The Man Who Loved Children

by Christina Stead

  “Is this a present for Sambo-the-Great?” inquired Sam, lifting the tissue paper parcel off the tray.

  “From Mother,” said Louie.

  Sam squinted comically at them all, opened it, and, after inspecting the knitting, said, “Well, I don’t say no, boys and girls: socks is socks; but I love hinges and nayrers [nails] en doyleys, even ef the stitches which is there are a bit spidery, en doyleys Little-Womey, enwhaleboats en bugeyes what is on the way, en I will go fishin for eisters en whales disarvo [this afternoon], en I like the shavin’ brush what Charles-Franklin guv me—” and he looked at Louie.

  “And Louie wrote you a play,” said Ernie, dancing with excitement. Louie marked time shamefacedly, “It’s a tragedy, and it’s only in one scene.”

  “Hit’s doubtless a tragedy,” remarked Sam, “en once seen, is seen pretty often: bit whar is hit?”

  “In my room,” Louie said unwillingly, “but the varmints” (she waved her hand towards Ernie and Evie, who for once dropped their squabble and glanced with meek conceit at each other), “the varmints know it; they are going to recite it.”

  “We learned it,” burst out Evie, and looked all round the room, red with excitement. “And you can’t understand it.” Sam stared at them all, grinning and pleased as punch at the great secret, which he had known was simmering for the past week.

  “We don’t know what it means,” said Ernie.

  “Ernie is the father, and Evie is the little girl,” Saul told them; “it is about a father and a little girl.”

  They were all mystified and excited. Sam said, “What’s all this? Now, Little-Sam, you bring in the prog, en after prog we see the play.”

  The two actors scooped up the oatmeal with the greatest speed, but Sam insisted on everyone polishing his plate with his tongue, before the play. Then, when the coffee was put round, Louie came and put a piece of paper in front of Sam and herself recited the prologue, which was nothing but a quotation from Longfellow (The Masque of Pandora):

  Every guilty deed

  Holds in itself the seed

  Of retribution and undying pain.

  Sam, with open mouth, meanwhile had been looking from her to the paper and from the paper to her, for on the top of the paper he read, in painful capitals: TRAGOS: HERPES ROM. JOST 1. when Louie had finished reciting, he asked in a most puzzled voice, “what is this, Louie?” Louie gravely pointed to the paper, “this means—TRAGEDY: THE SNAKE-MAN. ACT 1. There is only one act,” she explained: “I thought we could do it too, this evening when Miss Aiden comes.”

  The two actors, meanwhile, were swollen with pride and agitation.

  “Why isn’t it in English?” asked Sam angrily. Louie was at a loss to explain this, so she scolded, “Don’t put the children off. You follow on the paper.” The others meanwhile left their places to crane at the sheet. “There are two actors,” said Louie, “The man—Rom—whose name is Anteios; and the daughter—Fill—whose name is Megara. Evie is Megara, and Ernie is the Rom, Anteios.”

  “Why can’t it be in English?” said Sam feebly. Louie smiled vacantly, like a little child, “I don’t know—I thought—anyhow, go on, Anteios! Ia deven …”

  The boy and Evie then proceeded to recite.

  ANTEIOS: Ia deven fecen sigur de ib. A men ocs ib esse crimened de innomen tach. Sid ia lass ib solen por solno or ib grantach.

  MEGARA: Men grantach es solentum. (“Men juc aun,” said Louie) Men juc aun. (“Ben es bizar den ibid asoc solno ia pathen crimenid,” said Louie, and Evie repeated it with several promptings.)

  ANTEIOS: Corso! (shouted Ernie with enthusiasm). Ib timer ibid rom.

  At this point, Evie, whose memory had failed completely, broke down and burst into tears, much to Louie’s discomfiture. With a brusque gesture, she thrust Evie behind her into a seat against the wall (where she sobbed soundlessly for a minute and then looked up, her fat brown face pearled with two tears). Louie announced now, “I will do Megara: Evie forgot it.”

  MEGARA: Timer este rom y este heinid pe ibid fill.

  “I don’t understand,” said Sam, with a floundering expression, “what is it?” Meanwhile Ernie rushed on,

  ANTEIOS: Ke aben ia fecend?

  MEGARA: Tada fur vec tarquinid trucs ib rapen men solno juc men pacidud. Y hodo men solentum es du. Alienis dovo. Nomen de alienis es hein. Vad por ic vol fecen ibid ocs blog.

  ANTEIOS: Ib esse asenen—asanen—men libid fill.

  MEGARA: Sid ia pod ia vod chassen ib semba fills re Lear.

  ANTEIOS: Roffendo! (shouted Ernie and again shouted). Ke tafelis!

  At this the children began to giggle and Ernie, repeating with a great shout, “Roffendo! Ke tafelis!” all the children cried, “Roffendo! Ke tafelis!”

  “Do they know what it means?” asked Sam, rousing himself out of a perfect stupor of amazement. Louie explained reproachfully, “Yes: that means, ‘Horrible! What a she-devil!’ ” Sam’s eyes popped, but further remarks were prevented by Ernie insisting with his cue “Ke tafelis! Ke tafelis!” Louie continued.

  MEGARA: Fill in crimen aco ib aben aunto plangid. Cumu mat die ia cada: sol vec incriminenidud. Sid aten atem es grantach ke pos fecem. Ia ocen ib esse volid prin men aten men atem, men fur. Alienis vol mort ib.

  ANTEIOS: Ke alienis? Esse ib imnen? Brass im, men fill.

  MEGARA: (Shrieking feebly) No im! Suppo! Alienis garrots im! Herpes te!

  ANTEIOS: Ke alienis? Esse im immen? Ke fecen ib? Brass, brass im! (Aside) Ma Herpes? (At this point Ernie began to writhe and hiss, poking out his tongue instantly at all present, imitating a snake.)

  MEGARA: (Shrieking feebly) Ia mort. Ib esse alienis! Ib mort im! Occides! Occides! Mat!

  ANTEIOS: Ia solno brass im. Men libid fill (but in embracing Megara, Anteios hisses again like a snake).

  MEGARA: (Shrieking hoarsely) Mat, rom garrots im, Occides!

  (And she dies.)

  After this striking scene in double-dutch, Sam, looking with pale annoyance on Louie, asked what the Devil was the use of writing in Choctaw. What language was it? Why couldn’t it be in English?

  “Did Euripides write in English?” asked Louie with insolence, but at the same time she placed the translation in front of her father, and he was able to follow the Tragedy of the Snake-Man, or Father.

  Father—Anteios and Daughter—Megara.

  ANTEIOS: I must make sure of you. In my eyes you are guilty of a nameless smirch. If I leave you alone for only an hour you sin.

  MEGARA: My sin is solitude. My joy too. Yet it is queer in your company only I feel guilty.

  ANTEOIS: Naturally! You fear your father.MEGARA: Fear to be a father and to be hated by your daughter.

  ANTEIOS: What have I done?

  MEGARA: Every day with rascally wiles you ravish my only joy, my peace of mind. And now my solitude is two. A stranger is there. The name of the stranger is hate. Go, for he would make your eyes bulge out.

  ANTEIOS: You are sick, my beloved daughter.

  MEGARA: If I could, I would hunt you out like the daughters of King Lear.

  ANTEIOS: Horrible: what a she-devil!

  MEGARA: (I am) an innocent girl that you have too much plagued. As mother says, I am rotten: but with innocence.

  If to breathe the sunlight is a sin, what can I do? I see you are determined to steal my breath, my sun, my daylight.

  The stranger will kill you.

  ANTEIOS: What stranger? Are you mad? Kiss me, my daughter.

  MEGARA: (Choking) Not me! Help! The stranger strangles me. Thou snake!

  ANTEIOS: What stranger? Are you mad? What are you doing? Embrace, kiss me. (Aside) The snake? (He tries to hiss to himself.)

  MEGARA: (Shrieking) I am dying. You are the stranger. You are killing me. Murderer! Murderer! Mother!

  ANTEIOS: I am only embracing you.

  My beloved daughter. (But he hisses.)

  MEGARA: Mother, father is strangling me. Murderer! (She dies.)

  As soon as Sam had read this, Louie also put
beside his plate the vocabulary to prove that her translation and the words were quite correct; and with a cheek of burning pride, full of playwright’s defiance, she waited for his verdict. Sam said slowly, “And where is Act II?” Louie was short. “It all happened in Act I.” The children, oddly excited, shrieked with laughter, and Louie, after one glare, rushed out of the room. Sam fumbled with the papers, muttering, “I don’t understand: is it a silly joke?” He asked the children, “Did Looloo tell you? What is her darnfool idea?”

  Ernie explained,

  “She said she would have written it in French, but she doesn’t know enough grammer, she said. So she made up a language.”

  “Damn my eyes if I’ve ever seen anything so stupid and silly,” complained Sam, looking at the vocabulary again. He shouted, “Looloo, you come back here: don’t stay in there blubbering! Oh, for God’s sake, it’s my birthday: don’t be an idiot.” Louie trailed slowly out, while the children, chapfallen, considered her mournfully. Evie, extremely abashed at having forgotten her part, had squeezed herself into her mother’s chair with Tommy and put her arm round his neck.

  Sam said, “Sit down, Looloo: blow me down, if I know what’s the matter with you. Instead of getting better, you are getting more and more silly.” He suddenly burst into a shout, “If Euripides or any other Dago playwright makes you as crazy as that, you’d better shut up your books and come home and look after your brothers and sister. I can’t understand it with a father like you have. I’m sorry I didn’t insist on your learning science, and nothing but science. Whatever your stepmother’s influence, you’ve had my training and love from the earliest days, and I did not expect you above all to be so silly: you were the child of a great love. However, I suppose you’ll grow out of it.” He sighed, “At least, I hope so: you’re growing out of everything else. Well, let’s say, some day you’ll be better.”

  Louie began to squirm, and, unconsciously holding out one of her hands to him, she cried, “I am so miserable and poor and rotten and so vile and melodramatic, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I can’t bear the daily misery. I can’t bear the horror of everyday life.” She was bawling brokenly on the tablecloth, her shoulders heaving and her long hair, broken loose, plastered over her red face, “No wonder they all laugh at me,” she bellowed. “When I walk along the street, everyone looks at me, and whispers about me, because I’m so messy. My elbows are out and I have no shoes and I’m so big and fat and it’ll always be the same. I can’t help it, I can’t help it,” and, still bellowing “I can’t help it” with the manner and tone of a half-grown calf, Louie got up and staggered to her room. She stood at the door, halfway open, and beat on it with her soft half-open fists, crying brokenly, “I can’t help it!” and weeping endlessly.

  Sam said gravely, “Stop working yourself up into hysteria.”

  “They all laugh at me,” cried Louie. “They all laugh at me: I can’t stand it any more.”

  Unexpectedly, Ernie burst out crying, his brown, merry, escutcheon-shaped face bobbing up and down and his wide mouth gone into an oblong. Louie turned round towards them and advanced towards them, her eyes drowned with tears, her hair straying everywhere and darkened with water and her face slobbered over and, coming to the table, as to a jury, she asked in a firmer voice, but still crying, “What will become of me? Will life go on like this? Will I always be like this?” She appealed to Sam, “I have always been like this: I can’t live and go on being like this?”

  Sam testily cried, “Like what? Like what? What is all this about? I never heard so much idiotic drivel in my born days. Go and put your fat head under the shower. Is it because Miss Aiden is coming that you’re making this—excruciating—stupid, oh, I can’t find words to describe it. How can you be so stupid?”

  Louie turned away again and trudged away, but she cried no more, and merely sat on her unmade bed in the room: while Henny could be heard muttering and cursing in the kitchen.

  “A nice beginning to a beautiful day,” said Henny. Well, to restore courage to the children, Sam began their invocation to the Free State, “With,” said Sam,

  “WITH Susquehanna, Pushmataha, Tuscarora, Octoraro, Cohongoroota,

  AND Assawoman, Mattawoman, Chesapeake, Matapeake, Choptank, Tonytank, Tuckahoe, Piscataway,

  AND Nassawango, Conowingo, Annemessex, Honga,

  AND Wicomico, Rewastico, Chicamacomico, Chaptico,

  AND—Pohick!”

  a barbarian chant with which they raised the roof and restored good humor. When this was done, they slid out of their places, and Sam pleasantly went to fit the hinges and watch the sailing of the quite-finished whaleboat and part-finished buckeye in the creek. The children were all excused from school for Sam’s fortieth birthday.

  “Fer,” said Sam, “ef I cain’t hev you all around me fer ter skelebrate my forty-years-young, what was the good of hevin you at all? Tell your teacher to put that up his pipe and smoke it. Ef I didn’t want ter hev you, he wouldn’t hev no job. Tell your teacher to put that up his pipe and smoke it.” The children giggled.

  Louie refused to stay at home for her father’s birthday, but sped off to school as usual, much fretted to know what Clare would do. Yesterday she had avoided Clare, and Clare, with a grin, had kept away from her; and in class she had only sent Louie one note, saying, “Hollow groans from underneath the ground,” one of her senseless scribblings which made Louie giggle, however, and relieved her. Today, Louie was sure to find Clare mooding round the gate waiting for her. The play, TRAGOS: ROM HERPES, which had been in rehearsal for a week, Louie now was impatient to show to Clare: before she had been as timid as a convent bride, and now she wanted to show it to the leg of the table itself if it showed signs of animation. Then, she had a bunch of wallflowers for Miss Aiden to keep up her spirits until the birthday dinner in the evening; and, instead of writing a sonnet for Miss Aiden, she had begun a play, called Fortunatus, in which a student, sitting alone in his room in the beaming moon, lifts his weary head from his book and begins by saying,

  FORTUNATUS: The unforgotten song, the solitary song,

  The song of the young heart in the age-old world,

  Humming on new May’s reeds transports me back

  From the vague regions of celestial space

  (to Rosalind, his Marguerite, of course).

  Louie’s senses reeled with love: it was warm; and yesterday during a lesson out of doors, when Louie, with daring, had recited,

  Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate

  With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon;

  (but did not continue this falsely appropriated “Hymn”), Miss Aiden, with a gentle smile remarked, “Love begets love they say!” For a moment, sensation ran through Louie like a sweet summer river, but afterwards she felt a little disappointed in Miss Aiden; it was improper in the goddess to respond. Miss Aiden, in fact, did not understand (having only just come from college) that all the best gods are made of stone and say nothing. At any rate, Louie now felt that the play of Fortunatus would celebrate Miss Aiden in a nobler and more austere way than the mere cycle of sonnets. On the way to school, in the bus, she stuffed in quickly the botany lesson. Fortunately, owing to Sam’s eternal confidences, botany was second nature to her.

  Back at home, Sam was happy as Aeneas in his happy moments, surrounded by his adoring companions and crew, and, occasionally offering up expressions of love and gratitude to his goddess, Nature, was circumambulating his estate. He had a happy idea and sent the twins round to all the houses in the neighborhood to ask their friends of junior school age and below school age to come to Spa House at three o’clock in that afternoon, to have ice cream and run round the new Wishing Tree, to celebrate Sam Pollit’s birthday.

  “And I wish,” said Sam; “that dear little Mareta could come and Whitey and Borden, en evvlebody, en even the goat kid.”

  When Ernie and Louie got back from school, therefore, the Spa House wilderness was piebald with neighbors’ children,
venturing into desirous nooks and nests, paddling on the beach and climbing the gnarled, neglected fruit trees. By the morning mail, Sam had had a letter from Saul Pilgrim, “It looks like a catch, but I’ll have to delay my present for a week or so, but keep your eyes skinned for a whopping big TETRAPTURUS” (marlin), and now he entertained some of the children with a tale of what he would do when he got the whopping big marlin that was promised to him: he would have a tent on the beach and charge one cent admission, but they could all come in free, by special admission, provided they ran round the Wishing Tree once each; and then he would boil that marlin down till it was nothing but oil, when they could each come with a little bottle and get two ounces to rub their arms for muscle strain, or oil their bikes, or give their mothers for dry skins, or even, perhaps, maybe, it might make automobiles go, though Sam could not swear to that yet. But at any rate he intended to oil the universe with the game, and make the luxurious sportsmanlike spearfish work for mankind.

  At four o’clock sharp, the children were lined up for the ice cream that Sam had just sent for in pails, ranged from the biggest to smallest and the smallest first. What a pleasure that was for the toddling Doreen Monks, who lived in the cottage at the end of Second Street, and how irritated Red Lomasne was to come last! When they had been round once, Butch Brewer, looking in the pail, asked if he could take some home to his little brother, at which all the girls cried, “Ooh!” and shushed and giggled, themselves looking hungrily at the pails, while the Pollit children stood a little apart, somewhat grim, hoping there would be a bit left over for them after; but Sam at once made them all march round again and gave them all a lick-and-a-half, so that all was fair. …