The Table Talk of Samuel Marchbanks (14 page)

I
TALKED THIS AFTERNOON
to a university professor who told me that he recently had the job of overseeing a large group of students who were writing an examination in psychology; at least half of these young sophisticates, he said, had lucky pennies, or rabbits’ feet, or ju-ju dolls, or other good luck charms on their desks
as they wrote. This strengthens my belief that education does not really alter character, but merely intensifies it, making foolish people more foolish, superstitious people more superstitious, and of course wise people wiser. But the wise are few and lonely.

I
T IS A CURIOUS
fact that some people can create a great deal more stench, fog, dirt and annoyance with a single cigarette than most people can make with a bonfire. The common cigarette smoker is not much of a nuisance; he keeps most of his smoke to himself, and what he spreads about is not too offensive. But there are fellows who blow out cubic feet of rank gas after a single inhalation, infecting the air around them for several yards. They also cough, rackingly and nauseatingly, until you wonder if they are getting ready to throw up. They blow ashes over everything, and when they have done with a cigarette they allow the butt to smoulder. What is more, their smoke has not the ordinary smoky smell; it is sour and bitter, and their clothes smell like ash-heaps. I had to do some work today in a room with one of these people, and for a time I watched him fascinated: he sucked in a third of his fag at one gasp, gulped, looked sick, and then blew out a great greenish cloud; when this had dispersed he was racked with coughing; then the whole dirty, noisy business was repeated. What could such a man not do with a big pipe? He would be a secret weapon in himself.

I
MET A MAN TODAY
who exhibited such unusual social grace and savoir faire that I was immediately curious about him; I learned that he was the chief Inspector of Income Tax for a large district. This explained everything.
Such a man would be forced to develop a winning manner in order to overcome the social handicap imposed by his position. In the same way an habitual strangler of children, or a man who was known to have his pockets full of rattlesnakes, would have to develop remarkable ease and brilliance if he hoped to have any social life whatever. In his office, too, he would constantly have to meet trying situations, such as enraged taxpayers armed with fire-axes, hysterical taxpayers who wanted to tear off their clothes in the Doukhobor manner, or ice-cold taxpayers with soft voices and a mad light in the eyes, who obviously had revolvers in their overcoat pockets. To charm and soothe such visitors, while at the same time dipping deep into their jeans, would demand an unusually polished address.

I
MET A FELLOW TODAY
today who is very fussy about the spoken word, and he was groaning that the radio provides little for persons of his kidney, although it serves those of musical taste very well. He was particularly critical of the people who speak on the Metropolitan Opera broadcasts, and became quite wild because Milton Cross pronounces “Mignon” as though it were “minion” and pronounces “Wilhelm” with an English instead of a German “W.” He moaned also about the poor speech of the Opera singers who speak in the intervals, and who call a tune a “toon” and in other ways assault the sensitive ear. As a matter of fact I have often marvelled myself at the ability of many singers to divorce speech from song, though it seems plain enough that song is a kind of glorified speech. But then, my views on singing are unusual and unpopular, for I am always amazed by people who announce that they cannot sing at all; it seems to me that anybody who can speak can sing,
though he may not sing very well. There are even children who say that they cannot sing, though for a child it should be as easy to sing as to spit. How did this cleavage between speech and song arise, I wonder?… You are going to sing after dinner? And what sort of singer are you, madam? A real singer, or a musical gargler?

I
WATCHED A LARGE GROUP
of children skating this afternoon, and was impressed once again by the shameless boastfulness of the young. One little girl kept falling down on her behind, and each time she did so she would shout, “I did that on purpose!” to the spectators; I reflected that if her thinking becomes fixed in this channel the only career open to her will be politics, for her technique is precisely that of some of our most eminent statesmen, who never execute a pratfall without declaring that they had some subtle design in doing so.

S
OME OF THE MEN
here were discussing the late Victor Emmanuel of Italy before dinner, and they all agreed that he was a weakling and a peewee, and should have “stood up” to Mussolini and told him “where he got off.” I would not dream of contradicting these experts, deeply versed in statecraft and familiar with court procedure, but I wondered what would happen to H. M. George VI if he were to say: “No, I refuse to appoint Sir Stafford Cripps as one of my ministers; he has repeatedly advocated the abolition of the Throne upon which I sit, and I detect seeds of tyranny and oppressiveness in him which I refuse to encourage.” The King would, I am sure, be invited to abdicate, just as his brother was when he revealed a mind of his own. Not kings, but politicians, are the rulers in our day, and no
king dares thwart a politician. Indeed, I can imagine no worse fate today than to be a king, and also a man of independent, humane and agile intellect. When he encouraged Mussolini poor Victor Emmanuel was encouraging The People’s Choice, and the voice of the people, as we all know, is the voice of God. The Aristocratic Principle is a puny babe; the Demagogic Principle rages unchecked.

A
LITTLE GIRL OFFERED
to read to me out of a book of Bible stories this afternoon, and announced the title of the one she had chosen as “Ruth, the Frightful Daughter-in-Law”; I was somewhat drowsy, and this sounded so normal—so in accord with everyday experience—that it did not occur to me until she was well launched on the tale of Ruth and Naomi that she had misread the word “faithful.”… I was dozing, by the way, beside a fire of cannel coal which had been in my cellar since 1943. It was rotten coal then, and would hardly burn, but today it blazed away merrily. Of course, everybody knows that coal matures very slowly, and I do not grudge the years which the stuff passed in a dark corner of my abode, ripening and richening. There’s no fuel like an old fuel, as my Aunt Berengaria says.

A
GROUP OF
professional floor waxers invaded The Towers today. They brought with them a great deal of equipment including several large wheels which appeared to be covered with the skins of whole cows. Their first move was to pile all the furniture in every room in a heap in the middle of it, and I was saddened to see how quickly the old home could be made to look like a junk shop. If I were to choke on a crumb, or collapse while
shovelling snow, or be struck by a falling icicle, or fall backward down the cellar stairs while struggling upward with an armful of wood, or perish through any of the hazards of daily life, it would only be a matter of a few days before the auctioneers would invade the scene of my sloughed-off existence, and pile up my furniture in exactly this way; and when people came to the sale they would despise my furniture, and conclude that I was a sordid fellow, who had lived shabbily. These reflections depressed me so much that I itched all afternoon to get the waxers out of the house, so that I could set it right, and reassure myself.

T
HE AZALEA
which entered my house at Christmas is now unmistakeably dead. I watered it—nearly drowned it, in fact—kept it out of draughts, did not allow anyone to brush, pinch or pick at it. I coddled the thing as though it had been a baby, but it pined from the moment it crossed the threshold. The truth is, I have a brown thumb. Every green thing I touch withers. When, in performances of
Faust
, I see the Devil touch the bouquet and wither it, I know exactly how he feels.…A distant relative of mine sent me a genealogy of part of my family today. I passed the evening reckoning the ages at which my ancestors died; save for a few who pegged out miserably in infancy the average age is 87 years and a few months. Now this seems to me to be thoroughly praiseworthy. These primeval Marchbanks without the aid of vitamins, central heat, balanced diets, or any medical care save bleeding, purging and mustard plasters, managed to survive to an average age of 87, and usually died by falling off roofs, being gored by bulls, or otherwise violently. They ate till they were full, drank till they were drunk, hated fresh air,
and thought tomatoes were poisonous, yet they lived valiantly, God rest them.

A
S IT MUST
to all men, the realization came to me today that I must order a new suit. I am sorry for men whose work demands that they present an appearance of neatness and prosperity; I rejoice that I belong to a traditionally frowsy trade. But even the vilest rags must be refreshed from time to time, and I went to the tailor’s with a heavy heart. Soon I was fingering little squares of cloth and trying to imagine what they would look like if swollen into suits and hung upon my frame; this is the sort of job at which my imagination boggles, and when my imagination is boggling, my mouth drops open, my tongue lolls out foolishly, and a film creeps over my eyeballs. “This is a nice thing,” I say, trying to curry favour with the tailor, “but I think I like this even better”—as I pick up my own pocket handkerchief or perhaps a penwiper from the desk. At last the tailor puts me out of my agony, and measuring begins. Here I exhibit devilish cunning, sucking myself in where I am too big, and blowing myself out where I am deficient, in a Protean manner, so that the record gives a completely false impression of my figure. “You sit a good deal at your work, Mr. Marchbanks?” says the tailor. “When I’m not lying down,” I reply. “We’ll allow a little extra for that,” says he, and makes marks on his chart which he will not allow me to see. In time I escape into the street, shaking like a leaf.

I
SEE IN THE PAPER
that a dog has been destroyed because it knocked down and frightened an old woman. In the Middle Ages such a dog might have received a full-dress
trial; animals were often tried for serious offences. The court records before the Reformation are full of cases in which a dog was tried for preventing someone from going to church, or for biting somebody important, or for barking during a political speech. The animal was provided with a defence lawyer, and if he lost his case his client was likely to be hanged, or even tortured. Many a young barrister in those days got his start defending animals, and a court would as soon subpoena a herd of sheep or a couple of oxen as anybody else. This was because animals were thought to be easy hideouts for evil spirits—an opinion which I think modern jurisprudence has abandoned without sufficient thought.

I
WAS TALKING
to a lady before dinner who was shaken by an experience she had had with a bed in her guest room. One night recently her spouse was sick of a salt rheum, and in order to escape infection and escape the sound of his coughs and moans she betook herself to the guest chamber, and tried to sleep upon one of the beds which her guests had been using for years. But to her horror the bed was too short, and too narrow, and was inclined to buck and throw the sleeper, so that she landed on the floor twice in the night. She was up at dawn, writing letters of apology to all her guests, and as soon as the shops opened she rushed forth to buy a new bed. Personally I think that everybody should sleep in their guest bed once a year, to test it, and I am seriously thinking of giving the wretched palliasse at Marchbanks Towers a tryout one of these nights. Perhaps that bagginess of eye which I have observed in my guests at breakfast is in some way related to its deficiencies. Perhaps I should shove more hay into the tick.

I
TRIED TO EXPLAIN
the significance of Lent to some children this morning, but found it hard to make the principle of self-denial comprehensible to them. That one should refrain from doing something one wants to do as a spiritual exercise seems peculiar to a child, and as I agree with them with the heretical half of my mind, I cannot put my full weight into any theological dispute which may ensue.… I was asked what I myself was giving up for Lent. “Showy displays of personal prowess such as running upstairs, lifting heavy weights and walking great distances,” I replied, without batting an eye.…I have also been looking over the year’s Valentine displays, which are more degraded in verse, and more vilely spotted with doggies, pussies, and bunnies than usual. Modern love, as reflected in Valentines, is on a depressingly infantile level.