing a doctor's
prescription.
"A teaspoonful of each," he says to you; "that is my quantity."
But how they brim over, those spoonfuls! When the overflow has fallen
into the cup, he shows you the full spoon, with the remark:
"One of each kind, no more."
* * * * *
Scotch shrewdness expresses itself in a phraseology all its own, and of
which Donald alone possesses the secret. He handles the English
language with the talent of the most wily diplomatist. He has a happy
knack of combining irony and humour, as the following story shows:
An English author had sent his latest production to several men of
letters, requesting them to kindly give him their opinion of his book. A
Scotchman replied:
"Many thanks for the book which you did me the honour to send me. I will
lose no time in reading it."
Quite a Norman response, only more delicate.
Scotch shrewdness has occasionally a certain smack of mild hypocrisy,
which, however, does no harm to anyone.
Here are two examples of it that rather diverted me:
I was in the smoking-room of the Grand Hotel at Glasgow one evening.
Near me, sitting at a little table, were two gentlemen--unmistakably
Scotch, as their accent proclaimed.
One of them calls the waiter, and orders a glass of whisky.
"What is the number of your room, sir?" asks the waiter, having put the
whisky and water-jug on the table.
"No matter, waiter; don't put it on the bill. Here is the money."
"Very clever, that Caledonian," said I to myself, as I noted the wink to
the waiter and the glance thrown to the other occupant of the table.
True it is, _Scripta manent_!
If his wife accidentally puts her hand on his hotel bill in the pocket
of his coat, there is no harm done--no sign of any but the most innocent
articles.
Another time I was in a Scotchman's library.
While waiting for my host, who was to rejoin me there, I had a look at
his books, most of which treated of theology.
Two volumes, admirably bound, attracted my gaze. They were marked on the
back--one, _Old Testament_, the other, _New Testament_. I tried to take
down the first volume; but, to my surprise, the second moved with it.
Were the two volumes fixed together? or were they stuck by accident? Not
suspecting any mystery, I pulled hard. The Old Testament and the New
Testament were in one, and came together. The handsome binding was
nothing but the cover of a box of cigars. No more Testament than there
is on the palm of my hand: cigars--first-rate cigars--nothing but
cigars, placed there under the protection of the holy patriarchs.
I had time to put all in place again before my host came; but I was not
at my ease. I was quite innocent, of course; but--I don't know why--when
one has discovered a secret, one feels guilty of having taken something
that belongs to another.
At last my host entered, closed the door, and, rubbing his hands, said:
"Now I am at your service. Excuse me for leaving you alone a few
moments. I have settled my business, and we will have a cigar together,
if you like."
So saying, he opened the door of a small cupboard made in the wall, and
cleverly hidden by a picture of "John Knox imploring Mary Stuart to
abjure the Catholic faith." It was, as you see, rather a mysterious
library. From this cupboard he took some glasses--and something to fill
them agreeably withal. Then, without betraying the slightest
embarrassment, without a smile or a glance, he brought the twin volumes
which had so astonished me, and laid them on the table. I had the
pleasure of making closer acquaintance with the cigars, that seemed to
bring a recommendation from Moses and the prophets.
* * * * *
An anecdote on the ready wit of Donald:
He meets his pastor, who remonstrates with him upon the subject of his
intemperate habits.
"You are too fond of whisky, Donald; you ought to know very well that
whisky is your enemy."
"But, minister, have you not often told us that we ought to love our
enemies?" says Donald, slyly.
"Yes, Donald; but I never told you that you should swallow them,"
replies the pastor, who was as witty as his parishioner.
* * * * *
What anecdotes I heard in Scotland on the subject of whisky, to be sure!
Here is a good one for the last. I owe it to a learned professor of the
Aberdeen University.
Donald feels the approach of death.
The minister of his village is at his bedside, preparing him by pious
exhortations for the great journey.
"Have you anything on your mind, Donald? Is there any question you would
like to ask me?" And the minister bent down to listen to the dying man's
reply.
"Na, meenister, I'm na afeard.... I wad like to ken whether there'll be
whisky in heaven?"
Upon his spiritual counsellor remonstrating with him upon such a thought
at such a moment, he hastened to add, with a knowing look:
"Oh! it's no that I mind, meenister; I only thoucht I'd like to see it
on the table!"