The Table Talk of Samuel Marchbanks (3 page)

T
HE FEDERAL DEPARTMENT
of Health and Welfare is taking a strong stand against kissing, I see. They say it spreads the Cold Germ. Very likely, though I must say I am less impressed by the germ theory than I used to be. But after all, who is so poor in spirit that he would not rather have his inamorata’s head-cold than his perfect health?

Not much of a love song, is it? And anyway, if lovers did not kiss, what could they do? (Just a minute; don’t answer too quickly.) Not many of them are good at concocting the small-talk of love; they are tongue-tied after a few trite remarks. Kissing helps to fill in silences which would otherwise become a bore and break up the romance.

A
CROSS THE STREET
from my window this afternoon a handsome cat, smoke-grey with a rust spot on its back,
sat in the sun. As I admired it a small boy of four or five approached, evil in his eye. With calculated malice he aimed a frightful kick at the cat, but overshot his mark and fell on his podex, whereupon he began to weep bitterly. I leaned out of my window and shouted “Sic semper tyrannis!” and then (as the Latinity of the child seemed doubtful) “Thus perish all tyrants!”

I
LIKE WEDDINGS
. They are supposed to be a feminine taste, though I can’t think why. Women often weep at weddings, whereas my own instinct is to laugh uproariously, and to encourage the bride and groom with merry whoops. The sight of people getting married exhilarates me; I think that they are doing a fine thing, and I admire them for it. If our Canadian society had any place for marriage-brokers I would certainly be one. A wedding breakfast is called so, of course, because people are supposed to go to their weddings fasting; a majority of brides, however, are chock full of nationally advertised breakfast food, bran muffins, bacon and eggs, citrus fruit, and coffee when they go to the altar; I have seen a few with crumbs still on their chins.

I
WAS TALKING
to a man today who complained that there were no towers on Marchbanks Towers, and that the name was therefore a cheat. I explained to him that although no towers of brick and mortar were to be seen, it possessed several spiritual and incorporeal towers—soaring pinnacles of aspiration and romance, vast fingers of fantasy reaching into the sky. He looked unconvinced, and asked me if the house were insulated? He also suggested that by crowding myself and my family into a space about as big as the Black Hole of
Calcutta I could “duplex” the Towers and profit richly by the housing shortage. He even said that by not doing so I was Flying in the Face of Providence. In fact he worked himself up into such a state of mind over what was actually none of his business that I was afraid that he would make himself ill.

I
LAUGHED MERRILY
when I read in my morning paper that the Toronto City Council was in a fantod because a magazine writer said that Toronto women were “sleek, ravishing and sexy.” Most of their complaint was incoherent but one councillor mastered his blood pressure for long enough to say that this constituted an attack on the good name of Toronto.… The root of this trouble lies in the belief of the Toronto Council that all female Torontonians are Ladies. A Lady, in Canada, is a dowdy and unappetizing mammal, who is much given to Culture and Good Works, but derives no sinful satisfaction from either; a Lady is without discernible sex, but can reproduce its kind by a system resembling radar; a Lady does not have to be attractive, because it is sufficient in this wicked world to be Good. There is nothing a Lady hates so much as a Woman, and women are occasionally sleek, ravishing and sexy. The idea that women have invaded Toronto would of course be repugnant to the City Council, which distinguishes itself every year or so by banning
The Decameron
or insisting that male and female authors be kept apart on the shelves of the public libraries, lest an unlicensed pamphlet make its appearance.

I
LOOKED THROUGH
my window into the window opposite this afternoon, and saw what I took to be a woman
pouring water out of a jug on a hat; rubbed my purblind eyes, and wiped my spectacles, and found that she was refreshing the water in a vase of asters. Now here is a philosophical problem: Would I have been better off if I had not discovered the truth? Would not the wonder of my first impression have sustained me through a dull and unrewarding day?

T
HIS MORNING I
put leather polish on the bindings of a number of nice old books which I am lucky enough to own. This is a regular yearly rite with me. There are people who would not dream of starving a child who will starve a fine old binding, and think nothing of it. But a child, be it never so stuffed with vitamins, may grow up to be a sorrow and a disgrace to you, whereas a good book will always be a credit and a friend. Let the admirers of the younger generation chew on that one!

I
READ A LIST
of the most popular songs of the year this morning. I have never heard any of them. Can it be that I live in an ivory tower? The last popular tune that I was able to recognize was
I Duwanna Walk Without You, Baby
which was played over and over again by the jukebox of a restaurant in which I sometimes ate. Now, when I think of it, the smell of stale fried potatoes comes back to me with disgusting clarity. I am probably one of the few men left on this continent who really likes silence. I am thinking of getting ear-plugs, like Herbert Spencer, and uncorking myself only when I am sure that I want to hear what is going on in the outside world.

T
HE AVERAGE
politician goes through a sentence like a man exploring a disused mine-shaft—blind, groping, timorous and in imminent danger of cracking his shins on a subordinate clause or a nasty bit of subjunctive. There is a popular superstition that a politician who hangs himself in his own parentheses is likely to be an honest fellow, uncorrupted by schooling. Personally I like my politicians to be literate.… No madam, to be quite frank, I did not know that your husband was an M.P.… Very well, if you wish it, I shall talk to someone else; I do not believe in wasting good talk on people who are plainly unable to appreciate it.

I
DROPPED IN
at a child’s birthday party for a few minutes on my way here, and a tot who had been eating chocolates sat on my lap and amused herself by blowing up a red balloon and letting it disembarrass itself of its wind right in my face. The mingled stench of chocolate and cheap rubber was too much for me, and I fled.

A
FRIEND DROPPED IN
to see me the other evening, and I asked him to have a glass of beer. “No, thank you,” said he; “I’ve got indigestion, and I don’t think I ought to throw any Alcohol down on top of it.” Ignoring the coarseness with which he had phrased his refusal, I said, politely: “Would you very much mind not referring to honest drink as ‘Alcohol’? The alcoholic content of beer is very small. You don’t call bread Starch, do you?” “It’s all Alcohol to a man with indigestion,” he replied. This I suppose is a great truth, and throws new light on total abstinence movements.

D
URING THE PAST
few weeks I have had chats with several young men and women who think that they would like to get into the trade of which I am a humble practitioner. What amazes me about them all is their frankness. “I’d like to get some practice in a little joint like yours before trying for a job in the Big City,” they all say, or words to that effect. As they all come to me without previous experience, this gives me somewhat the feeling of a professor in a kindergarten, whose job it is to set the feet of beginners upon the upward path, soon to be left behind and patronized by my former pupils. And yet they do not want to work for beginner’s pay, nor do they seem to sense the painful fact that for six months or so they will be more of a hindrance than a help. I hope that I may be forgiven in Heaven for the bittersweet answers which I return to their demands. It seems odd to me that in our present educational system, in which virtually everything else is taught or half-taught, nobody teaches these young hopefuls how to behave when looking for a job. I do not ask for grovelling humility, but some hint of modesty, and some offer of honest service, would be welcome. Does any man like to be told that he is a given point which beginners in his trade soon hope to pass?

I
T IS ST. VALENTINE
’
S DAY
, and I received only one card, which was distinctly rude in its message. But even at that I was better off than a young lady I met who had not even had an insulting Valentine. The Valentine business has been driven just about as far as it can go by the greeting-card people, who neither slumber nor sleep. It seems to me that there is a card for every occasion that anyone could dream of which has any
connotation of rejoicing. The obvious thing now is to devise cards for times of sorrow: “Sorry To Hear You’ve Lost Your Job”; “Hoping You’ll Be Out of Jail Soon”; “Sympathy in Your Period of Receivership”; “Thinking of You During Your Disgrace”; “Bon Voyage, and Best Wishes for Your Deportation.” It ought to be possible to work up a brisk trade in these.

R
EADING AT MEALS
is a vice to which I am a slave, and today at luncheon I was taking in the contents of the
New Yorker
along with a large plate of chopped cabbage, apples and nuts when I came upon an advertisement in brilliant colour, inserted by the Canadian Government Travel Bureau in order to lure tourists to our fair land. The attractions of Canada, according to this representation, comprise Mounties, totem poles, moose, Scotsmen (with bagpipes), Indians, rabbits, squirrels, deer, bears, sweet old ladies with spinning wheels, and goats with curly horns. This is the sort of thing which makes a Canadian like myself conscious of his lack of picturesque charm; I am useless as tourist-bait, and to that extent I am a Bad Citizen. I suppose I could learn to work a spinning wheel, and in a heavy veil I might pose as an old lady if no tourists stopped to investigate me too searchingly. Lots of my friends could pass as totem poles of inferior workmanship. If thousands of Americans come up here expecting gaudy wonders, the least we can do is abet our Government in its pious fraud.

A
MAGAZINE CALLED
The Woman’s Home Companion
has sent me a list of Christmas Beauty Hints. “On Christmas Eve, you might take some of that stardust
you got to put on the tree, and sprinkle it on your hair,” it says; “maybe it sounds crazy, but I’ve seen it done and it’s Glamorous.” I shall remember this, and if anyone suggests that I have dandruff, I shall write
The Woman’s Home Companion
a stiffly-worded note.

I
TRIED TO BUY
a new hat today, without success. I have two hats at present, the one far gone in decay, and the other so heavy and unyielding in its nature that I generally refer to it as the Iron Crown of Hungary. Now I have not an uncommonly big head (whatever the people who sit behind me at the movies may say) but I need a man’s hat, and most hats seem to be made for little boys; when I try them on the effect is farcical. Furthermore, I have noticed at parties that people seem to get great fun out of trying on my hat. What is the true state of affairs? Am I a pumpkinhead, or do I meet an unusual number of pinheads? … No, madam, I did not suggest that you are a pinhead.… Very well, if you wish it, I shall talk to the lady on my left. She, I assure you, is not a pinhead, whatever you may be.

S
OMEBODY WAS
hounding me to talk to a women’s club this afternoon. “Don’t prepare anything; just tell them a few jokes,” he said. Anybody who has tried to tell jokes to a horde of women, all wearing their best hats and expecting a cup of club tea, knows how stupid such advice is. “I can’t,” I replied: “my doctor says I’m dying by inches.” … This is literally true. I die at the rate of about an inch a year, and the process began a year ago. As there are only about 72 inches of me longitudinally and even fewer latitudinally it will be seen that I haven’t long to last, and I must save myself as much as I can.