Seeing Things at Night
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Throughout the rest of his university career he was known in college as "the man who dropped the punt." When his brother entered Harvard two years later he was promptly christened, and known for his next four years, as "the brother of the man who dropped the punt."
Isn't this a little excessive? It seems so to us, but the emphasis has not yet shifted. Only a month or so ago we were talking in New Haven before an organization of Yale graduates upon a subject so unpartisan as the American drama – though to be sure Harvard has turned out ten playwrights of note to every one from Yale – and somehow or other the talk drifted around to football. In pleading for less intensity of football feeling we mentioned the man who dropped the punt and his brother and told how Yale had recovered the fatal fumble on Harvard's nineteen-yard line. Then, with the intention of being jocose, we remarked, "The Yale eleven with characteristic bulldog grit and courage carried the ball over the line." To our horror and amazement the audience immediately broke into applause and long cheers.
Some of my best friends are Yale men and there is no basis for the common Harvard assumption that graduates of New Haven's leading university are of necessity inferior to the breed of Cambridge. Still, there is, perhaps, just a shade of difference in the keenness of perception for wit. Practically all the Harvard anecdotes about Yale which we know are pointed and sprightly, while Yale is content with such inferior and tasteless jibes as the falsetto imitation which begins "Fiercely fellows, sift through." Even the audience of graduates to which we referred was singularly cold to the anecdote about the difference in traditions which prevails at New Haven and at Cambridge. "When a Yale man is sick, the authorities immediately assume that he is drunk. When a Harvard man is drunk, the authorities assume that he is sick."
Nor were we successful in retelling the stirring appeal of a well-known organizer who was seeking to consolidate various alumni bodies into a vast unified employment agency for college men. "There should be," he cried, "one great clearing house. Then when somebody came for a man to tutor his children we could send him a Harvard man and if he needed somebody to help with the furnace, we'd have a Yale graduate for him."
Joking with undergraduates we found still more disastrous. After the last Harvard-Yale football game – score Harvard 9, Yale 0, which doesn't begin to indicate the margin of superiority of the winning team – we wrote an article of humorous intent for a New York newspaper. Naturally our job as a reporter prevented us from being partisan in our account of the game. Accordingly, in a temperate and fairminded spirit, we set down the fact that, through the connivance of the New York press, Yale has become a professional underdog and that any Harvard victory in which the score is less than forty-two to nothing is promptly hailed as a moral victory for Yale.
Developing this news angle for a few paragraphs, we eventually came to the unfortunate fist fight between Kempton of Yale and Gaston of Harvard which led to both men being put out of the game. It was our bad luck to see nothing but the last half second of the encounter. As a truthful reporter we made this admission but naturally went on to add, "Of course, we assume that Kempton started it." For weeks we continued to receive letters from Yale undergraduates beginning, "My attention has been called to your article" and continuing to ask with great violence how a reporter could possibly tell who started a fight without seeing the beginning of it. Some letters of like import were from Princeton men.
Princeton is always quick to rally to the defense of Yale against Harvard. This suggests a possibly common meeting ground for Harvard and Yale. Of course, they can hardly meet on the basis of a common language for the speech of Yale is quite alien. For instance, they call their "yard" a "campus." Also, there are obvious reasons why they cannot meet as equal members in the fellowship of educated men. Since this is a nonpartisan article designed to promote good feeling it will probably be just as well not to go into this. Though football is the chief interest at New Haven, Yale men often display a surprising sensitiveness to attacks on the scholarship of their local archaeologists. Nor will religion do as a unifier. Yale is evangelical and prays between the halves, while Harvard is mostly agnostic, if it isn't Unitarian. No, just one great cause can be discovered in which Harvard men and Yale men can stand shoulder to shoulder and lift their voices in a common cause. Each year some public spirited citizen ought to hire Madison Square Garden and turn it over to all graduates and undergraduates of Harvard and of Yale for a great get-together meeting in which past differences should be forgotten in one deep and full throated shout of "To Hell with Princeton!"
Bacillus and Circumstance
IT is evening in the home of Peter J. Cottontail. The scene is a conventional parlor of a rabbit family of the upper middle class. About the room there is the sort of furniture a well-to-do rabbit would have, and on the shelves the books you would naturally expect. Leaves of Grass is there, of course; possibly Cabbages and Kings, and perhaps a volume or two of The Winning of the West, with a congratulatory inscription from the author. The walls have one or two good prints of hunting scenes and an excellent lithographic likeness of Thomas Malthus, but most of the space is given over to photographs of the family.
In the center of the room is a small square table, the surface of which is covered with figures ranged in curious patterns such as 2 × 5 = 10, and even so radical an arrangement as 7 × 8 = 56. At the rise of the curtain Peter J. Cottontail is discovered seated in an easy chair reading the current edition of The New York Evening Post. He is middle-aged and wears somewhat ill fitting brown fur, tinged with gray, and horn-rimmed spectacles. He looks a little like Lloyd George. As a matter of fact, his grandfather was Welsh. The actor should convey to the audience by means of pantomime that he has made more than a thousand dollars that afternoon by selling Amalgamated Cabbage short, and that there will be a tidy surplus for himself even after he has fulfilled his promise to make up the deficit incurred by the charity hop of the Bone Dry Prohibition Union. Now and again he smiles and pats his stomach complacently. It is essential that the actor should indicate beyond the peradventure of a doubt that Peter J. Cottontail has never touched spirituous or malt liquors or anything containing more than two per cent of alcohol per fluid ounce.
As P. J. Cottontail peruses his paper the ceiling of the room is suddenly plucked aside and two hands are thrust into the parlor. One of the hands seizes Mr. Cottontail, and the other hand, which holds a hypodermic needle, stabs the helpless householder and injects into his veins the contents of the needle. It is a fluid gray and forbidding. There is no sound unless the actor who plays Cottontail chooses to squeak just once.
Here the curtain descends. It rises again almost immediately, but five days are supposed to have elapsed. Mr. Cottontail is again seated in the center of the room, and he is again reading The Evening Post. The property man should take pains to see that the paper shall be dated five days later than the one used in the prologue. It might also be well to change the headline from "Submarine Crisis Acute" to "Submarine Crisis Still Acute." It is also to be noted that on this occasion Mr. Cottontail has removed his right shoe in favor of a large, roomy slipper. On the opposite side of the table sits Mrs. Cottontail. She is middle-aged but comely. A strong-minded female, one would say, with a will of her own, but rather in awe of the ability and more particularly the virtue of Mr. Cottontail. Yet Mr. Cottontail is evidently in ill humor this evening. He takes no pleasure in his paper, but fidgets uneasily. At last he speaks with great irritation.
MR. COTTONTAIL – Is that doctor ever coming?
MRS. COTTONTAIL – I left word at Doctor Cony's house that you were in a good deal of pain, and that he should come around the minute he got home. (The door bell rings.) Here he is now. I'll send him up. (She goes out the door, and a few moments later there enters Dr. Charles Cony. He is a distinguished and forceful physician, but a meager little body for all that. He carries a black bag.)
DR. CONY (removing his gloves and opening the bag) – Sorry I couldn't get here any sooner, but I've been on the go all day. An obstetrician gets mighty little rest hereabouts, I can tell you. Well, now, Mr. Cottontail, what can I do for you? What seems to be the trouble?
COTTONTAIL (pointing to the open door, and lifting one finger to his mouth) – Shush!
DR. CONY – Really! (The physician crosses the room in one hop and closes the door.)
COTTONTAIL – The pain's in my foot. My big toe, I think, but that's not what worries me —
DR. CONY (breaking in) – Pains worse at night than it does during the daytime, doesn't it? Throbs a bit right now, hey?
COTTONTAIL – Yes, it does, but that isn't the trouble.
DR. CONY – That's trouble enough. I'll try to have you loping around again in a month or so.
COTTONTAIL – But there's more than the pain. It's the worry. I haven't told a soul. I thought at first it might be a nightmare.
DR. CONY – Dreams, eh? Very significant, sometimes, but we'll get to them later.
COTTONTAIL – But I'm afraid it wasn't a dream.
DOCTOR – What wasn't a dream?
COTTONTAIL – Last Tuesday evening I was sitting in this room, quietly reading The Evening Post, when suddenly something tore the ceiling away, and down from above there came ten horrible pink tentacles and seized me in an iron grasp. Then something stabbed me with some sharp instrument. I was too frightened to move for several minutes, but when I looked up the ceiling was back in place as if nothing had touched it. I felt around for the wound, but the only thing I could find, was a tiny scratch that seemed so small I might have had it some time without noticing it. I couldn't be sure it was a wound. In fact, I tried to make myself believe that the whole thing was all a dream, until I was taken sick to-night. Now I'm afraid that the sword, or whatever it was that stabbed me, must have been poisoned.
DR. CONY (sharply) – Let me look at your tongue. (Cottontail complies.) Seems all right. Hold out your hands. Spread your fingers. (He studies the patient for a moment.) Nothing much the matter there. (Producing pen and paper.) If it was only March now I'd know what to say. Let's see what we can find out about hereditary influence. Father and mother living?
COTTONTAIL – I had no father or mother. I came out of a trick hat in a vaudeville act.
DR. CONY – That makes it a little more difficult, doesn't it? Do you happen to remember what sort of a hat?
COTTONTAIL (a little proudly) – It was quite a high hat.
DR. CONY – Yes, it would be. What color?
COTTONTAIL – Black and shiny.
DR. CONY – That seems normal enough. I'm afraid there's nothing significant there. (Anxiously.) No fixed delusions? You don't think you're Napoleon or the White Rabbit or anything like that, do you? Do you feel like growling or biting anybody?
COTTONTAIL – Of course not. There's nothing the matter with my brain.
DR. CONY – Perhaps you went to sleep and dreamed it all.
COTTONTAIL – No, I distinctly saw the ceiling open and I felt the stab very sharply. I couldn't possibly have been asleep. I was reading a most interesting dramatic review in The Evening Post.
DR. CONY – But you weren't stabbed in the big toe, now, were you?
COTTONTAIL – Well, no.
DR. CONY – And you will admit that the ceiling's just the same as it ever was?
COTTONTAIL – It looks the same from here. I haven't called any workmen in yet to examine it.
DR. CONY – Take my advice and don't. Just let's keep the matter between ourselves and forget it. I'm afraid you've been working too hard. Drop your business. Do a little light reading, and after a bit maybe I'd like to have you go to a show. Something with songs and bunny-hugging and jokes and chorus girls. None of this birth control stuff. I don't see how any self-respecting rabbit could go to a play like the one I saw last night. (He goes to his instrument case and produces a stethoscope.)
DR. CONY – Have you had your heart examined lately?
COTTONTAIL (visibly nervous) – No.
DR. CONY – Any shortness of breath or palpitation?
COTTONTAIL – I don't think so.
DR. CONY – If that's a vest you have on, take it off. There, now. (He stands in front of Cottontail with his stethoscope poised in the air. Cottontail is trembling. Dr. Cony allows the hand holding the stethoscope to drop to his side and remarks provocatively), I'll bet you Maranville doesn't hit .250 this season.
COTTONTAIL (amazed) – Really, sir, I never bet. No, never. I don't know what you are talking about, anyway.
DR. CONY – That's all right, that's all right. Don't agitate yourself. Just a little professional trick. I wanted to calm you down. Now (he makes a hurried examination), Mr. Cottontail, I don't want you to run. I don't want you to climb stairs. Avoid excitement and don't butter your parsnips. Fine words are just as good, no matter what anybody may tell you, and they don't create fatty tissue. Of course, you've got to have some exercise. You might play a little golf. Say, about three holes a day.
COTTONTAIL (sadly) – Three holes?
DR. CONY – Yes, that will be enough.
COTTONTAIL (musing) – It's a little tough, doctor. I can still remember the day I won my "H" at dear old Hassenpfeffer in the 'cross-country run. I had the lungs and the legs then. Even now I can feel the wind on my face as I came across the meadow and up that last, long hill. They were cheering for me to come on. I can tell you I just leaped along. It was nothing at all for me. If I'd sprinted just a bit sooner I could have been first in a hop. Anyhow, I was second. There was nobody ahead of me but the Tortoise. (Cheerlessly) Three holes of golf a day!
DR. CONY – Come, come, sir, be a rabbit. There's no cheating nature, you know. You had your fun, and now you must pay.
COTTONTAIL – What's the matter with me?
DR. CONY – Plain, old-fashioned gout.
COTTONTAIL – What does that come from?
DR. CONY (with evident relish) – From too much ale or porter or claret or burgundy or champagne or sherry or Rhine Wine or Clover Clubs or Piper Heidsieck or brandy or Bronxes or absinthe or stingers, but the worst of all and the best of all is port wine.
COTTONTAIL (horrified) – You mean it comes from drinking?
Dr. Cony – In all my twenty-five years of professional practice I have never known a case of gout without antecedent alcoholism.
COTTONTAIL (much relieved) – Well, then, it can't be gout. I've never taken a drink in my life.
Dr. Cony – In all my twenty-five years of professional experience I've never made an incorrect diagnosis. It is gout.
COTTONTAIL – But I'm president of the Bone Dry Prohibition Union.
Dr. Cony – The more shame to you, sir.
COTTONTAIL – What shall I do?
DR. CONY – Obey my instructions implicitly. A good many doctors will tell you that they can't cure gout. Undoubtedly they are right. They can't. But I can. Only you simply must stop drinking. Cutting down and tapering off to ten or twelve drinks a day won't do. You must stop absolutely. No liquor at all. Do you understand? Not a drop, sir.
COTTONTAIL (his nose violently palpitating with emotion) – I never took a drink in my life. I'm president of the Bone Dry Prohibition Union. I was just sitting quietly reading The Evening Post—
DR. CONY – Save that story for your bone-dry friends. I have nothing to do with your past life. I'm not judging you. It's nature that says the alcoholic must pay and pay and pay. I'm only concerned now with the present and the future, and the present is that you're suffering from alcoholism manifested in gout, and the future is that you'll die if you don't stop drinking.
COTTONTAIL – I tell you I promised my Sunday school teacher when I was a boy that I would always be a Little Light Bearer, and that I would never take a drink if I lived to be a hundred.
DR. CONY – Don't worry, you won't live that long, and don't take on so. You're not the first one that's had his fun and then been dragged up by the heels for it. Cheer up. Remember the good times that are gone. Life can't be all carrots, you know.
COTTONTAIL – But I never had any good times.
DR. CONY – Oh, yes, you did, I'll warrant you. There must have been many merry nights as the bottle passed around the table. (With evident gusto) Maybe there was a rousing song – "When Leeks Are Young in Springtime" – or something like that, and I wouldn't be surprised if now and again there was some fluffy little miss to sing soprano to your bass. Youth! Youth! To be young, a rabbit and stewed. (Quoting reminiscently) "A leaf of lettuce underneath the bough." After all, salad days are the best days. I never meet an old rabbit with gout but I take off my hat and say, "Sir, you have lived."
COTTONTAIL (wildly) – It's not true. I never lived like that. I never took a drink in my life. You can ask anybody. Nobody ever saw me take a drink.
DR. CONY – That's bad. You solitary drunkards are always the hardest to handle. But you've simply got to stop. You must quit drinking or die, that's all there is to it.
COTTONTAIL – This is terrible. It must have been that poisoned sword. I tell you, I was just sitting here quietly, reading The Evening Post—
DR. CONY – My dear sir, please rid yourself right away of the alcoholic's habit of confusing cause and effect. He thinks he's sick because green elephants are walking on him, while, as a matter of fact, green elephants are walking on him because he's sick. It's terribly simple, when you stop to figure it out.
COTTONTAIL – You don't think I saw any pink monster come through the ceiling?
DR. CONY – On the contrary, I'm sure you did. But the point is, you mustn't see him again, and the only way to avoid seeing him is to quit drinking. Your fun's done. Now, be a good patient and tell me you'll stop drinking —
COTTONTAIL – I tell you I never had any fun. I never had any fun —
DR. CONY – Well, strictly speaking, it isn't the fun that hurts you, it's the rum. You must stop, even if you hate the stuff. Do you understand?
COTTONTAIL (hysterical) – I can't stop, I can't stop; I never started, I can't stop —
DR. CONY – Very well, sir, I must insist on taking the only measure that will save your life. (He steps to the door and calls) Mrs. Cottontail, will you come here immediately?
(Enter Mrs. Cottontail.)
COTTONTAIL – My dear —
DR. CONY – If you please, madame. Let me explain first. You can have it out with your husband later. I'm sorry to tell you, Mrs. Cottontail, that your husband has gout. He has contracted it from excessive drinking. You knew, of course, that he was a heavy drinker?
MRS. COTTONTAIL (surprised, but not in the least incredulous) – I couldn't go so far as to say I knew it.
DR. CONY – He must stop or he'll die.
COTTONTAIL (rapidly and wildly) – I can explain everything, my dear. The doctor's all wrong. The whole trouble is somebody pulled the roof off the other day and stabbed me with a poisoned sword. I was right here in this room. I was just quietly reading The Evening Post. I knew no good would come of our moving into this new apartment house, with its fancy wire and green paint and free food, and all the rest of it.
DR. CONY (to Mrs. Cottontail, who aids him in ignoring the patient) – You can see for yourself, madame, just how rational he is. I leave him in your care, Mrs. Cottontail. Don't let him out of your sight. Try and find out where he gets his liquor. If he pleads with you for a drink, be firm with him. Follow him everywhere. Make him obey. It won't be hard in his enfeebled condition. I'll be around to-morrow. (To Cottontail) Remember, one drink may be fatal.
(Exit Dr. Cony.)
COTTONTAIL – My dear, it was a pink monster, with an enormous dagger. It lifted off the ceiling —
MRS. COTTONTAIL – Peter, can't you even be temperate in your lies?
COTTONTAIL (sinking helplessly in his chair) – My dear, I was just sitting quietly, reading The Evening Post—
MRS. COTTONTAIL – You brute! I always had a feeling you were too good to be true.
COTTONTAIL (feebly and hopelessly) – I was just sitting, reading The Evening Post (his voice trails off into nothingness. He sits motionless, huddled up in the chair. Suddenly he speaks again, but it is a new voice, strangely altered.) Mopsy, give me The Sun.
MRS. COTTONTAIL (looking at him in amazement) – What do you say?
COTTONTAIL (His muscles relax. His eyes stare stupidly. He speaks without sense or expression) —The Sun! The Sun! The Evening Sun!
(He is quite mad.)
(Curtain.)Death Says It Isn't So
THE scene is a sickroom. It is probably in a hospital, for the walls are plain and all the corners are eliminated in that peculiar circular construction which is supposed to annoy germs. The shades are down and the room is almost dark. A doctor who has been examining the sick man turns to go. The nurse at his side looks at him questioningly.
THE DOCTOR (briskly) – I don't believe he'll last out the day. If he wakes or seems unusually restless, let me know. There's nothing to do.
He goes out quietly, but quickly, for there is another man down at the end of the corridor who is almost as sick. The nurse potters about the room for a moment or two, arranging whatever things it is that nurses arrange. She exits l. c., or, in other words, goes out the door. There is just a short pause in the dark, quiet room shut out from all outside noises and most outside light. When the steam pipes are not clanking only the slow breathing of the man on the bed can be heard. Suddenly a strange thing happens.
The door does not open or the windows, but there is unquestionably another man in the room. It couldn't have been the chimney, because there isn't any. Possibly it is an optical illusion, but the newcomer seems just a bit indistinct for a moment or so in the darkened room. Quickly he raises both the window shades, and in the rush of bright sunlight he is definite enough in appearance. Upon better acquaintance it becomes evident that it couldn't have been the chimney, even if there had been one. The visitor is undeniably bulky, although extraordinarily brisk in his movements. He has a trick which will develop later in the scene of blushing on the slightest provocation. At that his color is habitually high. But this round, red, little man, peculiarly enough, has thin white hands and long tapering fingers, like an artist or a newspaper cartoonist. Very possibly his touch would be lighter than that of the nurse herself. At any rate, it is evident that he walks much more quietly. This is strange, for he does not rise on his toes, but puts his feet squarely on the ground. They are large feet, shod in heavy hobnail boots. No one but a golfer or a day laborer would wear such shoes.
The hands of the little, round, red man preclude the idea that he is a laborer. The impression that he is a golfer is heightened by the fact that he is dressed loudly in very bad taste. In fact, he wears a plaid vest of the sort which was brought over from Scotland in the days when clubs were called sticks. The man in the gaudy vest surveys the sunshine with great satisfaction. It reaches every corner of the room, or rather it would but for the fact that the corners have been turned into curves. A stray beam falls across the eyes of the sick man on the bed. He wakes, and, rubbing his eyes an instant, slowly sits up in bed and looks severely at the fat little man.