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New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

THE TRIUMPH OF THE NUT
AND OTHER PARODIES

BY

CHRISTOPHER WARD

NEW YORK

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

1923

Copyright, 1923,

By

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

First Printing, September, 1923

Second Printing, November, 1923

Printed in the United States of America

TO

Sherwood Anderson,

Margaret Deland,

Gertrude Atherton,

Edith Wharton,

Mary Roberts Rinehart,

Sinclair Lewis,

Joseph Hergesheimer,

Rebecca West,

Jeffrey Farnol,

Willa Cather,

F. Scott Fitzgerald,

William J. Locke,

Rafael Sabatini,

A. S. M. Hutchinson,

Kathleen Norris,

Zane Grey,

T. S. Eliot

Without whose assistance

it could never have been written,

This Book is

Timidly Dedicated.

Acknowledgment is gratefully made to The Literary Review of The New York Evening Post for permission to reprint several of these parodies, which appeared in its columns, often under different titles and sometimes in briefer versions.

CONTENTS

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.

THE FLAME THAT FAILED

Réchaufféd from

“The Vehement Flame”

I

“We have been married exactly fifty-four minutes,” said Maurice, “and I still love you.”

“I can’t believe it!” answered Eleanor.

As she was thirty-nine and he nineteen, her incredulity was not strange, but, after all, fifty-four minutes lacks a full six minutes of being an hour.

They were islanded in rippling tides of windblown grass, with the warm fragrance of dropping locust blossoms enfolding them and in their ears the endless murmur of the river.

“We must spend our golden wedding here, under this tree,” he said.

She made a mental calculation. She was twice his age. At their golden wedding he would be sixty-nine and she twice that—one hundred and thirty-eight! It seemed hopeless. Would it last forever? Such a little thing might—throw the switches.

Six minutes had elapsed. “I wish,” said Maurice very low in his mind, “I wish I could die, right now!” Tempus, edax amoris!

II

She had said “No!” six times. Consider her age! Consider that she was a music-teacher and suffered from indigestion! Consider, moreover, that the author of her being had failed to give her any last name and here was her opportunity to fill the gap! This, then, was certainly an heroic defense of an untenable position. At the seventh time of asking, she capitulated—more to be pitied than blamed.

She sang with a voice of serene sweetness. Otherwise she was a creature of alluring silences. They fascinated Maurice. He was sure that behind her white forehead beautiful, mysterious thoughts were evolving. Perhaps that was so. Evolution is a notoriously slow process. On the other hand, behind that white forehead there may have been merely one full portion of the great cosmic void. Judging her by what she verbally disclosed, her rating under the Binet test was D−.

She was not a well woman. Besides indigestion, she was suffering from another chronic illness, detropitis. She did not know it yet. She had not met Maurice’s other half. She was his better half, but Edith was his other half—a very different thing.

Edith and Maurice were fashioned for each other. They had been so carefully forged and shaped that they fitted each other like a pair of scissors. Anything that came between them was—de trop and likely to get hurt.

Moreover, she was, unknowingly, now exposing herself to her final, her fatal malady. The place of their fifty-four minute honeymoon had been rashly, inconsiderately chosen. This riverside paradise was unlucky for her. Death was already shaking the bones for the final throw—though its double-sixes did not fall for ten years. All in all, she was not a well woman.

III

Maurice’s Uncle Henry and Aunt Mary took them in until Maurice could get a job. Uncle Henry’s wife counted every cigar he smoked, yet he maintained his cheerfulness. He reminded one somewhat of Mark Tapley, somewhat of Moses, but mostly of William James—the Pragmatic Sanction justified everything to him.

Aunt Mary was of distinguished lineage, descendant of the late Lydia Pinkham and of the late Ralph Waldo Emerson. She inherited the Pinkham physique, the Emerson mentality.

Edith, their daughter, was eleven. She and Maurice had a wonderful time playing tag and pussy-in-a-corner, while Eleanor sat on the porch with the other old folks and had a wonderful time being jealous of Edith.

“Maurice! don’t get overheated, darling! Look out! you’ll tear your panties and mamma will have to spank. Maurice! come sit by mamma and she’ll show you how to play cat’s-cradle. Maurice, dear! You mustn’t play with that rough, rude tom-boy. Come, let mamma tell you Bible stories.”

It worried Maurice. Seeking distraction, he developed an interest in poultry. He shingled the chicken-coop and then crawled in and sat among the chickens debating whether Eleanor was an old hen. After observing them for some time, he found that hens never nagged the cockerels. She was not an old hen!

Apparently slight causes have such momentous effects! He had developed an interest in chickens. He little knew whither it was to lead him.

IV

Maurice got a job in a real-estate office and at once became a real force in the business. He devised a new method of making sales. It consisted in pointing out to prospective purchasers the defects in the houses he was trying to sell.

If a house had a broken-down heater, an antiquated plumbing system and a leaky roof, Maurice would take the client into his confidence and tell him frankly that there was a broken window-pane in the attic, a creaky board in the dining-room floor and several scratches in the paint of the guest-room door. Such frankness was most beguiling. The client was beguiled into examining, under Maurice’s guidance, the attic window and the guest-room door, and forgot to look at the heater and the roof.

Houses which had been the despair of the office were sold, one after another. They gave him three cheers and the nickname of “G. R. Q. Wallingford.”

V

Their attempt at housekeeping failed. Although Eleanor had hired a very deaf old scrubwoman to do the cooking, somehow the food wasn’t properly prepared. After Maurice had broken a tooth on one of her soft-boiled eggs, they gave it up and went to boarding.

They had a nice third-story room, with a black-marble mantelpiece, an antique carpet and steel engravings of Lincoln’s Cabinet and Daniel Webster. It was a dear little lovenest. Every evening Maurice played solitaire on a marble-topped table. She put on an old wrapper, let down her hair, made it all nice and stringy with cologne, lay down on the bed and moaned. They were three years married now. He was twenty-two, she was going on for about sixty-six.

“Star, why do you moan?” he asked gently.

“You’re tired of me, Maurice. You don’t love me,” she moaned. “I’m jealous.”

“Of whom,” he inquired.

“Of Edith, of your Aunt Mary, of your stenographer, of our landlady, of the schoolteacher downstairs, of our late cook, of everybody.”

Moan—moan—moan. “Jealousy isn’t a vice. It’s my favorite indoor sport. I love you—I love you so.” Moan—moan—moan. “Tell me you love me, Maurice.”

“I do—yes, of course, naturally, I love you—devotedly, madly.”

“You don’t love me! You don’t love me!”

He threw the table at her. She screamed.

“Excuse me, dearest, for an hour or two. I forgot something.” He took his hat and went out. All the lights went out....

The switches were thrown....

VI

Lily Dale was a little thing, with exquisite features, a pretty, laughing face and amber eyes. She was a lover of flowers, a neat housekeeper, a good cook. She was honest, cheerful, self-reliant, humorous. In fact, she was a great deal better than she should be, considering what she was. In the entire category of virtues she lacked only two, grammar and—the title rôle.

In her little flat she cooked a steak for Maurice better than any he’d had since he was married—and made a cup of coffee to match it. She put him in a big chair before an open fire, with a hyacinth on the table beside him. She sat on a hassock by him, smoked cigarettes and told him funny stories ... and Maurice discovered why men leave home....

Maurice had a wonderful idea. He and Eleanor would again go to housekeeping and install Lily in the kitchen. Lily would be saved and they’d have a good cook. Then Eleanor could lie on the bed upstairs and moan all the evening, while he and Lily made fudge in the kitchen.

“My wife’s very broad-minded,” he said, “and we need a cook awful bad.”

“Ain’t you the funny little feller!” said Lily. “Here, you run along home to mother. The old lady’ll think you got stole or something....”

Eleanor awaited him in their room. “Maurice, dear! Where’ve you been?”

“To see a chicken. You know my interest in poultry. (Thank God! that’s no lie)....”

But whenever he wanted a good cup of coffee, he had to go back to the little flat....

VII

Little Jacky Dale was six years old when Eleanor first learned of his existence. She happened not to be lying on the bed at the time, so she fainted first—then went to bed.

There were dumb days when she went about like an automaton. Days when she sat at the window and looked at the bare branches of the trees, the dead stalks of the lilies—the river! Sometimes she was almost able to think. Then a return to normality—blank listlessness. Sometimes she seemed to hear a whisper in her mind—but it was only an echo in the void.

So the days passed and each day she dredged the silences of her cranium for thoughts—none! But at last, after two years of listening to echoes and dredging silences—an idea came to her! It was the first she’d ever had! The shock of it took her breath away, stunned her! But there it was, her first-born idea! A little idiotic, perhaps, but her own!

She went to the house on Maple Street, where Lily lived.

“Sell me Jacky! I’ll give you six hundred dollars.”

“Sell Jacky for six hundred dollars! I ain’t no cheap trader!”

“It’s all I’ve got.”

“Then you needn’t come around. If that’s all you’ve got, you’d better get.”

She got.

VIII

A failure! Her little first-born idea had flivvered! Would she ever have another? Yes! She had another almost immediately—of the same kind. She must keep Maurice from marrying Edith and to do that it was necessary—not for her to live. No, that would be good for only twenty or twenty-five years or maybe thirty—if she lived to be eighty. Maurice would be only sixty then and Edith fifty and they might still marry.

She must do better than that. He must marry Lily! Lily would live at least fifty years more. By that time Maurice would surely be dead and Edith foiled, forever. She, herself, must die at once so Maurice might marry Lily....

It was the place of their honeymoon. But the river looked wet! Suppose it was? Her skirts would get wet! To keep her coat dry she left it on the bank. Her hat? She’d wear that to keep her hair dry.

Feet in the water, ankle deep! It was wet! Oh, bother! Above her knees now! Still wet—such a nuisance! She fell full length! Wet all over!!! She couldn’t stand that! That was too much of a wetness! No, no, she’d better go home and try something new.

So she tried pneumonia.

IX

“Of course, now that poor Eleanor is gone,” said Maurice, “I’ll have to look out for Jacky and Lily. I think I’ll marry Lily.”

“Of course not,” said Aunt Mary, and Uncle Henry agreed.

“Well, then, I don’t think I’ll marry any one. Although Lily is an excellent cook.”

“You’re all so stupid,” broke in Edith. “You marry me, Maurice.”

“But,” interposed Uncle Henry, “what about Maurice’s relations with——”

“Bother Maurice’s relations,” Edith interrupted. “I’m not marrying them. We’ll adopt Jacky and put Lily in the kitchen.”

BLACKER OXEN

By

Gertrude Otherton

I

Lee Clavering’s weary eyes—steel-blue, half closed—roved over the darkened auditorium.

Twelve years ago he had migrated from pre-civil-war Louisiana to Manhattan, the Brains of America—from the ante-bellum to the cerebellum. In that time he had attained the highest position in the gift of the nation. Poets, playwrights, players, painters, pugilists, politicians, prophets, priests, popes, presidents, princes and pullman-car porters cringed before him.

He was L. C., the premier columnist of America, the King Kleagle of the Kolyumist Klan.

His long dark face suggested the cynical, the mysterious, the morose. But his steel-blue eyes were now, as always, searching, with the evergreen hope of finding the consummate woman, which proves him really romantic. That he found her in a New York first-night audience proves him a character in fiction.

II

She sat two seats ahead of him. After the first act, she rose to her feet, turned toward him and, with her opera glasses, swept the house.

“European,” Clavering clicked. “All of them are—these sweepers and scrubwomen.”

The columnist spoke. The man took a second look—and saw that Venus rising from the sea had nothing on her (emphasis on her, please!)—the most exquisitely beautiful woman he had ever seen—the only authentic consummate woman, indubitably.

Clavering’s nerves rippled, but the man next to him—old Dinwiddie, swell, suave and sixty—had an apoplectic fit. His eyes bulged. His lips gibbered.

“It’s a ghost—Mary Ogden—belle of New York forty-five years ago, when I was a kid—married Count Zattiany—Hungarian—never been back since——”

“Her daughter, of course,” suggested Clavering.

“Never had any—to speak of—but that’s it—must be—one of the unmentionables—she was a gay one—little liaison now and then—relished by the best of men——”

III

Three weeks passed—six more “first-nights”—and “Mary Ogden” was at every one of them, also Lee Clavering. She was “the talk of the town.”

The newspapers were full of the mystery. Who was this enthralling person? Crowds followed her everywhere. She bought a pair of gloves—and seven floor-walkers were hurried to Bellevue in seven separate deliria. She went into the Public Library—and the infatuated populace carried off all the books as souvenirs. She walked around the reservoir—and they drew off the water and sold it for a dollar a bottle.

At the theater they turned the footlights around and threw the spotlights on her. Nobody looked at the stage. The actors forgot their parts, switched from the first act of “The Demi-Vierge” to the second act of “Pollyanna” and no one noticed it, but the author.

On the second Sunday, forty per cent of all the clergymen preached on “Mary has chosen the better part.”

Never had there been such excitement in Manhattan since Peter Stuyvesant broke his wooden leg.

IV

After the sixth “first-night,” Lee Clavering followed her home. He found her alone in the great city, on her own doorstep.

“May I?—Am I?—Are you?—Were they?—Was it?—Whoosis?—” he stammered, his temperature rising dangerously.

“Oh,” she said with a faint smile, “I’m locked out——”

“Watch me!” he said.

He tore out the area railing and threw it at a passing taxicab, smashed the area windows, and burst in the door. Entering, he ran rapidly through the house, switched on all the lights, turned on the hot and cold water in every bathroom, upset the furniture and slid down the banisters from the fourth story to the first. Landing in a heap at the bottom, he leaped to his feet and opened the front door.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “Have a drink, Mr. Clavering?”

“You know whom I am, then?” he cyrilled in amazement.

“Certainly. Don’t you?” she answered.

“I—yes—no—” he murmured, his eyes fixed on her, as he poured a drink.

“That’s the catsup bottle—and do you always drink from a finger bowl?” she asked sweetly.

“Oh, invariably never,” he gasped. “I mean—inevitably always——”

“Won’t you sit down?”

“You make me sit up—and take notice,” he columned feebly, seating himself on the overturned victrola.

“You will pardon my confusion,” he babbled on. “To who—I mean, to wit have I the honor of speaking? How old are you? Have you ever been married? If so, mark a cross within the circle, but not within the triangle—if not, was your husband present when the body was found? If you have any children not in jail, how do you account for it? Who are you, and if not, what is your beautiful name? Answer yes or no.”

“Marie Zattiany,” she answered, with a smile.

“Legitimate or ill—” he paused in midflight, dipped his forefinger into the catsup and dreamily drew a red cross on his shirt-front.

“Pardon me,” he continued, “I was about to ask a personal question. To speak quite impersonally—will you marry me?—if you’re of marriageable age.”

“How old do you think I am? Don’t answer. You’d certainly either flatter me nauseatingly or insult me grossly. Come back in three weeks and I will tell you my story.”

She raised her hand for him to kiss, but he ducked and she missed him by an inch.

Outside the house, he remembered the shattered basement-windows. His southern chivalry would not let him leave her unprotected. He lay down on the doorstep and slept soundly until dawn.

V

A column a day keeps the sheriff away and when you’ve got the habit, you keep right on, no matter what your feelings are—or your readers’. It helped L. C. to bear incertitude with fortitude.

The make-up seldom varied. It must open with a poem, preferably an authentic L. C. Horatian ode. His odometer registered three a week. It was his line—“master of the Horatian line,” he had been called. As thus:

THE MAN OF UPRIGHT LIFE
Horace: Book I; Ode 22
Integer vitæ, scelerisque purus—

De gink dat never croaked a guy

Nor crowned a cop

Nor even bumped a buddy on the beezer

Nor kicked his frail an’ blacked her eye

(It does ’em good an’ dat’s no lie)

Nor stuck a knife in any scrappy geezer—

A chink or wop,

Nor peddled dope or hop or hooch, nor panned a yid

Nor blew a safe, nor shoved de queer, nor napped a kid

Dat never copped a come-on’s kale

Nor frisked a hayseed’s leather

Ain’t got no fear of judge or jail

Nor de cops all put together

Dey’ll never pinch him. Hully gee!

Dat ain’t no loss!

Dey’ll never mug him for de Gallery.

He’ll never git no third degree

(Like what de bulls once giv’ to me.

I’ll say dey earn’t their salary.

I come across!!)

Nor do a bit nor stretch a rope, nor pad de hoof

And pound his ear beneat’ de sky, widout no roof

He needn’t pack no wicked gat.

Policemen’ll protect him.

If he forgets where home is at,

Kind Central’ll connect him.

L’Envoi

Dat pious pie-faced son of a gun,

He’s sittin’ pretty, maybe.

But ain’t he missed a lot of fun?

I’ll tell de world! Oh, baby!

Then the contribs must have a chance. Just now they were busy with Tens. For example, one proposed, as the Ten Most Lovable Old Women in History, a list beginning with (1) Mother Goose and (2) Old Mother Hubbard, and ending with (9) Josephine Daniels and (10) Wilhelmina Jenny Bryan.

Another wrote——

“Sir: If I had to go to a Desert Island and take

Ten Women with me, I’d take

(1) Cyanide of Potassium

And that would be about all.

“G. P. B.”

Then the Diary:

“Wednesday, October 9.

“Up betimes, at ten of the clock and to my office, there half an hour pasting contribs’ contribs to make a full column and amazed to find how short my stint, but with no lack of pleasure or content. Having nothing now in my mind of trouble in the world, did sit and think on many things. So to lunch with H. Broun, my fellow scrivener and a very pleasant fellow withal, though me thought me had heard before some of the bright sayings of his little son, wherewith he regaled me. Thence to the game or play of base-ball, as well played as ever I saw in my life. Thence to tea with Mistress Myssa McMynn, with much merriment and wit. Thence to dinner with F. Adams, the satyrickal writer, H. Canby, the excellent critick, C. Morley, the literary philosopher, D. Marquis, the poet, and other wits, and much good talk of this and that. Thence to the playhouse where was enacted a masque entitled “The Follies,” to my great content. Thence to supper with W. Rogers, the antick player, and found him very intelligent, whereat I wondered greatly. And so to bed, very low spirited and lay a long time marvelling at my capacity for work and how, poor wretch, I must earn my bread by the sweat of my paste pot.”

VI

Three weeks passed.

“To-night’s the night,” he cried, rushed from his apartment, plunged recklessly between automobiles going in four different directions at once—obviously Fords—sprang upon the roof of a passing taxicab and told the man to drive like hell for Park Avenue.

He charged up the steps, assaulted the door with his fists, leap-frogged over the impassive butler. He found her in the library and forced the fighting from the start.

It seemed to her that her entire body was encircled by flexible hot bars of iron and that her face, her mouth, were being flagellated.

“Break away!” she managed to gurgle. “No biting in the clinches!”

“Who are you?” he cried. “I don’t want to know! Will you marry me? Don’t answer!”

Again she was submerged. When she was coming up for the third time, he pushed her head under once more. A left hook to the jaw and he collapsed under a table.

When he came to, his voice was weak.

“A typewriter, please!” he gasped. “It’s stuff for the column.” His news sense rarely failed him.

“Tuesday, October 29th—I to M. Zattiany’s, the toast of the town, and a mighty mystery, whether she be in truth Zattiany or a mischievous impostor, and did kiss and clip her mightily, but the baggage handed me a slapp on the mapp, as a trunk had fallen on me. So I to the mat.”

“What next?” he added feebly.

“Have a drink,” she said.

He took three.

“Who are you, woman? Is your real name Zattiany or Firpo?”

“I am Mary Ogden Zattiany,” she answered quietly; “I married Zattiany forty-five years ago. I was twenty-five at the time. Do your own arithmetic.”

“Five from thirty is twenty and carry two—twice two is five divided by forty—double it and subtract the cube root—think of a number, add a dash of bitters—shake well before using”—his voice trailed to silence and his jaw dropped.

“I hated Zattiany but his position appealed to my love of power and intrigue—especially the latter. I was besieged by men—and surrendered at discretion.”

He got suddenly to his feet. “Think I’ll take few more drinks.” He did so and then sat down on the floor, a full glass in either hand.

“I had many lovers—many—many—many—” she went on.

“Bow-wow-wow!” he barked a short laugh.

He gazed at her with relaxing features. His steel-blue eyes goggled sardonically.

“Of all my lovers, I loved but one, Prince Haffanauer, the last. But he married and left me flat.”

“Lef’ your flat? Thought you lived in palazzo.”

“That’s so,” she echoed. “I did until the war came.”

“’Scuse me pers’nal queshion, Mis’ Zattiany, but have you sat in any these genelmen’s laps lately?”

“Not since Haffanauer,” she answered pleadingly.

“Tha’s long time—thirty minutes,” he ruminated. “That’s all ri’. Proceed!”

“I was sixty-five when Haffanauer—elapsed, so to speak.”

“But you’re young woman now. Please ’splain that—simple queshion—how do you did it?”

“Coué!”

“No, I won’ go ’way—not tell you till me—till you tell me.”

“Coué! Coué! Emile Coué!”

“Are you singin’ song or jes’ making funny noises?”

“Oh, you know! Every day in every way—younger and younger.”

“Sure, I know! Every day Coee, Cooay, he chortled in his joy! Alice Swunderland. S’Lewis Carroll—great columnist—my cousin—same ’nitials.”

“I was sixty-eight when I took the cure. Every day I’ve been getting younger and younger—in every way.”

“Better stop, lady!” he said solemnly. “Some kid now, but—much younger—police in’erfere.”

“Well—that is my story. Do you—do you love me still?” she faltered.

“’Scuse me, ’nother pers’nal queshion. D’you make zis hooch?”

“I did.”

“’En I do love your still. Old as you are, your still’s mos’ beautiful thing in N’York. In hooch signo vinces. With all thy faults, I love thy still—now an’ forever—one insepar’ble—death us do part!”

And then he slept as quietly as a child.

VII

Three weeks passed—three weeks of constant companionship with Lee Clavering—almost exhausting her capacity for surprise and her cellar. Then, a wireless telegram—“Wife dead must see you immediately on arrival Berengaria Haffanauer.”

The Prince arrived—straight, thin, erect, broke—in his eyes the glance of the Austrian double-eagle, now selling at 99⁴⁴⁄₁₀₀ off for cash.

“Frau Gräfin.” He lifted her hand to his lips with princely courtesy. “Younger than when I first saw you. Couéing, they tell me—and billing, as well—is it not so?”

“Why are you here, Excellenz?”

“Because Austria needs you—I need you. We need you every hour and—every dollar. Will you marry me?”