The Second Man
Certainly it seems simple enough. I never knew there was any such system.
The First Man
I guess you didn’t. Very few do. But it’s just because Americans don’t know it that these foreign blackmailers shake ’em down. Once you let the porteer see that you know the ropes, he’ll pass the word on to the others, and you’ll be treated like a native.
The Second Man
I see. But how about the elevator boy? I gave the elevator boy in Dresden two marks and he almost fell on my neck, so I figured that I played the sucker.
The First Man
So you did. The rule for elevator boys is still somewhat in the air, because so few of these bum hotels over here have elevators, but you can sort of reason the thing out if you put your mind on it. When you get on a street car in Germany, what tip do you give the conductor?
The Second Man
Five pfennigs.
The First Man.
Naturally. That’s the tip fixed by custom. You may almost say it’s the unwritten law. If you gave the conductor more, he would hand you change. Well, how I reason it out is this way: If five pfennigs is enough for a car conductor, who may carry you three miles, why shouldn’t it be enough for the elevator boy, who may carry you only three stories?
The Second Man
It seems fair, certainly.
The First Man
And it is fair. So all you have to do is to keep account of the number of times you go up and down in the elevator, and then give the elevator boy five pfennigs for each trip. Say you come down in the morning, go up in the evening, and average one other round trip a day. That makes twenty-eight trips a week. Five times twenty-eight is one mark forty—and there you are.
The Second Man
I see. By the way, what hotel are you stopping at?
The First Man
The Goldene Esel.
The Second Man
How is it?
The First Man
Oh, so-so. Ask for oatmeal at breakfast and they send to the livery stable for a peck of oats and ask you please to be so kind as to show them how to make it.
The Second Man
My hotel is even worse. Last night I got into such a sweat under the big German feather bed that I had to throw it off. But when I asked for a single blanket they didn’t have any, so I had to wrap up in bath towels.
The First Man
Yes, and you used up every one in town. This morning, when I took a bath, the only towel the chambermaid could find wasn’t bigger than a wedding invitation. But while she was hunting around I dried off, so no harm was done.
The Second Man
Well, that’s what a man gets for running around in such one-horse countries. In Leipzig they sat a nigger down beside me at the table. In Amsterdam they had cheese for breakfast. In Munich the head waiter had never heard of buckwheat cakes. In Mannheim they charged me ten pfennigs extra for a cake of soap.
The First Man
What do you think of the railroad trains over here?
The Second Man
Rotten. That compartment system is all wrong. If nobody comes into your compartment it’s lonesome, and if anybody does come in it’s too damn sociable. And if you try to stretch out and get some sleep, some ruffian begins singing in the next compartment, or the conductor keeps butting in and jabbering at you.
The First Man
But you can say one thing for the German trains: they get in on time.
The Second Man
So they do, but no wonder! They run so slow they can’t help it. The way I figure it, a German engineer must have a devil of a time holding his engine in. The fact is, he usually can’t, and so he has to wait outside every big town until the schedule catches up to him. They say they never have accidents, but is it any more than you expect? Did you ever hear of a mud turtle having an accident?
The First Man
Scarcely. As you say, these countries are far behind the times. I saw a fire in Cologne; you would have laughed your head off! It was in a feed store near my hotel, and I got there before the firemen. When they came at last, in their tinpot hats, they got out half a dozen big squirts and rushed into the building with them. Then, when it was out, they put the squirts back into their little express wagon and drove off. Not a line of hose run out, not an engine puffing, not a gong heard, not a soul letting out a whoop! It was more like a Sunday-school picnic than a fire. I guess if these Dutch ever did have a civilised blaze, it would scare them to death. But they never have any.
The Second Man
Well, what can you expect? A country where all the charwomen are men and all the garbage men are women!—
For the moment the two have talked each other out, and so they lounge upon the rail in silence and gaze out over the valley. Anon the gumchewer spits. By now the sun has reached the skyline to the westward and the tops of the ice mountains are in gorgeous conflagration. Scarlets war with golden oranges, and vermilions fade into palpitating pinks. Below, in the valley, the colours begin to fade slowly to a uniform seashell grey. It is a scene of indescribable loveliness; the wild reds of hades splashed riotously upon the cold whites and pale blues of heaven. The night train for Venice, a long line of black coaches, is entering the town. Somewhere below, apparently in the barracks, a sunset gun is fired. After a silence of perhaps two or three minutes, the Americans gather fresh inspiration and resume their conversation.
The First Man
I have seen worse scenery.
The Second Man
Very pretty.
The First Man
Yes, sir; it’s well worth the money.
The Second Man
But the Rockies beat it all hollow.
The First Man
Oh, of course. They have nothing over here that we can’t beat to a whisper. Just consider the Rhine, for instance. The Hudson makes it look like a country creek.
The Second Man
Yes, you’re right. Take away the castles, and not even a German would give a hoot for it. It’s not so much what a thing is over here as what reputation it’s got. The whole thing is a matter of press-agenting.
The First Man
I agree with you. There’s the “beautiful, blue Danube.” To me it looks like a sewer. If it’s blue, then I’m green. A man would hesitate to drown himself in such a mud puddle.
The Second Man
But you hear the bands playing that waltz all your life, and so you spend your good money to come over here to see the river. And when you get back home you don’t want to admit that you’ve been a sucker, so you start touting it from hell to breakfast. And then some other fellow comes over and does the same, and so on and so on.
The First Man
Yes, it’s all a matter of boosting. Day in and day out you hear about Westminster Abbey. Every English book mentions it; it’s in the newspapers almost as much as Jane Addams or Caruso. Well, one day you pack your grip, put on your hat and come over to have a look—and what do you find? A one-horse church full of statues! And every statue crying for sapolio! You expect to see something magnificent and enormous, something to knock your eye out and send you down for the count. What you do see is a second-rate graveyard under roof. And when you examine into it, you find that two-thirds of the graves haven’t even got dead men in them! Whenever a prominent Englishman dies, they put up a statue to him in Westminster Abbey—no matter where he happens to be buried! I call that clever advertising. That’s the way to get the crowd.
The Second Man
Yes, these foreigners know the game. They have made millions out of it in Paris. Every time you go to see a musical comedy at home, the second act is laid in Paris, and you see a whole stageful of girls wriggling around, and a lot of old sports having the time of their lives. All your life you hear that Paris is something rich and racy, something that makes New York look like Roanoke, Virginia. Well, you fall for the ballyho and come over to have your fling—and then you find that Paris is largely bunk. I spent a whole week in Paris, trying to find something really awful. I hired one of those Jew guides at five dollars a day and told him to go the limit. I said to him: “Don’t mind me. I am twenty-one years old. Let me have the genuine goods.” But the worst he could show me wasn’t half as bad as what I have seen in Chicago. Every night I would say to that Jew: “Come on, now Mr. Cohen; let’s get away from these tinhorn shows. Lead me to the real stuff.” Well, I believe the fellow did his darndest, but he always fell down. I almost felt sorry for him. In the end, when I paid him off, I said to him: “Save up your money, my boy, and come over to the States. Let me know when you land. I’ll show you the sights for nothing. This Baracca Class atmosphere is killing you.”
The First Man
And yet Paris is famous all over the world. No American ever came to Europe without dropping off there to have a look. I once saw the Bal Tabarin crowded with Sunday-school superintendents returning from Jerusalem. And when the sucker gets home he goes around winking and hinting, and so the fake grows. I often think the government ought to take a hand. If the beer is inspected and guaranteed in Germany, why shouldn’t the shows be inspected and guaranteed in Paris?
The Second Man
I guess the trouble is that the Frenchmen themselves never go to their own shows. They don’t know what is going on. They see thousands of Americans starting out every night from the Place de l’Opéra and coming back in the morning all boozed up, and so they assume that everything is up to the mark. You’ll find the same thing in Washington. No Washingtonian has ever been up to the top of the Washington monument. Once the elevator in the monument was out of commission for two weeks, and yet Washington knew nothing about it. When the news got into the papers at last, it came from Macon, Georgia. Some honeymooner from down there had written home about it, roasting the government.
The First Man
Well, me for the good old U. S. A.! These Alps are all right, I guess—but I can’t say I like the coffee.
The Second Man
And it takes too long to get a letter from Jersey City.
The First Man
Yes, that reminds me. Just before I started up here this afternoon my wife got the Ladies’ Home Journal of the month before last. It had been following us around for six weeks, from London to Paris, to Berlin, to Munich, to Vienna, to a dozen other places. Now she’s fixed for the night. She won’t let up until she’s read every word—the advertisements first. And she’ll spend all day to-morrow sending off for things; new collar hooks, breakfast foods, complexion soaps and all that sort of junk. Are you married yourself?
The Second Man
No; not yet.
The First Man
Well, then, you don’t know how it is. But I guess you play poker.
The Second Man
Oh, to be sure.
The First Man
Well, let’s go down into the town and hunt up some quiet barroom and have a civilised evening. This scenery gives me the creeps.
The Second Man
I’m with you. But where are we going to get any chips?
The First Man
Don’t worry. I carry a set with me. I made my wife put it in the bottom of my trunk, along with a bottle of real whiskey and a couple of porous plasters. A man can’t be too careful when he’s away from home——
They start along the terrace toward the station of the funicular railway. The sun has now disappeared behind the great barrier of ice and the colours of the scene are fast softening. All the scarlets and vermilions are gone; a luminous pink bathes the whole picture in its fairy light. The night train for Venice, leaving the town, appears as a long string of blinking lights. A chill breeze comes from the Alpine vastness to westward. The deep silence of an Alpine night settles down. The two Americans continue their talk until they are out of hearing. The breeze interrupts and obfuscates their words, but now and then half a sentence comes clearly.
The Second Man
Have you seen any American papers lately?
The First Man
Nothing But the Paris Herald—if you call that a paper.
The Second Man
How are the Giants making out?
The First Man
... bad as usual ... rotten ... shake up ...
The Second Man
... John McGraw ...
The First Man
... homesick ... give five dollars for ...
The Second Man
... whole continent without a single ...
The First Man
... glad to get back ... damn tired ...
The Second Man.
... damn ...!
The First Man.
... damn ...!
VII.—FROM THE MEMOIRS
OF THE DEVIL
VII.—From the Memoirs of the
Devil
January 6.
And yet, and yet—is not all this contumely a part of my punishment? To be reviled by the righteous as the author of all evil; worse still, to be venerated by the wicked as the accomplice, nay, the instigator, of their sins! A harsh, hard fate! But should I not rejoice that I have been vouchsafed the strength to bear it, that the ultimate mercy is mine? Should I not be full of calm, deep delight that I am blessed with the resignation of the Psalmist (II Samuel XV, 26), the sublime grace of the pious Hezekiah (II Kings XX, 19)? If Hezekiah could bear the cruel visitation of his erring upon his sons, why should I, poor worm that I am, repine?
January 8.
All afternoon I watched the damned filing in. With what horror that spectacle must fill every right-thinking man! Sometimes I think that the worst of all penalties of sin is this: that the sinful actually seem to be glad of their sins (Psalms X, 4). I looked long and earnestly into that endless procession of faces. In not one of them did I see any sign of sorrow or repentance. They marched in defiantly, almost proudly. Ever and anon I heard a snicker, sometimes a downright laugh: there was a coarse buffoonery in the ranks. I turned aside at last, unable to bear it longer. Here they will learn what their laughter is worth! (Eccl. II, 2.)
Among them I marked a female, young and fair. How true the words of Solomon: “Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain!” (Proverbs XXXI, 30.) I could not bring myself to put down upon these pages the whole record of that wicked creature’s shameless life. Truly it has been said that “the lips of a strange woman drop as a honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil.” (Proverbs V, 3.) One hears of such careers of evil-doing and can scarcely credit them. Can it be that the children of men are so deaf to all the warnings given them, so blind to the vast certainty of their punishment, so ardent in seeking temptation, so lacking in holy fire to resist it? Such thoughts fill me with the utmost distress. Is not the command to a moral life plain enough? Are we not told to “live soberly, righteously, and godly?” (Titus II, 11.) Are we not solemnly warned to avoid the invitation of evil? (Proverbs I, 10.)
January 9.
I have had that strange woman before me and heard her miserable story. It is as I thought. The child of a poor but pious mother, (a widow with six children), she had every advantage of a virtuous, consecrated home. The mother, earning $6 a week, gave 25 cents of it to foreign missions. The daughter, at the tender age of 4, was already a regular attendant at Sabbath-school. The good people of the church took a Christian interest in the family, and one of them, a gentleman of considerable wealth, and an earnest, diligent worker for righteousness, made it his special care to befriend the girl. He took her into his office, treating her almost as one of his own daughters. She served him in the capacity of stenographer, receiving therefor the wage of $7.00 a week, a godsend to that lowly household. How truly, indeed, it has been said: “Verily, there is a reward for the righteous.” (Psalms LVIII, 11.)
And now behold how powerful are the snares of evil. (Genesis VI, 12.) There was that devout and saintly man, ripe in good works, a deacon and pillar in the church, a steadfast friend to the needy and erring, a stalwart supporter of his pastor in all forward-looking enterprises, a tower of strength for righteousness in his community, the father of four daughters. And there was that shameless creature, that evil woman, that sinister temptress. With the noisome details I do not concern myself. Suffice it to say that the vile arts of the hussy prevailed over that noble and upright man—that she enticed him, by adroit appeals to his sympathy, into taking her upon automobile rides, into dining with her clandestinely in the private rooms of dubious hotels, and finally into accompanying her upon a despicable, adulterous visit to Atlantic City. And then, seeking to throw upon him the blame for what she chose to call her “wrong,” she held him up to public disgrace and worked her own inexorable damnation by taking her miserable life. Well hath the Preacher warned us against the woman whose “heart is snares and nets, and her hands as bands.” (Eccl. VII, 26.) Well do we know the wreck and ruin that such agents of destruction can work upon the innocent and trusting. (Revelations XXI, 8; I Corinthians VI, 18; Job XXXI, 12; Hosea IV, 11: Proverbs VI, 26.)
January 11.
We have resumed our evening services—an hour of quiet communion in the failing light. The attendance, alas, is not as gratifying as it might be, but the brethren who gather are filled with holy zeal. It is inspiring to hear their eloquent confessions of guilt and wrongdoing, their trembling protestations of contrition. Several of them are of long experience and considerable proficiency in public speaking. One was formerly a major in the Salvation Army. Another spent twenty years in the Dunkard ministry, finally retiring to devote himself to lecturing on the New Thought. A third was a Y. M. C. A. secretary in Iowa. A fourth was the first man to lift his voice for sex hygiene west of the Mississippi river.
All these men eventually succumbed to temptation, and hence they are here, but I think that no one who has ever glimpsed their secret and inmost souls (as I have during our hours of humble heart-searching together) will fail to testify to their inherent purity of character. After all, it is not what we do but what we have in our hearts that reveals our true worth. (Joshua XXIV, 14.) As David so beautifully puts it, it is “the imagination of the thoughts.” (I Chronicles XXIII, 9.) I love and trust these brethren. They are true and earnest Christians. They loathe the temptation to which they succumbed, and deplore the weakness that made them yield. How the memory at once turns to that lovely passage in the Book of Job: “Wherefore I abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes.” Where is there a more exquisite thought in all Holy Writ?
January 14.
I have had that scarlet woman before me, and invited her to join us in our inspiring evening gatherings. For reply she mocked me. Thus Paul was mocked by the Athenians. Thus the children of Bethel mocked Elisha the Prophet (II Kings II, 23). Thus the sinful show their contempt, not only for righteousness itself, but also for its humblest agents and advocates. Nevertheless, I held my temper before her. I indulged in no vain and worldly recriminations. When she launched into her profane and disgraceful tirade against that good and faithful brother, her benefactor and victim, I held my peace. When she accused him of foully destroying her, I returned her no harsh words. Instead, I merely read aloud to her those inspiring words from Revelation XIV, 10: “And the evil-doer shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy angels.” And then I smiled upon her and bade her begone. Who am I, that I should hold myself above the most miserable of sinners?
January 18.
Again that immoral woman. I had sent her a few Presbyterian tracts: “The Way to Redemption,” “The Story of a Missionary in Polynesia,” “The White Slave,”—inspiring and consecrated writings, all of them—comforting to me in many a bitter hour. When she came in I thought it was to ask me to pray with her. (II Chronicles VII, 14.) But her heart, it appears, is still shut to the words of salvation. She renewed her unseemly denunciation of her benefactor, and sought to overcome me with her weeping. I found myself strangely drawn toward her—almost pitying her. She approached me, her eyes suffused with tears, her red lips parted, her hair flowing about her shoulders. I felt myself drawn to her. I knew and understood the temptation of that great and good man. But by a powerful effort of the will—or, should I say, by a sudden access of grace?—I recovered and pushed her from me. And then, closing my eyes to shut out the image of her, I pronounced those solemn and awful words: “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!” The effect was immediate: she emitted a moan and departed. I had resisted her abhorrent blandishments. (Proverbs I, 10.)
January 25.
I love the Book of Job. Where else in the Scriptures is there a more striking picture of the fate that overtakes those who yield to sin? “They meet with darkness in the day-time, and grope in the noon-day as in the night” (Job V, 14). And further on: “They grope in the dark without light, and he maketh them to stagger like a drunken man” (Job XII, 25). I read these beautiful passages over and over again. They comfort me.
January 28.
That shameless person once more. She sends back the tracts I gave her—torn in halves.
That American brother, the former Dunkard, thrilled us with his eloquence at to-night’s meeting. In all my days I have heard no more affecting plea for right living. In words that almost seemed to be of fire he set forth the duty of all of us to combat sin wherever we find it, and to scourge the sinner until he foregoes his folly.
“It is not sufficient,” he said, “that we keep our own hearts pure: we must also purge the heart of our brother. And if he resist us, let no false sympathy for him stay our hands. We are charged with the care and oversight of his soul. He is in our keeping. Let us seek at first to save him with gentleness, but if he draws back, let us unsheath the sword! We must be deaf to his protests. We must not be deceived by his casuistries. If he clings to his sinning, he must perish.”
Cries of “Amen!” arose spontaneously from the little band of consecrated workers. I have never heard a more triumphant call to that Service which is the very heart’s blood of righteousness. Who could listen to it, and then stay his hand?
I looked for that scarlet creature. She was not there.
I have seen her again. She came, I thought, in all humility. I received her gently, quoting aloud the beautiful words of Paul in Colossians III, 12: “Put on therefore, holy and beloved, bowels of mercies, kindness, humbleness of mind, meekness, long-suffering.” And then I addressed her in calm, encouraging tones: “Are you ready, woman, to put away your evil-doing, and forswear your carnalities forevermore? Have you repented of your black and terrible sin? Do you ask for mercy? Have you come in sackcloth and ashes?”
The effect, alas, was not what I planned. Instead of yielding to my entreaty and casting herself down for forgiveness, she yielded to her pride and mocked me! And then, her heart still full of the evils of the flesh, she tried to tempt me! She approached me. She lifted up her face to mine. She smiled at me with abominable suggestiveness. She touched me with her garment. She laid her hand upon my arm.... I felt my resolution going from me. I was as one stricken with the palsy. My tongue clave to the roof of my mouth. My hands trembled. I tried to push her from me and could not....
In all humility of spirit I set it down. The words burn the paper; the fact haunts me like an evil dream. I yielded to that soulless and abominable creature. I kissed her.... And then she laughed, making a mock of me in my weakness, burning me with the hot iron of her scorn, piercing my heart with the daggers of her reviling. Laughed, and slapped my face! Laughed, and spat in my eye! Laughed, and called me a hypocrite!...
They have taken her away. Let her taste the fire! Let her sin receive its meet and inexorable punishment! Let righteousness prevail! Let her go with “the fearful and unbelieving, the abominable and murderers, the white-slave traders and sorcerers.” Off with her to that lake “which burneth with fire and brimstone!” (Revelation XXI, 8.)....
Go, Jezebel! Go, Athaliah! Go, Painted One! Thy sins have found thee out.
February 11.
I spoke myself at to-night’s meeting—simple words, but I think their message was not lost. We must wage forever the good fight. We must rout the army of sin from its fortresses....
VIII.—LITANIES FOR
THE OVERLOOKED
VIII.—Litanies for the
Overlooked
I.—For Americanos
From scented hotel soap, and from the Boy Scouts; from home cooking, and from pianos with mandolin attachments; from prohibition, and from Odd Fellows’ funerals; from Key West cigars, and from cold dinner plates; from transcendentalism, and from the New Freedom; from fat women in straight-front corsets, and from Philadelphia cream cheese; from The Star-Spangled Banner, and from the International Sunday-school Lessons; from rubber heels, and from the college spirit; from sulphate of quinine, and from Boston baked beans; from chivalry, and from laparotomy; from the dithyrambs of Herbert Kaufman, and from sport in all its hideous forms; from women with pointed fingernails, and from men with messianic delusions; from the retailers of smutty anecdotes about the Jews, and from the Lake Mohonk Conference; from Congressmen, vice crusaders, and the heresies of Henry Van Dyke; from jokes in the Ladies’ Home Journal, and from the Revised Statutes of the United States; from Colonial Dames, and from men who boast that they take cold shower-baths every morning; from the Drama League, and from malicious animal magnetism; from ham and eggs, and from the Weltanschauung of Kansas; from the theory that a dark cigar is always a strong one, and from the theory that a horse-hair put into a bottle of water will turn into a snake; from campaigns against profanity, and from the Pentateuch; from anti-vivisection, and from women who do not smoke; from wine-openers, and from Methodists; from Armageddon, and from the belief that a bloodhound never makes a mistake; from sarcerdotal moving-pictures, and from virtuous chorus girls; from bungalows, and from cornets in B flat; from canned soups, and from women who leave everything to one’s honor; from detachable cuffs, and from Lohengrin; from unwilling motherhood, and from canary birds—good Lord, deliver us!
II.—For Hypochondriacs
From adenoids, and from chronic desquamative nephritis; from Shiga’s bacillus, and from hysterotrachelorrhaphy; from mitral insufficiency, and from Cheyne-Stokes breathing; from the streptococcus pyogenes, and from splanchnoptosis; from warts, wens, and the spirochæte pallida; from exophthalmic goitre, and from septicopyemia; from poisoning by sewer-gas, and from the bacillus coli communis; from anthrax, and from von Recklinghausen’s disease; from recurrent paralysis of the laryngeal nerve, and from pityriasis versicolor; from mania-à-potu, and from nephrorrhaphy; from the leptothrix, and from colds in the head; from tape-worms, from jiggers and from scurvy; from endocarditis, and from Romberg’s masticatory spasm; from hypertrophic stenosis of the pylorus, and from fits; from the bacillus botulinus, and from salaam convulsions; from cerebral monoplegia, and from morphinism; from anaphylaxis, and from neuralgia in the eyeball; from dropsy, and from dum-dum fever; from autumnal catarrh, from coryza vasomotoria, from idiosyncratic coryza, from pollen catarrh, from rhinitis sympathetica, from rose cold, from catarrhus æstivus, from periodic hyperesthetic rhinitis, from heuasthma, from catarrhe d’ été and from hay-fever—good Lord, deliver us!
III.—For Music Lovers
From all piano-players save Paderewski, Godowski and Mark Hambourg; and from the William Tell and 1812 overtures; and from bad imitations of Victor Herbert by Victor Herbert; and from persons who express astonishment that Dr. Karl Muck, being a German, is devoid of all bulge, corporation, paunch or leap-tick; and from the saxophone, the piccolo, the cornet and the bagpipes; and from the theory that America has no folk-music; and from all symphonic poems by English composers; and from the tall, willing, horse-chested, ham-handed, quasi-gifted ladies who stagger to their legs in gloomy drawing rooms after bad dinners and poison the air with Tosti’s Good-bye; and from the low prehensile, godless laryngologists who prostitute their art to the saving of tenors who are happily threatened with loss of voice; and from clarinet cadenzas more than two inches in length; and from the first two acts of Il Trovatore; and from such fluffy, xanthous whiskers as Lohengrins wear; and from sentimental old maids who sink into senility lamenting that Brahms never wrote an opera; and from programme music, with or without notes; and from Swiss bell-ringers, Vincent D’Indy, the Paris Opera, and Elgar’s Salut d’Amour; and from the doctrine that Massenet was a greater composer than Dvorák; and from Italian bands and Schnellpostdoppelschraubendampfer orchestras; and from Raff’s Cavatina and all of Tschaikowsky except ten per centum; and from prima donna conductors who change their programmes without notice, and so get all the musical critics into a sweat; and from the abandoned hussies who sue tenors for breach of promise; and from all alleged musicians who do not shrivel to the size of five-cent cigars whenever they think of old Josef Haydn—good Lord, deliver us!
IV.—For Hangmen
From clients who delay the exercises by pausing to make long and irrelevant speeches from the scaffold, or to sing depressing Methodist hymns; and from medical examiners who forget their stethoscopes, and clamor for waits while messenger boys are sent for them; and from official witnesses who faint at the last minute, and have to be hauled out by the deputy sheriffs; and from undertakers who keep looking at their watches and hinting obscenely that they have other engagements at 10:30; and from spiritual advisers who crowd up at the last minute and fall through the trap with the condemned—good Lord, deliver us!
V.—For Magazine Editors
From Old Subscribers who write in to say that the current number is the worst magazine printed since the days of the New York Galaxy; and from elderly poetesses who have read all the popular text-books of sex hygiene, and believe all the bosh in them about the white slave trade, and so suspect the editor, and even the publisher, of sinister designs; and from stories in which a rising young district attorney gets the dead wood upon a burly political boss named Terrence O’Flaherty, and then falls in love with Mignon, his daughter, and has to let him go; and from stories in which a married lady, just about to sail for Capri with her husband’s old Corpsbruder, is dissuaded from her purpose by the news that her husband has lost $700,000 in Wall Street and is on his way home to weep on her shoulder; and from one-act plays in which young Cornelius Van Suydam comes home from The Club at 11:55 P. M. on Christmas Eve, dismisses Dodson, his Man, with the compliments of the season, and draws up his chair before the open fire to dream of his girl, thus preparing the way for the entrance of Maxwell, the starving burglar, and for the scene in which Maxwell’s little daughter, Fifi, following him up the fire-escape, pleads with him to give up his evil courses; and from poems about war in which it is argued that thousands of young men are always killed, and that their mothers regret to hear of it; and from essays of a sweet and whimsical character, in which the author refers to himself as “we,” and ends by quoting Bergson, Washington Irving or Agnes Repplier; and from epigrams based on puns, good or bad; and from stories beginning, “It was the autumn of the year 1950”; and from stories embodying quotations from Omar Khayyam, and full of a mellow pessimism; and from stories in which the gay nocturnal life of the Latin Quarter is described by an author living in Dubuque, Iowa; and from stories of thought transference, mental healing and haunted houses; and from newspaper stories in which a cub reporter solves the mystery of the Snodgrass murder and is promoted to dramatic critic on the field, or in which a city editor who smokes a corn-cob pipe falls in love with a sob-sister; and from stories about trained nurses, young dramatists, baseball players, heroic locomotive engineers, settlement workers, clergymen, yeggmen, cowboys, Italians, employés of the Hudson Bay Company and great detectives; and from stories in which the dissolute son of a department store owner tries to seduce a working girl in his father’s employ and then goes on the water wagon and marries her as a tribute to her virtue; and from stories in which the members of a yachting party are wrecked on a desert island in the South Pacific, and the niece of the owner of the yacht falls in love with the bo’sun; and from manuscripts accompanied by documents certifying that the incidents and people described are real, though cleverly disguised; and from authors who send in saucy notes when their offerings are returned with insincere thanks; and from lady authors who appear with satirical letters of introduction from the low, raffish rogues who edit rival magazines—good Lord, deliver us!
IX.—ASEPSIS
IX.—Asepsis. A Deduction in
Scherzo Form
Characters:
- A Clergyman
- A Bride
- Four Bridesmaids
- A Bridegroom
- A Best Man
- The Usual Crowd
Place—The surgical amphitheatre in a hospital.
Time—Noon of a fair day.
Seats rising in curved tiers. The operating pit paved with white tiles. The usual operating table has been pushed to one side, and in place of it there is a small glass-topped bedside table. On it, a large roll of aseptic cotton, several pads of gauze, a basin of bichloride, a pair of clinical thermometers in a little glass of alcohol, a dish of green soap, a beaker of two per cent. carbolic acid, and a microscope. In one corner stands a sterilizer, steaming pleasantly like a tea kettle. There are no decorations—no flowers, no white ribbons, no satin cushions. To the left a door leads into the Anesthetic Room. A pungent smell of ether, nitrous oxide, iodine, chlorine, wet laundry and scorched gauze. Temperature: 98.6 degrees Fahr.
The Clergyman is discovered standing behind the table in an expectant attitude. He is in the long white coat of a surgeon, with his head wrapped in white gauze and a gauze respirator over his mouth. His chunkiness suggests a fat, middle-aged Episcopal rector, but it is impossible to see either his face or his vestments. He wears rubber gloves of a dirty orange color, evidently much used. The Bridegroom and The Best Man have just emerged from the Anesthetic Room and are standing before him. Both are dressed exactly as he is, save that The Bridegroom’s rubber gloves are white. The benches running up the amphitheatre are filled with spectators, chiefly women. They are in dingy oilskins, and most of them also wear respirators.
After a long and uneasy pause The Bride comes in from the Anesthetic Room on the arm of her Father, with the Four Bridesmaids following by twos. She is dressed in what appears to be white linen, with a long veil of aseptic gauze. The gauze testifies to its late and careful sterilization by yellowish scorches. There is a white rubber glove upon the Bride’s right hand, but that belonging to her left hand has been removed. Her Father is dressed like the Best Man. The Four Bridesmaids are in the garb of surgical nurses, with their hair completely concealed by turbans of gauze. As the Bride takes her place before the Clergyman, with the Bridegroom at her right, there is a faint, snuffling murmur among the spectators. It hushes suddenly as the Clergyman clears his throat.
The Clergyman
(In sonorous, booming tones, somewhat muffled by his respirator.) Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the face of this company to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is commended by God to be honorable among men, and therefore is not to be entered into inadvisedly or carelessly, or without due surgical precautions, but reverently, cleanly, sterilely, soberly, scientifically, and with the nearest practicable approach to bacteriological purity. Into this laudable and non-infectious state these two persons present come now to be joined and quarantined. If any man can show just cause, either clinically or microscopically, why they may not be safely sutured together, let him now come forward with his charts, slides and cultures, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.
(Several spectators shuffle their feet, and an old maid giggles, but no one comes forward.)
The Clergyman
(To the Bride and Bridegroom): I require and charge both of you, as ye will answer in the dreadful hour of autopsy, when the secrets of all lives shall be disclosed, that if either of you know of any lesion, infection, malaise, congenital defect, hereditary taint or other impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in eugenic matrimony, ye do now confess it. For be ye well assured that if any persons are joined together otherwise than in a state of absolute chemical and bacteriological innocence, their marriage will be septic, unhygienic, pathogenic and toxic, and eugenically null and void.
(The Bridegroom hands over a long envelope, from which the Clergyman extracts a paper bearing a large red seal.)
The Clergyman
(Reading): We, and each of us, having subjected the bearer, John Doe, to a rigid clinical and laboratory examination, in accordance with Form B-3 of the United States Public Health Service, do hereby certify that, to the best of our knowledge and belief, he is free from all disease, taint, defect, deformity or hereditary blemish, saving as noted herein. Temperature per ora, 98.6. Pulse, 76, strong. Respiration, 28.5. Wassermann,—2. Hb., 114%. Phthalein, 1st. hr., 46%; 2nd hr., 21%. W. B. C., 8,925. Free gastric HCl, 11.5%. No stasis. No lactic acid. Blood pressure, 122/77. No albuminuria. No glycosuria. Lumbar puncture: clear fluid, normal pressure.
Defects Noted. 1. Left heel jerk feeble. 2. Caries in five molars. 3. Slight acne rosacea. 4. Slight inequality of curvature in meridians of right cornea. 5. Nicotine stain on right forefinger, extending to middle of second phalanx.
(Signed)
Sigismund Kraus, M.D.
Wm. T. Robertson, M.D.
James Simpson, M.D.
Subscribed and sworn to before me, a Notary Public for the Borough of Manhattan, City of New York, State of New York.
(Seal) Abraham Lechetitsky.
So much for the reading of the minutes. (To the Bride): Now for yours, my dear.
(The Bride hands up a similar envelope, from which The Clergyman extracts a similar document. But instead of reading it aloud, he delicately runs his eye through it in silence.)
The Clergyman
(The reading finished) Very good. Very creditable. You must see some good oculist about your astigmatism, my dear. Surely you want to avoid glasses. Come to my study on your return and I’ll give you the name of a trustworthy man. And now let us proceed with the ceremony of marriage. (To The Bridegroom): John, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together in the holy state of eugenic matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, protect her from all protozoa and bacteria, and keep her in good health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee unto her only, so long as ye both shall live? If so, hold out your tongue.
(The Bridegroom holds out his tongue and The Clergyman inspects it critically.)
The Clergyman
(Somewhat dubiously) Fair. I have seen worse.... Do you smoke?
The Bridegroom
(Obviously lying) Not much.
The Clergyman
Well, how much?
The Bridegroom
Say ten cigarettes a day.
The Clergyman
And the stain noted on your right posterior phalanx by the learned medical examiners?
The Bridegroom
Well, say fifteen.
The Clergyman
(Waggishly) Or twenty to be safe. Better taper off to ten. At all events, make twenty the limit. How about the booze?
The Bridegroom
(Virtuously) Never!
The Clergyman
What! Never?
The Bridegroom
Well, never again!
The Clergyman
So they all say. The answer is almost part of the liturgy. But have a care, my dear fellow! The true eugenist eschews the wine cup. In every hundred children of a man who ingests one fluid ounce of alcohol a day, six will be left-handed, twelve will be epileptics and nineteen will suffer from adolescent albuminuria, with delusions of persecution.... Have you ever had anthrax?
The Bridegroom
Not yet.
The Clergyman
Eczema?
The Bridegroom
No.
The Clergyman
Pott’s disease?
The Bridegroom
No.
The Clergyman
Cholelithiasis?
The Bridegroom
No.
The Clergyman
Do you have a feeling of distention after meals?
The Bridegroom
No.
The Clergyman
Have you a dry, hacking cough?
The Bridegroom
Not at present.
The Clergyman
Are you troubled with insomnia?
The Bridegroom
No.
The Clergyman
Dyspepsia?
The Bridegroom
No.
The Clergyman
Agoraphobia?
The Bridegroom
No.
The Clergyman
Do you bolt your food?
The Bridegroom
No.
The Clergyman
Have you lightning pains in the legs?
The Bridegroom
No.
The Clergyman
Are you a bleeder? Have you hæmophilia?
The Bridegroom
No.
The Clergyman
Erthrocythæmia? Nephroptosis? Fibrinous bronchitis? Salpingitis? Pylephlebitis? Answer yes or no.
The Bridegroom
No. No. No. No. No.
The Clergyman
Have you ever been refused life insurance? If so, when, by what company or companies, and why?
The Bridegroom
No.
The Clergyman
What is a staphylococcus?
The Bridegroom
No.
The Clergyman
(Sternly) What?
The Bridegroom
(Nervously) Yes.
The Clergyman
(Coming to the rescue) Wilt them have this woman et cetera? Answer yes or no.
The Bridegroom
I will.
The Clergyman
(Turning to The Bride) Mary, wilt thou have this gentleman to be thy wedded husband, to live together in the holy state of aseptic matrimony? Wilt thou love him, serve him, protect him from all adulterated victuals, and keep him hygienically clothed; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live? If so——
The Bride
(Instantly and loudly) I will.
The Clergyman
Not so fast! First, there is the little ceremony of the clinical thermometers. (He takes up one of the thermometers.) Open your mouth, my dear. (He Inserts the thermometer.) Now hold it there while you count one hundred and fifty. And you, too. (To The Bridegroom.) I had almost forgotten you. (The Bridegroom opens his mouth and the other thermometer is duly planted. While the two are counting, The Clergyman attempts to turn back one of The Bride’s eyelids, apparently searching for trachoma, but his rubber gloves impede the operation and so he gives it up. It is now time to read the thermometers. The Bridegroom’s is first removed.)
The Clergyman
(Reading the scale) Ninety-nine point nine. Considering everything, not so bad. (Then he removes and reads The Bride’s.) Ninety-eight point six. Exactly normal. Cool, collected, at ease. The classical self-possession of the party of the second part. And now, my dear, may I ask you to hold out your tongue? (The Bride does so.)
The Clergyman
Perfect.... There; that will do. Put it back.... And now for a few questions—just a few. First, do you use opiates in any form?
The Bride
No.
The Clergyman
Have you ever had goitre?
The Bride
No.
The Clergyman
Yellow fever?
The Bride
No.
The Clergyman
Hæmatomata?
The Bride
No.
The Clergyman
Siriasis or tachycardia?
The Bride
No.
The Clergyman
What did your maternal grandfather die of?
The Bride
Of chronic interstitial nephritis.
The Clergyman
(Interested) Ah, our old friend Bright’s! A typical case, I take, with the usual polyuria, œdema of the glottis, flame-shaped retinal hemorrhages and cardiac dilatation?
The Bride
Exactly.
The Clergyman
And terminating, I suppose, with the classical uræmic symptoms—dyspnœa, convulsions, uræmic amaurosis, coma and collapse?
The Bride
Including Cheyne-Stokes breathing.
The Clergyman
Ah, most interesting! A protean and beautiful malady! But at the moment, of course, we can’t discuss it profitably. Perhaps later on.... Your father, I assume, is alive?
The Bride
(Indicating him) Yes.
The Clergyman
Well, then, let us proceed. Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?
The Bride’s Father
(With a touch of stage fright.) I do.
The Clergyman
(Reassuringly) You are in good health?
The Bride’s Father
Yes.
The Clergyman
No dizziness in the morning?
The Bride’s Father
No.
The Clergyman
No black spots before the eyes?
The Bride’s Father
No.
The Clergyman
No vague pains in the small of the back?
The Bride’s Father
No.
The Clergyman
Gout?
The Bride’s Father
No.
The Clergyman
Chilblains?
The Bride’s Father
No.
The Clergyman
Sciatica?
The Bride’s Father
No.
The Clergyman
Buzzing in the ears?
The Bride’s Father
No.
The Clergyman
Myopia? Angina pectoris?
The Bride’s Father
No.
The Clergyman
Malaria? Marasmus? Chlorosis? Tetanus? Quinsy? Housemaid’s knee?
The Bride’s Father
No.
The Clergyman
You had measles, I assume, in your infancy?
The Bride’s Father
Yes.
The Clergyman
Chicken pox? Mumps? Scarlatina? Cholera morbus? Diphtheria?
The Bride’s Father
Yes. Yes. No. Yes. No.
The Clergyman
You are, I assume, a multipara?
The Bride’s Father
A what?
The Clergyman
That is to say, you have had more than one child?
The Bride’s Father
No.
The Clergyman
(Professionally) How sad! You will miss her!
The Bride’s Father
One job like this is en——
The Clergyman
(Interrupting suavely) But let us proceed. The ceremony must not be lengthened unduly, however interesting. We now approach the benediction.
(Dipping his gloved hands into the basin of bichloride, he joins the right hands of The Bride and The Bridegroom.)
The Clergyman
(To The Bridegroom) Repeat after me: “I, John, take thee, Mary, to be my wedded and aseptic wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, convalescence, relapse and health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
(The Bridegroom duly repeats the formula, The Clergyman now looses their hands, and after another dip into the bichloride, joins them together again.)
The Clergyman
(To The Bride) Repeat after me: “I, Mary, take thee, John, to be my aseptic and eugenic husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, to love, to cherish and to nurse, till death do us part; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
(The Bride duly promises. The Best Man then hands over the ring, which The Clergyman drops into the bichloride. It turns green. He fishes it up again, wipes it dry with a piece of aseptic cotton and presents it to The Bridegroom, who places it upon the third finger of The Bride’s left hand. Then The Clergyman goes on with the ceremony, The Bridegroom repeating after him.)
The Clergyman
Repeat after me: “With this sterile ring I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
(The Clergyman then joins the hands of The Bride and Bridegroom once more, and dipping his own right hand into the bichloride, solemnly sprinkles the pair.)
The Clergyman
Those whom God hath joined together, let no pathogenic organism put asunder. (To the assembled company.) Forasmuch as John and Mary have consented together in aseptic wedlock, and have witnessed the same by the exchange of certificates, and have given and pledged their troth, and have declared the same by giving and receiving an aseptic ring, I pronounce that they are man and wife. In the name of Mendel, of Galton, of Havelock Ellis and of David Starr Jordan. Amen.
(The Bride and Bridegroom now kiss, for the first and last time, after which they gargle with two per cent carbolic and march out of the room, followed by the Bride’s Father and the spectators. The Best Man, before departing after them, hands The Clergyman a ten-dollar gold-piece in a small phial of twenty per cent bichloride. The Clergyman, after pocketing it, washes his hands with green soap. The Bridesmaids proceed to clean up the room with the remaining bichloride. This done, they and The Clergyman go out. As soon as they are gone, the operating table is pushed back into place by an orderly, a patient is brought in, and a surgeon proceeds to cut off his leg.)