BELL, Joseph (1837–1911), Scottish surgeon, the model for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes.
1 Bell used a standard experiment to test the powers of perception of each new class of medical students. He held up a tumbler of liquid, explaining that it contained a potent drug with a very bitter taste. “We might easily analyze this chemically,” he said, “but I want you to test it by smell and taste and, as I don’t ask anything of my students which I wouldn’t be willing to do myself, I will taste it before passing it around.” The students watched uncomfortably as Dr. Bell dipped a finger into the liquid, put his finger to his lips, and sucked it. Grimacing, he then passed the tumbler around the class and each student in turn dipped a finger into the unknown substance, sucked it, and shuddered at the bitter taste. The experiment over, Dr. Bell announced: “Gentlemen, I am deeply grieved to find that not one of you has developed this power of perception, which I so often speak about. For, if you had watched me closely, you would have found that, while I placed my forefinger in the bitter medicine, it was the middle finger which found its way into my mouth!”
2 Dr. Bell once attempted to demonstrate the deductive method of diagnosis to a group of students gathered around the bed of one of his patients. “Aren’t you a bandsman?” he asked the sick man. His patient nodded. “You see, gentlemen, I am right,” said Dr. Bell triumphantly. “It is quite simple. This man has a paralysis of the cheek muscles, the result of too much blowing at wind instruments. We need only inquire to confirm. What instrument do you play, my man?”
“The big drum, doctor.”
BELLOC, [Joseph] Hilaire [Pierre] (1870–1953), British biographer, novelist, and critic.
1 Belloc’s passionate convictions prompted him in 1906 to seek election as an MP, although he knew that, as a Roman Catholic, he would have a struggle to overcome the voters’ religious prejudices. On the occasion of his first campaign speech at Salford he appeared on the rostrum with a rosary in his hand and made the following declaration: “I am a Catholic. As far as possible I go to Mass every day. As far as possible I kneel down and tell these beads every day. If you reject me on account of my religion, I shall thank God that he has spared me the indignity of being your representative.” He was elected.
2 Belloc was a master of insult. The novelist and critic Wilfrid Sheed recalls that an unidentified man came up to Belloc, saying, “You don’t know me.”
“Yes, I do,” replied Belloc, turned on his heel, and walked off.
3 (A. N. Wilson, in his biography of Belloc, states that he heard the following story from several sources but has never been able to substantiate it. It illustrates the strain under which Belloc often worked, turning out book after book, not always up to his highest standard, merely in order to make a difficult livelihood.)
During the 1930s in a railway carriage Belloc noticed a man in front of him reading a volume of his History of England. He leaned forward, asked him how much he had paid for it, was informed of the price, took a corresponding sum out of his pocket, gave it to the man, snatched the book from his hand, and tossed it out the window.
BELLOWS, George Wesley (1882–1925), US painter known for his prizefight series.
1 Joseph Pennell once accused Bellows of nonauthenticity for having painted the execution of nurse Edith Cavell by the Germans in 1915 without having been an eyewitness of the event. Bellows retorted that although he had not been present at the execution, “neither had Leonardo da Vinci been present at the Last Supper.”
BEMBO, Pietro (1470–1547), Italian scholar who was later created a cardinal.
1 In Rome Cardinal Bembo gave a splendid dinner. Among the distinguished guests was the Count Montebello, famous for his perfect breeding. During the banquet the count rose from his seat and looked around. He observed the priceless carpets, the mirrors, the bronzes — and shook his head. He let his gaze wander over the wall tapestries, the gold and crystal table service, and shrugged his shoulders. Then his eyes roved over the servants, dressed in silk and satin, ranged against the walls. Finally he walked up to one of the lackeys and spat straight into his mouth. The cardinal, shocked, looked in astonishment at his guest. Montebello explained, “My lord, it was the only place I could find in the whole room where I could spit.”
BENCHLEY, Robert (1889–1945), American humorist.
1 When Benchley visited Venice for the first time, he sent a cable to Harold Ross, the editor of The New Yorker, reading, “Streets full of water. Please advise.”
2 At a Hollywood party the guests were playing a game in which each one had to compose his or her own epitaph. An actress, whose marriages and love affairs were notorious, sat next to Benchley. She complained that she could not think what to write about herself. The humorist suggested: “At last she sleeps alone.”
3 (Benchley had himself admitted to the hospital to escape an engagement.)
“The doctor who examined him was the kind that interprets a hangnail as the early symptom of something obscure and hideous. ‘Lucky for you this case fell into my hands,’ he told Benchley. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but all we can do is prescribe in a general way and watch the effects of the treatment, although we don’t know precisely what they’ll be. Now, these pills —’
“Next day the patient was moaning feebly. ‘Those pills!’ he managed to gasp. ‘Doctor, they must have been — you don’t suppose —’ The frightened doctor whipped back the sheets. Benchley had glued pillow feathers from his shoulder blades to his knees.”
4 Leaving the Algonquin after a particularly alcoholic session, Benchley found himself face to face with a uniformed man whom he took to be the doorman. “Would you get me a taxi, my good man?” he requested. The other drew himself up proudly. “See here, I happen to be a rear admiral in the United States Navy,” he snapped. “Perfectly all right,” said Benchley, “just get me a battleship then.”
5 Caught in a rain shower one afternoon, Benchley arrived home soaking wet. “George,” he called to his servant, “get me out of this wet suit and into a dry martini.”
6 Benchley was attending the Broadway premiere of a play during which a telephone rang on an otherwise deserted stage. “I think that’s for me,” remarked Benchley, and he rose and left the theater.
7 Benchley and Dorothy Parker were visiting a speakeasy when a man showed them what he said was an indestructible watch. They tested this by hitting it against the table top, then throwing it on the floor and stamping on it. The owner picked it up, put it to his ear, and said in incredulous dismay, “It’s stopped.”
“Maybe you wound it too tight,” said Benchley and Mrs. Parker in chorus.
8 Attending the premiere of The Squall in 1926, Benchley was exasperated by the play’s use of pidgin English. He whispered to his wife that if he heard one more word of it he was going to leave. At that moment a gypsy girl on stage prostrated herself at the feet of another character and announced, “Me Nubi. Nubi good girl. Me stay.” Benchley rose to his feet and said, “Me Bobby. Bobby bad boy. Me go.” And he went.
9 The office Benchley shared with Dorothy Parker in the Metropolitan Opera House building was so tiny that Benchley observed of it, “One cubic foot less of space and it would have constituted adultery.”
10 Someone asked whether Benchley knew the playwright Robert Sherwood, distinguished for his great height — he was six feet seven inches tall. Benchley hopped onto a chair and raised his hand to a level just below the ceiling. “Sure,” he said, “I’ve known Bob Sherwood since he was this high.”
11 Benchley was stuck on a piece one day, unable even to get started. To clear his head he took a walk, then returned to his room and typed out the word “The.” Back out he went, joining a friendly poker game and having a few drinks. He returned to his work in better humor but still could make no headway. Sitting at his typewriter, he stared at the page for a moment, then typed out, “hell with it” to complete the sentence, and left for the day.
12 Benchley died of a cerebral hemorrhage in
New York City on November 21, 1945. His widow and son Nathaniel took the urn in which his ashes were kept to Nantucket for burial, but when they opened it, the urn was, oddly, completely empty. Mrs. Benchley was quiet for a moment, then began to smile. “You know,” she told her son, “I can hear him laughing now.”
BEN-GURION, David (1886–1973), Israeli socialist statesman, born in Poland. When the new Jewish state of Israel was established in 1948, Ben-Gurion became its first prime minister (1948–53) and was prime minister again from 1955 to 1963.
1 Members of the Israeli cabinet did not hesitate to register their disapproval when Ben-Gurion addressed Parliament wearing neither jacket nor tie. Parrying their protests, the prime minister claimed to have Winston Churchill’s permission for his unconventional state of dress. “On my last visit to London,” he explained, “I wanted to take off my jacket and tie. Churchill stopped me. ‘Mr. Prime Minister,’ he said, ‘you can only do that in Jerusalem.’”
BENNETT, [Enoch] Arnold (1867–1931), British writer and theater critic.
1 In his review of Arnold Bennett’s The Old Wives’ Tale, the critic Frank Harris complained that the famous public execution scene was obviously written by someone who had never witnessed such an event. He accused Bennett of having a warped imagination and proceeded to write his own version of the scene. This was so appalling and so explicit that Bennett wrote to Harris saying that if Harris’s description had been published before The Old Wives’ Tale had been written, he would have gladly utilized it in the book. He wound up by admitting that he had never actually seen an execution.
“Neither have I,” wrote back Harris.
2 Bennett usually took great pleasure in getting detail perfect in his fiction. He used to boast that Darius Clayhanger’s death in the Clayhanger series could not be bettered: “I took infinite pains over it. All the time my father was dying I was at the bedside making copious notes.”
3 Bennett had a serious speech impediment. Once while being presented at court, he saw the Duke of York, later George VI, moving in his direction. The duke also had a speech impediment.
“Great Scott,” Bennett confided to a neighbor, “if he s-s-speaks to me I’ll p-p-probably spend my last days in the Tower of London.”
4 Irascible and nervous, Bennett was intensely wary of approaches by strangers. One day in London a luckless passerby asked Bennett to tell him the quickest way to Putney Bridge. “There are e-e-eight million people in London,” erupted Bennett. “Why the devil can’t you ask somebody else?”
5 At a literary luncheon one day, Bennett was autographing copies of his latest book. One young man had arrived clutching three copies of the first edition, but was too embarrassed to ask the author to sign all three at once. Having received his first autograph, he returned to the end of the line, hoping that Bennett would not recognize him when his turn came again. The author signed the second book without comment, and the young man patiently repeated the procedure. Presented with the third copy, however, Bennett paused for a moment. Then he penned on the flyleaf: “To ———, who is fast becoming an old friend.”
BENNETT, James Gordon (1841–1918), US newspaper owner and eccentric who launched the Paris edition of the New York Herald.
1 During World War I, whenever news was lacking, Bennett filled in the empty space with “Deleted by French censor.”
2 Since Bennett and William Randolph Hearst were never on the best of terms, it did not come as welcome news to the former that Hearst was trying to buy Bennett’s paper, the ailing Herald. When Hearst tried to find out what it would cost, Bennett cabled him: “Price of Herald three cents daily. Five cents Sunday. Bennett.”
3 Bennett’s primary goal was to spend all his money. On one occasion he gave a tip of $14,000 to the guard on the Train Bleu between Paris and Monte Carlo. The guard stepped off the train, resigned his job, and opened a restaurant.
4 Night after night Bennett would return to the same restaurant in Monte Carlo because of the perfect way it prepared a mutton chop. One evening someone else was occupying his favorite table. He ordered the owner to sell him the restaurant and purchased it for $40,000. Bennett then asked the diners at his table to leave, even though they were only halfway through their meal. When Bennett had finished his meal of mutton chops, he left a very large tip: he gave the restaurant back to the owner.
BENTON, Thomas Hart (1782–1858), US senator from Missouri for thirty years (1821–51).
1 When Benton’s house in Washington was destroyed by fire, he was summoned from Congress to view the ruin. He gazed at it for a while, then said, “It makes dying easier. There’s so much less to leave.”
2 Benton had never been on good terms with Senator Henry S. Foote of Mississippi. Foote once threatened to write “a little book in which Mr. Benton would figure very largely.” Benton was unperturbed. “Tell Foote,” he replied, “that I will write a very large book in which he shall not figure at all.”
BERG, Moe (1902–72), US baseball player.
1 Unusual in a player, Berg had an extensive higher education, including a doctorate and degrees from Princeton and the Sorbonne. A linguist, he also served as a spy during World War II. But once a White Sox teammate who saw him strike out twice with the bases loaded approached him and said, “Moe, I don’t care how many of them college degrees you got. They ain’t learned you to hit that curveball any better than me.”
BERIA, Lavrenti Pavlovich (1899–1953), feared head of the Russian secret police.
1 Stalin’s death is reputed to have been caused by a seizure suffered during a fit of rage brought on by an argument with Kliment Voroshilov during a Presidium meeting. Livid with fury, Stalin leaped from his seat, only to crash to the floor unconscious. While other members of the Presidium stared at the apparently dead figure, Beria jumped up and danced around the body shouting, “We’re free at last! Free at last!” Stalin’s daughter forced her way into the room and fell on her knees by her father. At this point Stalin stirred and opened one eye. Beria at once dropped down beside him, seized his hand, and covered it with kisses.
BERNADOTTE, Jean Baptiste Jules (c. 1763–1844), French general who became King Charles XIV John of Sweden (1818–44).
1 During the days of the Terror, Bernadotte fought in the French revolutionary army. Later, when king of Sweden, he fell ill and to the consternation of the attending physician, steadfastly refused to be bled. As his condition grew worse, the doctor begged the king to allow him to bleed him. At last the king capitulated. “You must swear,” he said, “that you will never reveal to anyone what you have seen.” The doctor swore, picked up his lancet, and rolled back the patient’s sleeve. On the king’s upper arm was a tattoo: the red Phrygian cap and under it the words: “Death to all kings.”
BERNARD, Tristan (1866–1947), French dramatist and novelist.
1 A young playwright sent Bernard a play of his to read and sometime later asked Bernard for suggestions for a title. Bernard, who had not read the manuscript, thought for a few seconds, then asked: “Are there any trumpets in your play?”
“No,” said the young dramatist, rather puzzled.
“Or any drums?”
“No.”
“Well, then, why not call it Without Drums or Trumpets?”
2 One afternoon, during a rather unsettled phase in his first marriage, Bernard was found by a friend gazing despondently into a shop window in the pouring rain. Having ascertained that Bernard had no specific reason for being there, his friend offered to take him for a meal, or at least a drink. The dejected writer declined both invitations. “Surely you’re not going to stand out here in the rain!” exclaimed his friend. “Why don’t you go home?”
“I don’t dare,” replied Bernard. “My wife’s lover is there.” His friend was about to voice some expression of sympathy when Bernard continued, “… and he’s a goddam bore!”
3 A friend saw Tristan Bernard on the promenade at Deauville wearing a jaunty new yachting cap. When he remarked on it, Bernard
replied that he had just bought it with his winnings from the previous night’s play at the casino. The friend congratulated him. “Ah,” said Bernard, “but what I lost would have bought me the yacht.”
4 Tristan Bernard strongly disliked female journalists. One was seated next to him at a press luncheon and said, “Forget that I am a woman; treat me as you would a male colleague.” Bernard steadily ignored her existence throughout the meal. At the end, he tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Allons pisser.”
5 Bernard’s frankness often went to extremes. One evening, he had been invited to a dinner party at a house renowned for its excellent cuisine. An hour after the appointed time, Bernard still had not arrived, and his hostess, anxious that the meal should not be ruined, telephoned him to ask what had happened. “I’m so sorry,” said Bernard, “but I’m not coming.”
“Not coming?”
“No,” replied Bernard. “I’m not hungry.”
6 Bernard was about to start off in a fiacre one day when the horse either took fright or had some sort of insane seizure. It reared, kicked, pawed the air with its front hoofs, then fell onto its knees and eventually flopped over, supine, on the ground. Climbing down from the fiacre, Bernard quietly asked the coachman, “Is that all the tricks he knows?”
7 Bernard hated the effort of writing. His apparently spontaneous output was, in fact, a grim, plodding labor, which he would postpone whenever he could. If anyone suggested coming to see him, he would say, “Please do. And preferably in the morning. That’s when I work.”
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