The Table Talk of Samuel Marchbanks (21 page)

I
SEE BY A
Toronto paper that “a pretty co-ed” has distinguished herself by eating a grasshopper. The thirst for beauty in Toronto press circles is astonishing. They will describe anyone who gets into jail, or lost, or murdered, or who eats something inedible, as
“pretty.” What they will say when a really pretty girl gets into the news, I cannot imagine. Their standards are so low that even I—! But I can imagine the report: “Lovely Samuel Marchbanks, glamorous Eastern Ontario redhead, appeared in court today charged with kicking the stuffing out of a dog which he alleged had been rummaging in his garbage can. Testimony was given by Dr. Flop, well-known psychiatrist, that the winsome defendant had developed an idea that he was persecuted by dogs owing to the fact that he really was persecuted by dogs.” I am forced to conclude that Toronto reporters think any female who is not a certified gorilla is a beauty, or that Toronto news photographers are bunglers.

O
UR QUAINT NEIGHBOURS
, the Americans, have concluded the local baseball tournament which they boastfully call the World’s Series. What would happen, I wonder, if some Norwegian or Siamese baseball team were to insist upon entering this cosy little contest, and beat them? They would drown the stage with tears, and split the general ear with horrid speech. I have always thought that the international nature of cricket served as a useful check on English pride. Just when the Motherland was beginning to think well of herself a pack of gangling Australians or Dutch-speaking South Africans would land on their shores, and knock the spots off the Old Girl at her national game. The Americans are very careful that nothing of the sort should happen to them.… I read today that the man who invented the curve pitch had died. I am sceptical about the curve pitch, and I should like to have a scientific showdown on the matter. Once when I was a boy a
friend showed me a metal cup which he concealed in his hand, and which he had bought on the understanding that it would enable him to pitch a curve. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t hit the side of a barn.

I
WATCHED A
Santa Claus parade this morning, and was greatly struck by the fact that all the figures on the floats were made of plaster, and the giants and gnomes and princesses were fixed eternally in one position. The parade seemed to give great satisfaction to the children round about, but children are not searching critics and will take anything that is palmed off on them. It seems to me that in a parade which symbolizes goodwill toward men it is wrong to use plaster people instead of real people, simply because plaster people are cheaper. Also I like Santa to appear surrounded by movement, and particularly by lots of pretty girls. I mentioned all this to a man who immediately wanted to know what pretty girls had to do with Santa Claus? I decided to give him the Theological Treatment. “Sir,” said I, “female beauty is an important Minor Sacrament which cannot be received too often; I am not at all sure that neglect of it does not constitute a sin of some kind.” That fixed him.… Yes indeed, madam, I am a great admirer of female beauty, but don’t allow that to create any coldness between us.… No, no, you misunderstand me.…

S
OMETIMES I WONDER
why it is that even the best singers contrive to make a few words inaudible, so that their hearers are left in the dark about the real meaning of their songs. For some weeks I have taken deep delight in a record of “Let The Bright Seraphim,” from Handel’s
Samson
which is sung by Isobel Baillie. The first few words I can understand perfectly:

Thus she sings, with perfect clarity. But there follows something which sounds to me like:

I am sure that this cannot be right. Handel set some queer words, but not as queer as that—not even when Nahum Tate was his librettist.

M
Y HAY FEVER
is getting out of bounds. I attended a meeting which was up three flights of stairs last week, and when I reached the top, I was wheezing like a cab-horse. The day before yesterday, therefore, I sought a Learned Physician, who brought out his stethoscope and listened to my chest, for so long, and with so much enjoyment, that I wondered if he had accidentally tuned in on some favourite radio program. But at last he put his instrument aside, and surveyed me through narrowed eyes. “I can’t do anything until these symptoms are disposed of,” said he; “I’ll give you an anti-spasmodic to quiet them.” This filled me with fear, for I am very credulous and timid where doctors are concerned. “What’s that?” I quavered. “Oh just a few grains of Dumbotal,” he said. “If you find yourself dropping off to sleep at odd times, or falling down in traffic decrease the dose.” He is going to survey me for
allergies next week. What shall I do if he discovers that I am allergic to paper, ink or any of the tools of my trade? Nothing then but the life of a hobo will remain for poor Marchbanks.

I began my course of Dumbotal yesterday morning. The first tablet had excellent effect, and my wheezing abated. After lunch I had another tablet of Dumbotal, and during the afternoon I felt like a bloodhound. I loped when I walked, my eyelids dropped, and every now and then I tumbled down and had a nice rest; but I was breathing beautifully. At dusk another Dumbotal. I read a book for an hour and discovered that I had no idea what I had read, so I took a two-hour nap. I woke up and crawled to bed without unnecessary effort, rather like a snake. But I was sucking in the good air in mighty draughts all the time. If the price of easy breathing is semi-coma, I shall pay it without a whimper.

Thanks to Dumbotal, I breathe freely once again, and I spent quite a lot of this afternoon sitting in the open air, thinking how good it smelled. A human being is an extraordinarily delicate creature, capable of tremendous physical and mental feats; but push his bodily temperature up a few points, or tinker with his blood pressure, or shoot a few bubbles into his bloodstream, or drop a little camphor into his eye, or reduce his breathing capacity slightly, and he is miserable. He can bear the martyr’s fire or the torturer’s rack with fortitude, but a comparatively trivial inconvenience floors him.… Next week several professional soothsayers are going to find out what gives me hay fever; I anticipate their investigations with no special delight.

I
INVENTED THE
Marchbanks Dental Wurlitzer today.
It is a set of dentures in which each tooth has been hollowed out and fitted with a miniature organ pipe. It has been my observation that most false teeth whistle, but mournfully and unmusically. The Dental Wurlitzer will ensure that if the teeth whistle at all they will whistle in a pleasing and tuneful manner. Clever wearers will learn to play tunes upon their dentures, thus giving amusement to their grandchildren, and perhaps acquiring a talent which will make them favourites in fashionable drawing rooms. My invention should add something new to choral singing, as well. At present choir singers who have grown elderly, and whose whistling is thought offensive, are asked to resign, or to devote themselves to arranging the chairs in the concert hall. But a small body of elderly singers (say five in a choir of thirty) equipped with my Dental Wurlitzer would be able to provide a rich supplementary tone to the whole, and would be especially effective in the rendering of bird-calls, echo effects and the distant carolling of angelic choirs.

I
WAS CALLED BY THE
Mayor today. “The Governor General is coming to town,” said His Worship, “and the only way we can get him up to my place is past Marchbanks Towers; what about getting some of that junk out of your front yard? If you like, I can send a gang up from the Works Department, and bill you for it.” “Have no fear,” I replied; “Marchbanks is no man to affront His Majesty’s representative, and the Towers will be a bower as you sweep by with your fine friends.” … But as I laid down the telephone I reflected that His Excellency will be honouring my street on a Garbage Day, when my neighbours and I conspire to turn the whole avenue into a replica of Hogan’s Alley, and
the jolly doggies strew our kitchen rubbish in a thick carpet all over the pavement. When Catherine the Great of Russia passed through a village, false fronts, like Hollywood scenery, were put on all the huts, and sleek, well-dressed peasants stood in front of the fakes while the real owners cowered hungrily behind the dunghills. Could not something like this be done here?

For the visit of The Governor General and his Lady I attired myself suitably in Canadian National Costume, consisting of a cowboy hat, a Red River flannel shirt, a Quebec doeskin wamus, Bay Street trousers (made of imported cloth and beautifully creased) and St. Catherine’s street shoes (patent leathers with buttoned cloth tops); under this I wore a hair shirt (to represent the Canadian Puritan Conscience) and a pair of underpants which have been sitting for thirty years and are due for retirement (to represent the Civil Service); in addition I wore a tartan cummerbund (to represent the Mari times, sometimes referred to as “the soft underbelly of Canada”) and a string of ice-cubes around the brim of my hat (to represent the immense promise of our Northland). At some little distance from myself I chained a Newfoundland dog, to personify our tenth province. In this picturesque garb I stood at my gate and as the Vice-Regal party drove by on its way to refreshment with the Mayor I cheered lustily in English and French, and cheered again as the party drove back to the teetotal Meat Tea which had been prepared downtown.… The costume was quite a strain and gave me a new realization of what a difficult country Canada is to unify.

O
NCE I PUT MYSELF
in the hands of the medical profession, I am a gone goose for several weeks. I endured
more injections and X-rays today. My inside has always fascinated photographers, though none of them has ever shown the least enthusiasm about my outside. “Lock your hands behind your head, tie your legs in a knot, cross your eyes, touch the end of your nose with the tip of your tongue; now hold still, Mr. Marchbanks,” says the X-ray technician, and there I am, a spectacle of discomfort to the eye, but a thing of beauty to the X-ray camera. After the film is developed they all say, “That’s lovely,” though I don’t think these pictures show me at my best. I have never worn my heart on my sleeve, and I certainly have no intention of turning myself inside out, even if I do look more fascinating that way.… Yes, madam, I have a few duplicates of my X-rays, and I would be happy to inscribe one for you, if you like.… Not at all; I find your request most touching.

T
HE APPLE SEASON
is now at hand, and I shall partake hugely; it was not for nothing that I gained the name “Cider-Press Marchbanks” in my youth. Fondness for apples is with me partly sheer greed and partly therapeutic. I have inherited from my pioneer ancestors a belief that no real harm can befall a man who eats plenty of apples. In my grandmother’s time it was widely held that apples were good for The System, just as tomatoes were thought to be deleterious, and perhaps fatal, to The System. This System implied the whole of the bodily plumbing, wiring and ventilation. Apples “toned up” The System; tomatoes poisoned The System. It was as simple as that. I toned my system with a couple of prime Mackintoshes this evening, before coming here to dinner.

I
SAW A PIECE IN
the paper this morning advising readers to “winterize” themselves. “We all winterize our automobiles; do the same thing for your bodily mechanism,” it said. This is not true: I don’t “winterize” my automobile; I prepare it for winter. I would scorn to use such a word as “winterize.” Nor would I dream of winterizing myself. Of course, I change my lubricant from a light lager to a thick Jamaica, but otherwise I do nothing. There was a time in my youth when I was prepared for winter by the consumption of a special thick grease, made of the bodies of decayed cod and halibut, which I ate on a biscuit three times a day. It made me reek like a fisherman’s raincoat, and no germs could get near me. Sometimes I heard people whispering about it behind my back (as happens in advertisements) but most of my contemporaries stank of the same, or similar, “winterizers” and so no social ostracism resulted.

T
HE POST
-C
HRISTMAS
dullness persists. There is a curious hush in the air, which puzzles me until I realize that it is caused by the cessation of the carol-singing which, until Christmas Eve, was launched upon the ether by loud speakers in shops, offices and municipal buildings. From time to time Scotsmen hail me, and want me to join them in celebrating the New Year which is, they explain, the great festival of their homeland. But although I appreciate their kindness, I am a Welshman by descent and in spirit, and for me Christmas is the great day, and when it is gone I cannot work up much enthusiasm for what is, after all, a purely chronological event.… I dined yesterday with some friends, who have a large bowl of holly in the middle of the table.
This gives me an idea; could holly, toasted, be launched upon the world as a new breakfast food? Its effect upon the intestines might be quite miraculous. Eat Marchbanks’ Holly for breakfast: You Pick It and It Picks You!