by Julie Ganz
Luckily the weather had held up till the last.
“Well, well,” said Archie, “It’s time for lunch. We have had a riotous morning. Let’s all take it easy this afternoon.”
Ron Chapple Studios/Thinsktock
THE STORY OF GOLF AND SOCIAL ACCOUNTS
JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
It’s rather strange, I think,” observed Mrs. Idiot one evening, as she and the Idiot sat down to dine, “that the Dawkinses haven’t been here for three or four months.”
“I’ve noticed it myself,” said the Idiot. “We used to see ’em every day about. What’s up? You and Polly Dawkins had a fight?”
“Not that I know of,” said Mrs. Idiot. “The last time we met she was very cordial, and asked most affectionately after you and the children. I presumed that possibly you and Dick had had some kind of a falling out.”
“Not a bit of it. Dick and I couldn’t quarrel any more than you and Polly could. Perhaps as we grow older our ideals differ. Polly’s rather anthropological in her talks, isn’t she?”
“A trifle,” said Mrs. Idiot. “And musical and literary and scientific.”
“While you?” queried the Idiot.
“Well, I’m fond of golf and—ah— well—”
“Golf again,” laughed the Idiot. “I guess that’s it, Bess. When a woman wants to talk about the origin of the species and has to hear about a splendid putt, and her observations upon the sonata are invariably interrupted by animadversions upon the morals of caddies, and her criticisms of Browning end in a discussion of the St. Andrew’s Rules, she’s apt to shy off into a more congenial atmosphere, don’t you think?”
“I am sure,” retorted Mrs. Idiot, “that while I admit I am more interested in golf than in anything else outside of you and the children, I can and do talk sometimes of other things than caddies, and beautiful drives, and stymies. You are very much mistaken if you think otherwise.”
“That is very true, my dear,” said the Idiot. “And nobody knows it better than I do. I’ve heard you talk charmingly about lots of things besides stymies, and foozles, and putts, and drives, but you don’t know anything about the men of the Stone Age, and you couldn’t tell the difference between a sonata and a fugue any more than I. Furthermore, you have no patience with Browning, so that when Polly Dawkins asks if you like Sordello, you are more likely than not to say that you never ate any, but on the whole for small fish prefer whitebait.”
Mrs. Idiot laughed.
“No, indeed,” she replied. “I’d fall back on golf if Polly mentioned Sordello to me. You may remember that you sent it to me when we were engaged, and I loved you so much—then—that I read it. If I hadn’t loved you I couldn’t have done it.”
“Well,” smiled the Idiot, “what did you think of it?”
“I think Browning had a good lie, but he foozled,” said Mrs. Idiot, with her eyes atwinkle, and the Idiot subsided for at least ten seconds.
“I wish you’d say that to Polly some time,” he observed. “It’s so very true, and put with an originality which cannot but appeal to the most hardened of literary women.”
“I will if I ever get the chance,” said Mrs. Idiot.
“Suppose we make the chance?” suggested the Idiot. “Let’s go down there and call tonight. I’ll work the conversation up so that you can get that off as an impromptu.”
“No,” said Mrs. Idiot. “I don’t think we’d better. In the first place, Mrs. Whalker told me yesterday that Polly is to read a paper on Balzac before the S. F. M. E. tomorrow evening, and on Friday morning she is to discuss the ‘Influence of Mozart on De Koven’ before the Musical Mothers’ Meeting, and on Saturday afternoon she is going to have an anthropological tea at her house, which she is to open with some speculations as to whether in the Glacial Period dudes were addicted to the use of cigarettes.”
“Great Scott!” said the Idiot. “This is her busy week.”
“Tolerably so,” said Mrs. Idiot. “She has probably reserved this evening to read up on Balzac for tomorrow’s essay, so I think, my dear, we’d better not go.”
“Right as usual,” said the Idiot. And then he added, “Poor Dawkins, who is taking care of him now?”
“I think,” said Mrs. Idiot, “that possibly Mrs. Dawkins has sublet the contract for looking after her husband and children to the United States Housekeeping Company Limited.”
The Idiot gazed blankly at his wife, and awaited an explanation.
“An organization, my dear,” she continued, “formed by a number of well-meaning and remorseful widows who, having lost their husbands, begin to appreciate their virtues, and who, finding themselves sympathetic when it is too late, are devoting themselves to the husbands of others who are neglected. A subscription of five hundred dollars will secure the supervision of all the domestic arrangements of a home—marketing, engagement and discharge of domestics, house-cleaning, buttons sewed on, darning done, care of flowers, wifely duties generally; for one thousand dollars they will bring up the children, and see that the baby is rocked to sleep every night, and suitably interested in elevating narratives and poems like Joseph’s coat of many colors, and Tom, Tom the Piper’s Son. This enables an advanced woman like Mrs. Dawkins to devote her mornings to the encyclopedias, her afternoons to the public libraries, and her evenings to the functions whereat she may read the papers which her devotion to the encyclopedias and the libraries has brought forth.”
“Excuse me, my dear Bess,” said the Idiot, rising. “I wish to telephone Dr. Simmons.”
“For what—for whom?” demanded the lady.
“You, of course,” returned the Idiot. “You are developing alarming symptoms. You give every indication of a bad attack of professional humor. Your ‘International Widows Company for the Protection and Amelioration of Neglected Husbandry’ proves that!”
Mrs. Idiot laughed again.
“Oh, I didn’t say that there really is such an institution!” she cried. “I said that I supposed there was, for if there isn’t, poor Dick Dawkins isn’t taken care of at all.”
“Well, I’m sorry for it all, anyhow,” said the Idiot, seriously. “They’re both of ’em good friends of ours, and I hate to see two families that have been so close drawing apart.”
Just then Mollie and Tommy came in. “Mamma, Willie Dawkins says he can’t come to our party because his ma won’t let him,” said Mollie. “She says we don’t never go down there.”
“That’s it,” said the Idiot. “Mrs. Dawkins has got so many irons in the fire she’s begun to keep social books. I’ll bet you she’s got a ledger and a full set of double-entry account-books charging up calls payable and calls receivable.”
“I don’t see how she can get along unless she has,” replied Mrs. Idiot. “With all her clubs and church societies and varied social obligations she needs an expert accountant to keep track of them all.”
“I suppose a promise to read a paper on Balzac,” put in the Idiot, “is something like a three-months’ note. It’s easy to promise to pay, with three months in which to prepare, but you’ve got to keep track of the date and meet the obligation when it falls due. As for me, I’d rather meet the note.”
“That is about it,” said Mrs. Idiot. “If a woman goes into society properly she’s got to make a business of it. For instance, there are about ten dances given at the club here every year. Polly is patroness for every one of ’em. There are twenty-five teas during the spring and summer months. Polly assists at half of them, and gives a fifth of them. She’s president of the King’s Daughters, corresponding secretary of the Dorcas, treasurer of the Red Cross Society, and goodness knows what all!”
“I can quite understand why she needs to keep accounts— social accounts,” said the Idiot. “But it’s rather queer, don’t you think, that she has the children on her books? The idea of saying that Jimmie and Gladys can’t come to Mollie’s party because Mollie hasn’t been down there—why, it’s nonsense!”
“No,” said Mrs. Idiot, “it i
s merely logical. Whatever Polly Dawkins does she tries to do thoroughly. I’ve no doubt she’ll do Balzac up completely. If she keeps social books showing call balances in her favor or against herself she might as well go the whole thing and write the children in—only she’s made a mistake, as far as we are concerned, unless she means to write us off without squaring up.”
“You talk like a financier,” said the Idiot, admiringly. “What do you know about writing off?”
“I used to help my father with his accounts, occasionally,” said Mrs. Idiot. “Polly Dawkins’s books ought to show a balance of one call in our favor. That’s really the reason I’m not willing to call there tonight. She’s so queer about it all, and, as a matter of fact, she owes me a call. I’m not going to overwhelm her with an added obligation.”
“Ho!” smiled the Idiot. “You keep books yourself, eh?”
“I keep score,” said Mrs. Idiot. “I learned that playing golf.”
“It’s a bad thing to keep score in golf,” said the Idiot.
“So they say, but I find it amusing,” she replied.
“And how many calls does Mrs. Wilkins owe you?” demanded the Idiot.
“I don’t know,” returned the wife. “And I don’t care. When I want to see Mrs. Wilkins I call on her whether she owes me a call or not, but with Polly Dawkins it’s different. She began the book-keeping, and as long as she likes it I must try to live up to her ideas. If social intercourse develops into a business, business requirements must be observed.”
“It’s a good idea in a way,” said the Idiot, reflectively. “But if you make a business of society, why don’t you carry it to a logical conclusion? Balance your books, if you mean business, every month, and send your debtors a statement of their account.”
“Well, I will if you wish me to,” said Mrs. Idiot. “Suppose they don’t pay?”
“Dun ’em,” said the Idiot. And then the matter dropped.
On the fifth of the following month Mr. and Mrs. Idiot were seated comfortably in their library. The children had gone to bed, and they were enjoying the bliss of a quiet evening at home, when the door-bell rang, and in a moment or two the maid ushered in Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dawkins, preceded, of course, by their cards. The young householders were delighted, and Polly Dawkins was never more charming. She looked well, and she talked well, and there was not a symptom of any diminution of the old-time friendship perceptible—only she did appear to be tired and care-worn.
The evening wore away pleasantly. The chat reverted to old times, and by degrees Mrs. Dawkins seemed to grow less tired.
About ten o’clock the Idiot invited his neighbor to adjourn to the smoking-room, where they each lit a cigar and indulged in a companionable glass.
“Idiot,” said Dawkins, when his wife called out to him that it was time to go home, “your wife is a wonder. I’ve been trying for three months to make Polly come up here and she wouldn’t. Keeps books, you know—now. Has to—so much to do. Thought you owed us a call, but received your bill Wednesday—looked it up—questioned servants—found you were right.”
“Bill,” cried the Idiot. “What bill?”
“Why, the one Mrs. Idiot sent—this,” said Dawkins, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Confoundedly good joke.”
The Idiot took up the piece of paper. It was type-written—on Tommy’s machine—and read as follows:
“Great Scott!” laughed the Idiot.
“My dear,” said the Idiot after the Dawkinses had gone, “that bill of yours was a great idea.”
“It wasn’t my idea at all—it was yours,” said Mrs. Idiot, laughing. “You said we ought to be business-like to the last and send out a statement on the first of the month. I sent it. And they paid up.”
“Richard,” said Mrs. Dawkins, as they drove home, “did you get a receipt?”
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THE STORY OF THE CURSE OF IMAGINATION
BERNARD DARWIN
Some years ago there was an unfortunate gentleman who finished eighteen holes down in a team match. As the match was only one of eighteen holes, it was felt that in a record-breaking age there was at least one feat that was very unlikely to be beaten, and several comments appeared upon it in the newspapers. Thereupon the gentleman wrote a most pathetic letter, in which he complained, if I remember rightly, that two mitigating circumstances had not been mentioned: first, that he was playing with a strange set of clubs; and secondly, that he had only just recovered from a severe attack of influenza. Now here were two unimpeachable excuses. They were much better than most excuses, and yet it is hardly open to doubt that the gentleman would have done better to keep silence. It is a hard lesson—so hard that scarcely any of us learn it thoroughly—that not only do other people not care about our excuses, but they do not even believe them.
To all our adversary’s excuses we make, if we are wise, one and the same answer, “Hard luck!” but in our own minds we do in a measure differentiate between them. The one to which we mentally extend the very smallest possible amount of sympathy is the excuse that the enemy’s hand slipped or, as it is sometimes stated with wholly unconvincing exaggeration, that “the club flew clean out of my hand.” The proper answer to that remark is clearly, “Then why the dickens did you not hold tighter?” Everybody thinks it, though few are brutal enough to say it. The statement that the player’s foot slipped is not looked upon with such scorn, because no doubt the best regulated feet will slip sometimes. Not infrequently, however, our feet slip just because they are not well regulated; because, in fact, we overswing ourselves in a very outrageous manner.
Then there is, of course, that enormous race of excuses that may be classed under the head of diseases. Now there is only one imperative piece of advice about diseases; we must remember to mention them before the game begins. There is everything to gain by this honest policy and nothing to lose, except, indeed, the character for suffering in Spartan silence, and that we have as a rule irretrievably lost long ago. A disease clearly announced on the first tee may possibly be believed in; and it may actually mitigate the shame of defeat or enhance the glories of a victory. The chances of a victory are always worth considering, because it is a common knowledge that a splitting headache, or, still better, a severe cold in the head, will sometimes lead to incredible brilliancy. On the other hand, a disease bottled up to begin with, and only brought out as a last resource when we are four down at the sixth hole is worse than useless. It will do no good if we lose, while if by some miracle we pull ourselves together and win, it will add an unspeakable bitterness to our enemy’s ordinary discomfiture. He will probably not forget to mention to a few friends our mendacious and contemptible tactics.
There are numerous things which are recognised as being reasonably good excuses. Under this head come dogs, people standing or moving immediately behind us, and, commonest of all perhaps, caddies suffering from the hiccups. These are, as it were, excuses by Act of Parliament. Nobody would think of arguing about them, and we shall be quite safe in using them. The only question is whether it would not be better, after all, to refrain from doing all that the law allows. When all is said, however, I think that by far the best excuse is a photographer. He stands and aims at us from a portion that would in the cricket field be known as “silly point,” and he keeps us on tenterhooks as to the exact moment at which he will apply the fuse to his infernal machine. As a rule, it is our classical follow-through that he desires to photograph, and so we can, at least, go through the subsidiary performance of hitting the ball in some kind of peace, but sometimes a not-unjustifiable fear seizes him that we are not going to follow through at all. Then, to make quite sure of bagging something, he fires just as we are coming down to the ball.
Never was any one so plagued with cameras as was Miss Leitch in her historic match against Mr. Hilton at Walton Heath. Pale, but courageous, she had to play nearly every shot under a heavy fire. When she got into difficulties the fusillade was worst of all, snapping fiends posting t
hemselves actually on the very ramparts of the bunker. Mr. Hilton did not have nearly such a trying time of it in this respect. He is, I suppose, regularly kept in stock. His follow-through, his cap tumbling off, his cigarette—all have been part of golfing history so long that a good reliable picture can always be obtained at a moment’s notice. Through his many battles on the links, he has been, as it were, inoculated against photographers and enjoys a measure of immunity.
Differing slightly in kind from those excuses with which he plagues his adversary are the consolations which the golfer administers to himself; consolations founded as a rule upon a train of reasoning that will not for a moment bear searching analysis. For instance, what can be commoner than the following scene: A. and B. are on the tee about to drive off to a short hole. A. has the honour, and foozles the shot so egregiously that the ball topples into a bunker in front of his nose. Thereupon B. lays his ball about a yard from the pin. But a moment ago A. was furious and miserable, but now he picks up his ball, quite serene and happy, and remarks: “Ah well—it doesn’t matter. I could never have done any good against a two.” If he is playing in a single he cheers himself by this reflection; if in a foursome he expects to cheer his partner by it.
How angry he would be, if his foursome partner were to address him in some such words as these: “Do not talk such arrant nonsense. If you had hit your ball over the bunker, not only would B. not have put his ball dead, but I think it highly probable that he would not have put it even on the green.” A player who should make such an observation would be neither a popular nor a successful foursome player, but he would have the barren satisfaction of feeling that he had, as nearly as possible, spoken the truth. It is a truth that one seldom hears openly acknowledged. Most golfers dislike it, because to admit that the good or bad shots of other people so often depend on circumstances that may be called mental is also to admit a certain nervous weakness in themselves. Therefore, we all join in a general conspiracy to deny the obvious fact that we are all much more likely to play a good shot when our adversary is in a bunker than when he is lying dead at the hole.