New Celebrations

by Alexei Panshin

  John said to Fillmore: “We’re not going to blow up any buildings. That’s destructive criticism. We want to offer positive alternatives.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea, Tony?” Fred asked.

  Ralph said, “There in the rocks? Where we were?”

  “Why, yes,” Villiers said. “It’s the best spot around the camp. You’ll be safe if you stick to the paths.”

  “Oh,” said Fred. “Oh, yes. By all means, Tony. Build your trap. I’d like a look at a behemoth.” He winked.

  Fillmore said, “You mean you weren’t serious when you spoke of a secret explosive factory?”

  “Explosive factory?” Ralph asked, looking at John on his log. “It was a paint factory.”

  John tugged at his scarf. “I thought the metaphor was more powerful this way.”

  “Good heavens, Fillmore,” Ralph said. “What was that remark you made about blowing up buildings?”

  “John made it sound like fun.”

  "Polu de megiston to metajorikon einai," Fred said.

  "Monon gar touto oute par aggou esti labein eujuias te shmeion esti to gar eu meta jerein to to omion qewrein," Villiers answered.

  “He doesn’t really mean it,” Ralph said.

  “We’re simply going to call about thirty friends and have them come here. Then we’re going to talk about what we can do in the way of revolution.”

  “Are you going to put out a magazine?” Villiers asked.

  “Why, yes. I suppose so.”

  “Good. I hope you’ll send me a copy.”

  “Why didn’t anybody ever do this before?” Fred asked.

  “I suppose nobody ever thought of it. Nobody I know ever came to Pewamo. Besides, we have an unfair advantage. I don’t think they’ll put us in jail. Not people like Larry Ajamian and Pyatt Blevko and me.”

  “Really?” Villiers asked.

  “They’d put us in jail if we blew up buildings,” John said.

  Fillmore said, “I think it would be fun as long as we didn’t get caught.”

  “Pyatt is the son of Judge Blevko, and Larry is the Administrator’s son. My uncle might want to arrest me, but my aunt wouldn’t let him.”

  Villiers had his private doubts as to the effectiveness of what Ralph and John (and Fillmore) intended—revolts are common as peanuts, revolutions rarer. Nonetheless, it seemed like a good sane way to raise hell.

  “I wish you good luck,” he said.

  “Mr. Villiers, what was that you said a few minutes ago? You said something very odd sounding.”

  “We were quoting Aristotle’s Poetics,” Villiers said. “He thought that metaphors were a mark of genius in style.”

  “Because he was a metaphorist,” Fred said. “I’m proud of myself for remembering. We studied that a long time ago.”

  Villiers said, “Have any of you read the Poetics?”

  Heads were shaken. John said, “What is it?”

  “It’s the first formal attempt at dramatic criticism. We’ll get you a copy. And Fred, why don’t you do them an article for their magazine? ‘The Pertinence of Aristotle to Modern Art.’ ”

  “Another hurdle, Tony,” Fred said. “Another hurdle.”

  “That’s the pleasure in life.”

  “We would like an article, sir,” Ralph said.

  Fred said, “All right, Tony, what are you going to do for them?”

  “Fair enough,” Villiers said. “Let me think.”

  He paced up and down by the fire for some minutes, mumbling and rubbing his hands lightly, and manifesting other evidences of thought. At last he said, “Aha. How would you like an article that discusses the metaphors in the Mrs. Waldo Wintergood books?”

  “Metaphors?” Ralph said slowly.

  “Yes,” said Villiers. “I read the five books I have and they are all metaphors.”

  “What do you mean?”

  So Villiers explained, using Sammy Swims Upstream and its spermatozoic symbology as his example. There was silence as he finished.

  Fillmore laughed in the silence, a laugh compounded of delight and shock. He stopped laughing abruptly.

  Fred said, “Say, Tony, I’d like to read that book.”

  John said, “I see it. I see it, but I don’t like it.”

  (David, as usual, said nothing, but watched with deep eyes.)

  Ralph said nothing, either. He shook his head numbly.

  Torve said, “Book is nothing like that at all.”

  Fillmore, John, and Ralph, not to mention David and Fred, would have been totally upset to see the book through Torve’s eyes. Admiral Beagle was saved an apoplectic seizure.

  Ralph said, “Did you read the others the same way, sir?”

  Cautiously, Villiers said, “Yes.”

  “Oh, my heaven.”

  Fillmore said, “I sort of like it,” in a tentative voice.

  John said, “I’m not sure I do.”

  Ralph took a deep breath, and manfully said, “I think we should use it. We are determined to offer people alternatives in art, after all. This is an alternative.”

  “You’re right,” John said. “Besides, it’s going to bother most people more than it bothered us, and that will be fun. I think we should use it, too.”

  They all nodded at each other.

  Ralph said, “Of course, Mr. Villiers, your article must satisfy our editorial standards.”

  “I understand perfectly,” Villiers said. “I wouldn’t ask you to lower your standards for my sake.”

  “I’m going to contribute some of my poems,” John said.

  “Who’s going to decide if they meet our editorial standards?” Fillmore asked.

  “That will be up to the Editorial Board,” Ralph said firmly.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Us.”

  “Oh.”

  Ralph said, “And we are going to record Torve. That’s another alternative.”

  “Thurb,” said Torve. “Thurb.”

  Torve might have maintained that this new moment of inspiration was purely the result of lines of occurrence, but a damned convenient moment, I say, for inspiration to strike.

  “Just a minute,” Villiers said. “Quiet, Torve. Do you honestly mean to tell me that you are going to make people listen to Torve’s compositions?”

  “Yes,” said Ralph. “They’re an alternative.”

  “That may be, but I’ll tell you for myself that I and many others are deaf to the charms of Frobb.”

  Fred raised his hand. “I am.” David raised his hand, but didn’t say anything.

  Torve said, “Very good, Tony. Almost you said Frobb as should be.”

  “Thank you,” Villiers said. “Do you recall the composition you were working on several nights ago? The night in the park.”

  “Is finished. Is gone. Is set free in universe.”

  “Can you recall it?”

  Torve closed his eyes and looked beatific while he consulted his inner processes. “Yes,” he reported at last.

  “Good,” said Villiers. “Now I propose that we offer a real alternative. Torve will Frobb and the rest of us will accompany him. Ralph, I notice you have a mandolin. Can you play it?”

  “Of course he can,” John said. “He plays very well.”

  “I’ve got perfect pitch,” Ralph said.

  “Oh, yes. I remember your saying so. That’s fortunate.” Villiers looked around the fire-lit campsite and in no time had found a metal tub and a hammer. “Take this tub off a distance and bang it into a musical instrument while we find other things to play.”

  John looked after Ralph as he dragged the tub toward the meadow, assaulting it experimentally with the hammer. “How do you turn a tub into a musical instrument?”

  “I don’t know,” Villiers said. “But he has perfect pitch. He’ll figure out something. Now do we have any other instruments among us?”

  “Kazoo,” said Fred.

  “That’s two instruments, or maybe three, plus Torve. We need some rhythm. Spo
ons. Jug.”

  “Can I play the tub?” Fillmore asked.

  It was some minutes before they were all assembled. Villiers, as the conductor, arranged people to his satisfaction. Torve was in the center. On his left was Ralph and his mandolin. On his right was Fred and his kazoo. Fillmore was playing the tub—four clear notes plus a number of sour ones. John on jug. For David they had improvised a mouth bow—curve of wood, metal string, twang, twang. Villiers had his hands full of spoons.

  “Join in as I give the signal,” Villiers said. “Torve, will you start?”

  Poised silence. Then, “Thurb, thurb, thurb.” As usual, a noise of uncertain appeal.

  Villiers nodded to Ralph, and the mandolin joined. Villiers hung his spoons from his fingers and began to click a rhythm. Kazoo, tooting a grainy melody. Clear mellow notes from the gently tapped tub, plus some sour ones. Hoomp, fump, fump from the jug. Twang, twang. Thurb, tinkle, boing, fump, twang. Music, by heaven. Music.

  You may talk about your lines of occurrence if you wish, but music is a miracle of coincidence. Noises that eventually fit together to make a sum larger than reason could expect. And all coming from separate heads. When the noises do fit together, it is an act of communion.

  They played together for some time and even Torve was pleased with this transmogrification of his art. But then his heart was childish and his mind simple.

  They called a halt to their playing while it was still fun, and adjourned to the fireside where they fell into talk of women and other mysteries. As women sitting in their circles suspect, when men are together they do talk about things from their side. Torve listened with great interest.

  Ralph, John, and Fillmore, coming as they did from a tightly bound culture, held peculiar theories about life, love, and sex with which neither Fred nor Villiers was in agreement but to which they listened with good humor and courtesy. One of the major lessons of the High Culture is never to become emotionally disturbed by what other people do, even if they do it very very oddly. David, who might be expected to have a different perspective from any of the others, said nothing.

  At last, Fred said, “Aristotle might well be congenial to you. He held that women, while inferior, might still be good, though he thought that valor or over-cleverness was inappropriate in them.”

  “Aristotle said that?” John asked.

  “In the Poetics.”

  “I’ll have to read that.”

  “Do you believe those things?” David asked. Silent David.

  “In context, I do. He was talking of consistency of characterization. From my own experience, however, I can’t speak well of women. Most of those that I’ve met have been maumets.”

  “That’s harsh,” Villiers said.

  “That’s the truth. I might hope to encounter something better someday, but the hope is a remote one.”

  “Let me tell you of someone who was something better,” Villiers said. “My family has a certain wealth and position and my father had it in mind that our wealth and position might best be conserved by arranging an appropriate marriage for his second son and heir—that is, me. He considered alliances with many men, and at last narrowed his list to three, any of whom was acceptable to him. And he thought that of the four daughters, I should surely find one that was acceptable to me. I knew personally two of the four. Sisters. One was not bright and the other not pleasant. Both found me not to their liking. The one who was unbright thought my conversation baffling. The one who was unpleasant thought my personality too secretive. I knew a third by reputation, which was that she was careless. She was careless enough to be willing to accept me, but I was like you, Fred, in wishing for something better.”

  “And the fourth?” Ralph asked.

  “The fourth was something better. A girl attractive in the extreme. She was intelligent, of excellent disposition and character, and full of interests and accomplishments. She did not find me rejectable for my history and so we met. We liked each other quite well.”

  “Did you marry her?” Ralph asked.

  “No,” said Villiers. “No. Unfortunately, the girl was six feet two inches tall, while I, as you can see, am a good bit shorter. I was able to accept the discrepancy, which amounted to some eight inches, while she was not. Indeed, she was dismayed. I wonder from time to time what has become of her. I hope she has been able to find a tall man.”

  “Did your father make you marry one of the others?” asked John.

  “Fortunately, no. He produced a fifth candidate and I married her. She was something better, too, though in other ways.”

  “Who was the fourth girl?” Fred asked.

  “Miriam Passalaqua Peragine.”

  “I thought it might be. There aren’t many girls of that height. And I’ll grant you, she is something better than a maumet. My father proposed her to me, but she had no interest in agrostology. She married Aalholm. It must have been about three years ago.”

  “I didn’t hear of it. Is he sufficiently tall?”

  “Yes. Six feet four.”

  “I’m pleased. She was a girl who deserved well.”

  Then Fred said, “Where did David go?”

  At some time in the past few minutes David had risen and withdrawn silently. Fred, only noticing the departure now, was disconcerted. Magical disappearances should only happen when you are prepared for them. It is the same feeling that causes people to ask for card tricks to be repeated.

  Villiers said, “He left some five minutes ago. I assume he felt it was time for him to be home.”

  “That’s an odd kid,” John said.

  Fred said. “It is true that he has no small talk.”

  Ralph rose. “I think it is time for us to be home, too. I wonder if I might use your latrine first. Where is it?”

  Villiers pointed. “Past the rocks. Be careful. There’s no seat now. There’ll be a seat tomorrow.”

  Ralph skirted the fire and walked in the direction Villiers had indicated. As it happened, this route took him to where his Uncle Walter lay in hiding.

  Ralph came very near to stepping on his uncle, but a wild dance for balance managed to avoid that additional bit of disrespect. Afterward he would be sorry that he hadn’t made something of his opportunity, but his first instinct was to avoid stepping on people since they make uncertain footing and tend to complain.

  Full adulthood finally comes only after old relations have been redefined. Ralph might be able to plan revolution, but he was still dealing with his uncle with old reflexes.

  He was frightened. He was unnerved. He was unmanned.

  He screamed. He jumped. He ran.

  He forgot his other purposes. His feet found the path to the road that would take him to Green Mountain or somewhere else, depending on whether he turned right or left.

  Those around the fire looked from rocks to receding back, and then again at the rocks, two with apprehension, two with curiosity, and the last with innocent wonder. At last, slowly, Admiral Beagle rose from behind his rocks, and apprehension, curiosity and wonder were reaffirmed.

  “Evil!” he said. “Corruption!” he said. “Mould-ridden solidified goat’s milk!” he said.

  Villiers waved at John and Fillmore. “Go along home now. I think the Admiral wishes to speak to me.”

  “How dare you, sir! How dare you! You have no right to dismiss them!”

  Villiers said, “We discussed that this afternoon, Admiral, and I thought we established that I do have the right to be here. I have the right to invite what guests I care to—among whom you may count yourself, sir, at least for the moment. And my guests may leave as they choose. You may leave if you choose, and so may John and Fillmore.”

  John and Fillmore chose to leave. Their curiosity grew with distance, as their apprehension lessened, and by the time they reached the road they were almost ready to return. However, after two steps back they changed their minds and continued on to Green Mountain.

  * * *

  Villiers said, “Now, sir, I thought things
were settled between us?”

  What happened next is humiliating to relate. It shows the vulnerability of men of firm moral principles. When one principle comes into conflict with another, one may temporarily give way in the interests of higher justice. If higher justice is indeed served, then no harm is done. But if judgment proves to have been faulty, then hell is to pay, either in anguish or in quest of vindication.

  Admiral Beagle made an argument to Villiers, ignoring Fred, avoiding Torve. The argument that he made was one of the old ones.

  A man who wants to convince can direct his argument to pure reason, if there happens to be reason within his argument. Failing that, he must make do as best he can.

  He can threaten. Argumentum ad baculum. “Believe me, Mr. Villiers, or I’ll hit you.” But Admiral Beagle had tried that with no success.

  He can depend on his hearer’s ignorance. Argumentum ad ignorantiam. “Believe me, Mr. Villiers.” But Villiers had quite rightly not believed him.

  He can back his opponent into such a position that his only way out is to dirty himself so badly that nobody will listen to him anyway. Argumentum ad verecundiam. But Villiers had been saying filthy things all night, especially about Mrs. Waldo Wintergood. (And how that had angered the Admiral!) Villiers didn’t seem to be bothered by his offenses and there was no mob handy to tear him apart. Indeed, the nearest thing to a mob had endorsed Villiers’ corruptions, because they would bother its peers and elders. Ah, the perversity of youth.

  All of these having failed, Admiral Beagle tried one last argument to persuade Villiers to leave the vicinity. Argumentum ad crumenam. Admiral Beagle had thought of his earlier arguments as proper and legitimate. This one he felt uneasy about. In short, he offered Villiers money to go away.

  Villiers did not accept the offer, long ago having learned the words of the ancients:

  It is written that Tzu Kung once asked the Master what an official must do to be worthy of the name. The Master answered, saying, “A man may be called a true official who in his private conduct shows a sense of shame and as an envoy muffs not his prince’s commission.” “I venture to ask who would rank next?” Said the Master: “That man praised for his filial respect by his kinsmen and for his deference to elders by his fellow villagers.” “Might I ask who would rank next?” The Master said, “That man who keeps his word and follows his course. Such a man, though small-minded, might be considered to come next.” “What would you say of those now in government?” “Ugh!” said the Master. “Those ricebags! They are not worth taking into account.”