Literary Lapses - Stephen Leacock
"Say, here's a grand story," he burst out as soon as I
came in; "it's great! most fascinating thing I ever read.
Wait till I read you some of it. I'll just tell you what
has happened up to where I am--you'll easily catch the
thread of it--and then we'll finish it together."
I wasn't feeling in a very responsive mood, but I saw no
way to stop him, so I merely said, "All right, throw me
your thread, I'll catch it."
"Well," Sinclair began with great animation, "this count
gets this letter..."
"Hold on," I interrupted, "what count gets what letter?"
"Oh, the count it's about, you know. He gets this letter
from this Porphirio."
"From which Porphirio?"
"Why, Porphirio sent the letter, don't you see, he sent
it," Sinclair exclaimed a little impatiently--"sent it
through Demonio and told him to watch for him with him,
and kill him when he got him."
"Oh, see here!" I broke in, "who is to meet who, and who
is to get stabbed?"
"They're going to stab Demonio."
"And who brought the letter?"
"Demonio."
"Well, now, Demonio must be a clam! What did he bring it
for?"
"Oh, but he don't know what's in it, that's just the slick
part of it," and Sinclair began to snigger to himself at
the thought of it. "You see, this Carlo Carlotti the
Condottiere..."
"Stop right there," I said. "What's a Condottiere?"
"It's a sort of brigand. He, you understand, was in league
with this Fra Fraliccolo..."
A suspicion flashed across my mind. "Look here," I said
firmly, "if the scene of this story is laid in the
Highlands, I refuse to listen to it. Call it off."
"No, no," Sinclair answered quickly, "that's all right.
It's laid in Italy...time of Pius the something. He
comes in--say, but he's great! so darned crafty. It's
him, you know, that persuades this Franciscan..."
"Pause," I said, "what Franciscan?"
"Fra Fraliccolo, of course," Sinclair said snappishly.
"You see, Pio tries to..."
"Whoa!" I said, "who is Pio?"
"Oh, hang it all, Pio is Italian, it's short for Pius.
He tries to get Fra Fraliccolo and Carlo Carlotti the
Condottiere to steal the document from...let me see;
what was he called?...Oh, yes...from the Dog of Venice,
so that...or...no, hang it, you put me out, that's all
wrong. It's the other way round. Pio wasn't clever at
all; he's a regular darned fool. It's the Dog that's
crafty. By Jove, he's fine," Sinclair went on; warming
up to enthusiasm again, "he just does anything he wants.
He makes this Demonio (Demonio is one of those hirelings,
you know, he's the tool of the Dog)...makes him steal
the document off Porphirio, and..."
"But how does he get him to do that?" I asked.
"Oh, the Dog has Demonio pretty well under his thumb, so
he makes Demonio scheme round till he gets old Pio--er--gets
him under his thumb, and then, of course, Pio thinks that
Porphirio--I mean he thinks that he has Porphirio--er--has
him under his thumb."
"Half a minute, Sinclair," I said, "who did you say was
under the Dog's thumb?"
"Demonio."
"Thanks. I was mixed in the thumbs. Go on."
"Well, just when things are like this..."
"Like what?"
"Like I said."
"All right."
"Who should turn up and thwart the whole scheme, but this
Signorina Tarara in her domino..."
"Hully Gee!" I said, "you make my head ache. What the
deuce does she come in her domino for?"
"Why, to thwart it."
"To thwart what?"
"Thwart the whole darned thing," Sinclair exclaimed
emphatically.
"But can't she thwart it without her domino?"
"I should think not! You see, if it hadn't been for the
domino, the Dog would have spotted her quick as a wink.
Only when he sees her in the domino with this rose in
her hair, he thinks she must be Lucia dell' Esterolla."
"Say, he fools himself, doesn't he? Who's this last girl?"
"Lucia? Oh, she's great!" Sinclair said. "She's one of
those Southern natures, you know, full of--er--full of..."
"Full of fun," I suggested.
"Oh, hang it all, don't make fun of it! Well, anyhow,
she's sister, you understand, to the Contessa Carantarata,
and that's why Fra Fraliccolo, or...hold on, that's not
it, no, no, she's not sister to anybody. She's cousin,
that's it; or, anyway, she thinks she is cousin to Fra
Fraliccolo himself, and that's why Pio tries to stab Fra
Fraliccolo."
"Oh, yes," I assented, "naturally he would."
"Ah," Sinclair said hopefully, getting his paper-cutter
ready to cut the next pages, "you begin to get the thread
now, don't you?"
"Oh, fine!" I said. "The people in it are the Dog and
Pio, and Carlo Carlotti the Condottiere, and those others
that we spoke of."
"That's right," Sinclair said. "Of course, there are more
still that I can tell you about if..."
"Oh, never mind," I said, "I'll work along with those,
they're a pretty representative crowd. Then Porphirio is
under Pio's thumb, and Pio is under Demonio's thumb, and
the Dog is crafty, and Lucia is full of something all
the time. Oh, I've got a mighty clear idea of it," I
concluded bitterly.
"Oh, you've got it," Sinclair said, "I knew you'd like
it. Now we'll go on. I'll just finish to the bottom of
my page and then I'll go on aloud."
He ran his eyes rapidly over the lines till he came to
the bottom of the page, then he cut the leaves and turned
over. I saw his eye rest on the half-dozen lines that
confronted him on the next page with an expression of
utter consternation.
"Well, I will be cursed!" he said at length.
"What's the matter?" I said gently, with a great joy at
my heart.
"This infernal thing's a serial," he gasped, as he pointed
at the words, "To be continued," "and that's all there
is in this number."
Telling His Faults
"Oh, do, Mr. Sapling," said the beautiful girl at the
summer hotel, "do let me read the palm of your hand! I
can tell you all your faults."
Mr. Sapling gave an inarticulate gurgle and a roseate
flush swept over his countenance as he surrendered his
palm to the grasp of the fair enchantress.
"Oh, you're just full of faults, just full of them, Mr.
Sapling!" she cried.
Mr. Sapling looked it.
"To begin with," said the beautiful girl, slowly and
reflectingly, "you are dreadfully cynical: you hardly
believe in anything at all, and you've utterly no faith
in us poor women."
The feeble smile that had hitherto kindled the features
of Mr. Sapling into a ray of chastened imbecility, was
distorted in an effort at cynicism.
"Then your next fault is that you are too determined;
much too determined. When once you have set your will on
any object, you crush every obstacle under your feet."
Mr. Sapling looked meekly down at his tennis shoes, but
began to feel calmer, more lifted up. Perhaps he had been
all these things without knowing it.
"Then you are cold and sarcastic."
Mr. Sapling attempted to look cold and sarcastic. He
succeeded in a rude leer.
"And you're horribly world-weary, you care for nothing.
You have drained philosophy to the dregs, and scoff at
everything."
Mr. Sapling's inner feeling was that from now on he would
simply scoff and scoff and scoff.
"Your only redeeming quality is that you are generous.
You have tried to kill even this, but cannot. Yes,"
concluded the beautiful girl, "those are your faults,
generous still, but cold, cynical, and relentless. Good
night, Mr. Sapling."
And resisting all entreaties the beautiful girl passed
from the verandah of the hotel and vanished.
And when later in the evening the brother of the beautiful
girl borrowed Mr. Sapling's tennis racket, and his bicycle
for a fortnight, and the father of the beautiful girl
got Sapling to endorse his note for a couple of hundreds,
and her uncle Zephas borrowed his bedroom candle and used
his razor to cut up a plug of tobacco, Mr. Sapling felt
proud to be acquainted with the family.
Winter Pastimes
It is in the depth of winter, when the intense cold
renders it desirable to stay at home, that the really
Pleasant Family is wont to serve invitations upon a few
friends to spend a Quiet Evening.
It is at these gatherings that that gay thing, the indoor
winter game, becomes rampant. It is there that the old
euchre deck and the staring domino become fair and
beautiful things; that the rattle of the Loto counter
rejoices the heart, that the old riddle feels the sap
stirring in its limbs again, and the amusing spilikin
completes the mental ruin of the jaded guest. Then does
the Jolly Maiden Aunt propound the query: What is the
difference between an elephant and a silk hat? Or declare
that her first is a vowel, her second a preposition, and
her third an archipelago. It is to crown such a quiet
evening, and to give the finishing stroke to those of
the visitors who have not escaped early, with a fierce
purpose of getting at the saloons before they have time
to close, that the indoor game or family reservoir of
fun is dragged from its long sleep. It is spread out upon
the table. Its paper of directions is unfolded. Its cards,
its counters, its pointers and its markers are distributed
around the table, and the visitor forces a look of reckless
pleasure upon his face. Then the "few simple directions"
are read aloud by the Jolly Aunt, instructing each
player to challenge the player holding the golden letter
corresponding to the digit next in order, to name a dead
author beginning with X, failing which the player must
declare himself in fault, and pay the forfeit of handing
over to the Jolly Aunt his gold watch and all his money,
or having a hot plate put down his neck.
With a view to bringing some relief to the guests at
entertainments of this kind, I have endeavoured to
construct one or two little winter pastimes of a novel
character. They are quite inexpensive, and as they need
no background of higher arithmetic or ancient history,
they are within reach of the humblest intellect. Here is
one of them. It is called Indoor Football, or Football
without a Ball.
In this game any number of players, from fifteen to
thirty, seat themselves in a heap on any one player,
usually the player next to the dealer. They then challenge
him to get up, while one player stands with a stop-watch
in his hand and counts forty seconds. Should the first
player fail to rise before forty seconds are counted,
the player with the watch declares him suffocated. This
is called a "Down" and counts one. The player who was
the Down is then leant against the wall; his wind is
supposed to be squeezed out. The player called the referee
then blows a whistle and the players select another player
and score a down off him. While the player is supposed
to be down, all the rest must remain seated as before,
and not rise from him until the referee by counting forty
and blowing his whistle announces that in his opinion
the other player is stifled. He is then leant against
the wall beside the first player. When the whistle again
blows the player nearest the referee strikes him behind
the right ear. This is a "Touch," and counts two.
It is impossible, of course, to give all the rules in
detail. I might add, however, that while it counts TWO
to strike the referee, to kick him counts THREE. To break
his arm or leg counts FOUR, and to kill him outright is
called GRAND SLAM and counts one game.
Here is another little thing that I have worked out,
which is superior to parlour games in that it combines
their intense excitement with sound out-of-door exercise.
It is easily comprehended, and can be played by any number
of players, old and young. It requires no other apparatus
than a trolley car of the ordinary type, a mile or two
of track, and a few thousand volts of electricity. It is
called:
The Suburban Trolley Car
A Holiday Game for Old and Young.
The chief part in the game is taken by two players who
station themselves one at each end of the car, and who
adopt some distinctive costumes to indicate that they
are "it." The other players occupy the body of the car,
or take up their position at intervals along the track.
The object of each player should be to enter the car as
stealthily as possible in such a way as to escape the
notice of the players in distinctive dress. Should he
fail to do this he must pay the philopena or forfeit. Of
these there are two: philopena No. 1, the payment of five
cents, and philopena No. 2, being thrown off the car by
the neck. Each player may elect which philopena he will
pay. Any player who escapes paying the philopena scores
one.
The players who are in the car may elect to adopt a
standing attitude, or to seat themselves, but no player
may seat himself in the lap of another without the second
player's consent. The object of those who elect to remain
standing is to place their feet upon the toes of those
who sit; when they do this they score. The object of
those who elect to sit is to elude the feet of the standing
players. Much merriment is thus occasioned.
The player in distinctive costume at the front of the
car controls a crank, by means of which he is enabled to
bring the car to a sudden stop, or to cause it to plunge
violently forward. His aim in so doing is to cause all
the standing players to fall over backward. Every time
he does this he scores. For this purpose he is generally
in collusion with the other player in distinctive costume,
whose business it is to let him know by a series of bells
and signals when the players are not looking, and can be
easily thrown down. A sharp fall of this sort gives rise
to no end of banter and good-natured drollery, directed
against the two players who are "it."
Should a player who is thus thrown backward save himself
from falling by sitting down in the lap of a female
player, he scores one. Any player who scores in this
manner is entitled to remain seated while he may count
six, after which he must remove himself or pay philopena
No. 2.
Should the player who controls the crank perceive a player
upon the street desirous of joining in the game by entering
the car, his object should be: primo, to run over him
and kill him; secundo, to kill him by any other means in
his power; tertio, to let him into the car, but to exact
the usual philopena.
Should a player, in thus attempting to get on the car
from without, become entangled in the machinery, the
player controlling the crank shouts "huff!" and the car
is supposed to pass over him. All within the car score
one.
A fine spice of the ludicrous may be added to the game
by each player pretending that he has a destination or
stopping-place, where he would wish to alight. It now
becomes the aim of the two players who are "it" to carry
him past his point. A player who is thus carried beyond
his imaginary stopping-place must feign a violent passion,
and imitate angry gesticulations. He may, in addition,
feign a great age or a painful infirmity, which will be
found to occasion the most convulsive fun for the other
players in the game.
These are the main outlines of this most amusing pastime.
Many other agreeable features may, of course, be readily
introduced by persons of humour and imagination.
Number Fifty-Six
What I narrate was told me one winter's evening by my
friend Ah-Yen in the little room behind his laundry.
Ah-Yen is a quiet little celestial with a grave and
thoughtful face, and that melancholy contemplative
disposition so often noticed in his countrymen. Between
myself and Ah-Yen there exists a friendship of some years'
standing, and we spend many a long evening in the dimly
lighted room behind his shop, smoking a dreamy pipe
together and plunged in silent meditation. I am chiefly
attracted to my friend by the highly imaginative cast of
his mind, which is, I believe, a trait of the Eastern
character and which enables him to forget to a great
extent the sordid cares of his calling in an inner life
of his own creation. Of the keen, analytical side of his
mind, I was in entire ignorance until the evening of
which I write.
The room where we sat was small and dingy, with but little
furniture except our chairs and the little table at which
we filled and arranged our pipes, and was lighted only
by a tallow candle. There were a few pictures on the
walls, for the most part rude prints cut from the columns
of the daily press and pasted up to hide the bareness of
the room. Only one picture was in any way noticeable, a
portrait admirably executed in pen and ink. The face was
that of a young man, a very beautiful face, but one of
infinite sadness. I had long been aware, although I know
not how, that Ah-Yen had met with a great sorrow, and
had in some way connected the fact with this portrait.
I had always refrained, however, from asking him about
it, and it was not until the evening in question that I
knew its history.
We had been smoking in silence for some time when Ah-Yen
spoke. My friend is a man of culture and wide reading,
and his English is consequently perfect in its construction;
his speech is, of course, marked by the lingering liquid
accent of his country which I will not attempt to
reproduce.
"I see," he said, "that you have been examining the
portrait of my unhappy friend, Fifty-Six. I have never
yet told you of my bereavement, but as to-night is the
anniversary of his death, I would fain speak of him for
a while."
Ah-Yen paused; I lighted my pipe afresh, and nodded to
him to show that I was listening.
"I do not know," he went on, "at what precise time
Fifty-Six came into my life. I could indeed find it out
by examining my books, but I have never troubled to do
so. Naturally I took no more interest in him at first
than in any other of my customers--less, perhaps, since
he never in the course of our connection brought his
clothes to me himself but always sent them by a boy. When
I presently perceived that he was becoming one of my
regular customers, I allotted to him his number, Fifty-Six,
and began to speculate as to who and what he was. Before
long I had reached several conclusions in regard to my
unknown client. The quality of his linen showed me that,
if not rich, he was at any rate fairly well off. I could
see that he was a young man of regular Christian life,
who went out into society to a certain extent; this I
could tell from his sending the same number of articles
to the laundry, from his washing always coming on Saturday
night, and from the fact that he wore a dress shirt about
once a week. In disposition he was a modest, unassuming
fellow, for his collars were only two inches high."
I stared at Ah-Yen in some amazement, the recent
publications of a favourite novelist had rendered me
familiar with this process of analytical reasoning, but
I was prepared for no such revelations from my Eastern
friend.
"When I first knew him," Ah-Yen went on, "Fifty-Six was
a student at the university. This, of course, I did not
know for some time. I inferred it, however, in the course
of time, from his absence from town during the four summer
months, and from the fact that during the time of the
university examinations the cuffs of his shirts came to
me covered with dates, formulas, and propositions in
geometry. I followed him with no little interest through
his university career. During the four years which it
lasted, I washed for him every week; my regular connection
with him and the insight which my observation gave me
into the lovable character of the man, deepened my first
esteem into a profound affection and I became most anxious
for his success. I helped him at each succeeding
examination, as far as lay in my power, by starching his
shirts half-way to the elbow, so as to leave him as much
room as possible for annotations. My anxiety during the
strain of his final examination I will not attempt to
describe. That Fifty-Six was undergoing the great crisis
of his academic career, I could infer from the state of
his handkerchiefs which, in apparent unconsciousness, he
used as pen-wipers during the final test. His conduct
throughout the examination bore witness to the moral
development which had taken place in his character during
his career as an undergraduate; for the notes upon his
cuffs which had been so copious at his earlier examinations
were limited now to a few hints, and these upon topics
so intricate as to defy an ordinary memory. It was with
a thrill of joy that I at last received in his laundry
bundle one Saturday early in June, a ruffled dress shirt,
the bosom of which was thickly spattered with the spillings
of the wine-cup, and realized that Fifty-Six had banqueted
as a Bachelor of Arts.
"In the following winter the habit of wiping his pen upon
his handkerchief, which I had remarked during his final
examination, became chronic with him, and I knew that he
had entered upon the study of law. He worked hard during
that year, and dress shirts almost disappeared from his
weekly bundle. It was in the following winter, the second
year of his legal studies, that the tragedy of his life
began. I became aware that a change had come over his
laundry; from one, or at most two a week, his dress shirts
rose to four, and silk handkerchiefs began to replace
his linen ones. It dawned upon me that Fifty-Six was
abandoning the rigorous tenor of his student life and
was going into society. I presently perceived something
more; Fifty-Six was in love. It was soon impossible to
doubt it. He was wearing seven shirts a week; linen
handkerchiefs disappeared from his laundry; his collars
rose from two inches to two and a quarter, and finally
to two and a half. I have in my possession one of his
laundry lists of that period; a glance at it will show
the scrupulous care which he bestowed upon his person.
Well do I remember the dawning hopes of those days,
alternating with the gloomiest despair. Each Saturday I
opened his bundle with a trembling eagerness to catch
the first signs of a return of his love. I helped my
friend in every way that I could. His shirts and collars
were masterpieces of my art, though my hand often shook
with agitation as I applied the starch. She was a brave
noble girl, that I knew; her influence was elevating the
whole nature of Fifty-Six; until now he had had in his
possession a certain number of detached cuffs and false
shirt-fronts. These he discarded now,--at first the false
shirt-fronts, scorning the very idea of fraud, and after
a time, in his enthusiasm, abandoning even the cuffs. I
cannot look back upon those bright happy days of courtship
without a sigh.
"The happiness of Fifty-Six seemed to enter into and fill
my whole life. I lived but from Saturday to Saturday.
The appearance of false shirt-fronts would cast me to
the lowest depths of despair; their absence raised me to
a pinnacle of hope. It was not till winter softened into
spring that Fifty-Six nerved himself to learn his fate.
One Saturday he sent me a new white waistcoat, a garment
which had hitherto been shunned by his modest nature, to
prepare for his use. I bestowed upon it all the resources
of my art; I read his purpose in it. On the Saturday
following it was returned to me and, with tears of joy,
I marked where a warm little hand had rested fondly on
the right shoulder, and knew that Fifty-Six was the
accepted lover of his sweetheart."
Ah-Yen paused and sat for some time silent; his pipe had
sputtered out and lay cold in the hollow of his hand;
his eye was fixed upon the wall where the light and
shadows shifted in the dull flickering of the candle. At
last he spoke again:
"I will not dwell upon the happy days that ensued--days
of gaudy summer neckties and white waistcoats, of spotless
shirts and lofty collars worn but a single day by the
fastidious lover. Our happiness seemed complete and I
asked no more from fate. Alas! it was not destined to
continue! When the bright days of summer were fading into
autumn, I was grieved to notice an occasional quarrel--only
four shirts instead of seven, or the reappearance of the
abandoned cuffs and shirt-fronts. Reconciliations followed,
with tears of penitence upon the shoulder of the white
waistcoat, and the seven shirts came back. But the quarrels
grew more frequent and there came at times stormy scenes
of passionate emotion that left a track of broken buttons
down the waistcoat. The shirts went slowly down to three,
then fell to two, and the collars of my unhappy friend
subsided to an inch and three-quarters. In vain I lavished
my utmost care upon Fifty-Six. It seemed to my tortured
mind that the gloss upon his shirts and collars would
have melted a heart of stone. Alas! my every effort at
reconciliation seemed to fail. An awful month passed;
the false fronts and detached cuffs were all back again;
the unhappy lover seemed to glory in their perfidy. At
last, one gloomy evening, I found on opening his bundle
that he had bought a stock of celluloids, and my heart
told me that she had abandoned him for ever. Of what my
poor friend suffered at this time, I can give you no
idea; suffice it to say that he passed from celluloid to
a blue flannel shirt and from blue to grey. The sight of
a red cotton handkerchief in his wash at length warned
me that his disappointed love had unhinged his mind, and
I feared the worst. Then came an agonizing interval of
three weeks during which he sent me nothing, and after
that came the last parcel that I ever received from him
an enormous bundle that seemed to contain all his effects.
In this, to my horror, I discovered one shirt the breast
of which was stained a deep crimson with his blood, and
pierced by a ragged hole that showed where a bullet had
singed through into his heart.