THE TRIUMPH OF THE NUT
or
TOO MANY MARRIAGES
I
There was a man named Webster, who lived in a town in the State of Wisconsin and he made patent washing machines. He had a wife named Mary and a daughter named Jane and a stenographer named Natalie. And he used to have dreams, which was no great matter until he began to practise what he dreamed.
And so there was this Webster, and then this thing happened to him. He began to feel strange feelings and movements within his head, as though it were a newly wound watch.
He found it hard to sit still in one spot and impossible to sit still in two spots. So he walked rapidly to and fro, in and out of office and factory, and he thought: “Perhaps I am becoming a little insane. But I like myself better this way.” Which, considering what kind of man he had been, was not strange.
He stopped in front of Natalie and looked hard at her. She looked hard, too, though not at him. She just naturally looked hard because she was a pretty hard case, in her own way.
Suddenly it was clear to John Webster that Natalie was not a woman. She was a house. When she raised her eyes she raised the windows of the house and when she raised her voice she raised the roof. She was short and broad—a bungalow, then, with no upper story at all, nothing above the eaves.
So then Natalie was a house, a new thought. Probably other people were houses too; his own wife, perhaps. He must look to see what kind of a house she was. Was she an eligible family residence, suitable for permanent occupancy, or merely a boarding house, to be left at short notice—if one preferred, let us say, a nice little bungalow?
And so there he was on his way home for lunch and an inspection of his wife.
II
Yes, both of them, wife and daughter, were houses. Then he himself must be a house. Houses should not wear clothes. He went up to his room and took off all his clothes. He stood before a mirror admiring his own naked façade.
What kind of house was he? A large winged insect flew against the window screen and crawled slowly toward the top. It spoke with a little voice: “Let me in. I belong to your house. Let me in.” That was the answer to his question. “Bughouse! Positive, bug—comparative, parasite—superlative, paresis,” he murmured, and he smiled softly—so softly.
III
When he returned to the office he saw that Natalie was changed. An amazing and lovely thing had happened. Tears came into his eyes and his knees felt as weak as his brain. He crawled across the room on all fours and laid his head in her lap.
“Natalie, an amazing and lovely thing has happened to you. You have had a bath,” he said.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Why, you look so pale, and, besides, I saw the high water mark on the back of your neck,” he said. “Where did you do this amazing and lovely thing?”
“In a common washtub in mother’s shed.”
How lovely it was that she had used a common washtub instead of one of the patent washing machines. They were so commercial, so practical. But a common washtub, you see, is nearly related to the old oaken bucket and reminds one of all the creeping, crawling, swimming, jumping things that live in and around wells.
He could see them now, thousands of the little creatures, going swiftly up and down stairs, opening windows, laughing, crying, fighting, and, especially, making love, without any hampering rules, regulations, or restrictions. It was too lovely.
“Natalie,” he said, “I do not love my wife. She is so fat. I will take a thousand dollars and go away with you. Let who will make patent washing machines. Henceforth, I will only make love.”
Now this Natalie, you see, was a notable dumbbell and so she said nothing. All she thought was that a thousand dollars would take a lot of spending and she might as well go along.
IV
As you will remember, John Webster had begun to dislike his clothes. They were, you see, ready-made clothes. Hence one should not be surprised at the strange nightly ceremony begun in his room.
He set up a picture of the Virgin between two yellow candles. Then he undressed and walked naked up and down the room for hours at a time, thinking great thoughts.
“I used to be a dull clod. Now I am a shining nut. I am cracked and my shell is off. I am a lovely study in psychopathy.
“Why should I work, making uninteresting washing machines? I will become a writer. Among them I shall not be strange, for there are many nuts among the writers. They write books like this and get away with it. Many people will think this is a deep, philosophical book, that it throws a new and fierce light upon the problems of civilization. Whereas it is simply a medical document, a study of a certain common form of insanity.
“I will write books like this book, but they shall throw a fiercer light on the problems of civilization, for I will make my hero run naked in the streets. All nuts of this particular variety do that when they are fully ripe. My book will be a devastating book and it will have Sherwood Anderson and Krafft-Ebing faded.”
There he was, you see, John Webster, night after night, walking naked up and down his room, thinking great thoughts.
V
One night his wife could no longer restrain her vain and morbid curiosity as to what he was doing, walking so up and down in his room. He saw the door to her room open an inch. At the same time his daughter’s door similarly opened. In a moment he had disposed himself for the great scene.
“Come in,” he called. There was a commanding ring in his voice. “Come in, both of you, and sit there on the bed.”
Pale, frightened, cowed, those wretched women, who had never had great thoughts, came in. There was John Webster, naked, seated on the top of a dresser, crosslegged, like an obscene Buddha, a lighted candle in each hand. They made for the bed and fell prostrate, burying their faces in the bed-clothes.
“Jane,” he began, addressing his daughter, “I do not love that woman there, your mother and my wife. When our marriage transpired——”
A muffled groan from Jane stopped him. “Occurred, father,” she moaned. “Occurred, not transpired. Don’t you know the difference in the meaning of the words?”
He ignored the interruption. “She was lovely, tall, straight, and slim. Her hair was golden yellow. Now she is homely, fat, and generally unattractive. Her hair is rather colorless. No free, unrestrained animal would continue to love such a mate. I intend to be like other animals. So I am going to leave this house and live with Natalie.
“In a short time, doubtless, I shall leave her in turn and find another, and so on until I am overtaken by death or the police.
“I want you to know about this plan of mine. There are too many marriages. There should be many matings, free and frequent. But of marriages, few or none. This is the key to unlock the fetters of civilization. It is Sherwood Anderson’s answer to the riddle of existence, else this book, in which we live, has no meaning.”
For hours he talked, describing to his daughter all the ugly aspects of her mother’s body and mind, all the sordid incidents of their married life that his memory could recall or his imagination furnish. It was a quite lovely experience for both women.
When he dressed, packed his bag, and left the house, his wife took a few ounces of laudanum and ceased to exist.
VI
Through the silent, deserted streets toward the railroad station John Webster walked with his new woman, Natalie, the Beautiful Washing Machine Girl. He walked with one foot on the curb and one in the gutter. Up and down he went, as with alternate step he now rose toward heaven on the higher foot, now sank toward earth on the lower. It pleased him to walk thus. It seemed to typify the conflict of life, the struggle between the higher and lower natures. Natalie, carrying both bags, wept unceasingly, but inaudibly.
“That is fine,” thought John Webster. “She weeps with dignity. But she walks with both feet on the sidewalk.”
“Come, woman,” he said. “Walk as I do, with one foot in the gutter. That will do for a starter. Both of them and all the rest of you will be in the gutter, when I am through with you. Better get used to it gradually.”
Natalie, still weeping, audibly now, obeyed. And so there in the darkness of the night, John Webster and his pro tempore soul mate, Natalie, the congenital dumbbell, went on their way, up and down, up and down, one foot in the gutter, one on the curb.
VII
They came to where narrow strips of grass bordered the sidewalk. These gave John Webster a new and glorious thought.
“See the grass strips!” he cried; “the beautiful grass strips! All flesh is grass; therefore, let us strip also.”
He began, unsystematically but vigorously, enthusiastically, to remove his clothing. Natalie’s weeping now lost all its dignity. She bellowed enormously. She woke the echoes and a policeman.
And, so you see, there is John Webster in a great house maintained by the State of Wisconsin for all who think such great thoughts. He is free from the worries of women, wives and washing machines; carefree in all respects save one—his straitjacket is obviously a ready-made garment.