Love Conquers All

by Robert Benchley

  “I have faith and hope and love, for I am his daughter.” A faint, cool breeze strayed through the aspens, rustling the leaves whisperingly, and the slender columbines, gleaming pale in the twilight lifted their sweet faces.

  (Decorative bull.)

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  Suppressing “Jurgen”

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  Of course it was silly to suppress “Jurgen.” That goes without saying. But it seems equally silly, because of its being suppressed, to hail it as high art. It is simply Mr. James Branch Cabell’s quaint way of telling a raw story and it isn’t particularly his own way, either. Personally, I like the modern method much better.

  “Jurgen” is a frank imitation of the old-time pornographers and although it is a very good imitation, it need not rank Mr. Cabell any higher than the maker of a plaster-of-paris copy of some Boeotian sculptural oddity.

  The author, in defense of his fortunate book, lifts his eyebrows and says, “Honi soit.” He claims, and quite rightly, that everything he has written has at least one decent meaning, and that anyone who reads anything indecent into it automatically convicts himself of being in a pathological condition. The question is, if Mr. Cabell had been convinced beforehand that nowhere in all this broad land would there be anyone who would read another meaning into his lily-white words, would he ever have bothered to write the book at all?

  Mr. Cabell is admittedly a genealogist. He is an earnest student of the literature of past centuries. He has become so steeped in the phrases and literary mannerisms of the middle and upper-middle ages that, even in his book of modern essays “Beyond Life,” he is constantly emitting strange words which were last used by the correspondents who covered the crusades. No man has to be as artificially obsolete as Mr. Cabell is. He likes to be.

  In “Jurgen” he has simply let himself go. There is no pretense of writing like a modern. There is no pretense of writing in the style of even James Branch Cabell. It is frankly “in the manner of” those ancient authors whose works are sold surreptitiously to college students by gentlemen who whisper their selling-talk behind a line of red sample bindings. And it is not in the manner of Rabelais, although Rabelais’s name has been frequently used in describing “Jurgen.” Rabelais seldom hid his thought behind two meanings. There was only one meaning, and you could take it or leave it. And Rabelais would never have said “Honi soit” by way of defense.

  The general effect is one of Fielding or Sterne telling the story of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, with their own embellishments, to the boys at the club.

  If all that is necessary to produce a work of art is to take a drummer’s story and tell it in dusty English, we might try our luck with the modern smoking-car yarn about the traveling-man who came to the country hotel late at night, and see how far we can get with it in the manner of James Branch Cabell imitating Fielding imitating someone else.

  It is a tale which they narrate in Nouveau Rochelle, saying: In the old days there came one night a traveling man to an inn, and the night was late, and he was sore beset, what with rag-tag-and-bob-tail. Eftsoons he made known his wants to the churl behind the desk, who was named Gogyrvan. And thus he spake:

  “Any rooms?”

  “Indeed, sir, no,” was Gogyrvan’s glose.

  “Now but this is an deplorable thing, God wot,” says the traveling man. “Fie, brother, but you think awry. Come, don smart your thinking-cap and answer me again. An’ you have forgot my query; it was: ‘Any rooms, bo?’”

  Whereat the churl behind the desk gat him down from his stool and closed one eye in a wink.

  “There is one room,” he says, and places his forefinger along the side of his nose, in the manner of a man who places his forefinger along the side of his nose.

  But at this point I am stopped short by the warning passage through the room of a cold, damp current of air as from the grave, and I know that it is one of Mr. Sumner’s vice deputies flitting by on his rounds in defense of the public morals. So I can go no further, for public morals must be defended even at the cost of public morality (a statement which means nothing but which sounds rather well, I think. I shall try to work it in again sometime).

  But perhaps enough has been said to show that it is perfectly easy to write something that will sound classic if you can only remember enough old words. When Mr. Cabell has learned the language, he ought to write a good book in modern English. There are lots of people who read it and they speak very highly of it as a means of expression.

  But there are certain things that you cannot express in it without sounding crass, which would be a disadvantage in telling a story like “Jurgen.”

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  Anti-Ibáñez

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  While on the subject of books which we read because we think we ought to, and while Vicente Blasco Ibáñez is on the ocean and can’t hear what is being said, let’s form a secret society.

  I will be one of any three to meet behind a barn and admit that I would not give a good gosh darn if a fortune-teller were to tell me tomorrow that I should never, never have a chance to read another book by the great Spanish novelist.

  Any of the American reading public who desire to join this secret society may do so without fear of publicity, as the names will not be given out. The only means of distinguishing a fellow-member will be a tiny gold emblem, to be worn in the lapel, representing the figure (couchant) of Spain’s most touted animal. The motto will be “Nimmermehr,” which is a German translation of the Spanish phrase “Not even once again.”

  Simply because I myself am not impressed by a book, I have no authority to brand anyone who does not like it as a poseur and say that he is only making believe that he likes it. And there must be a great many highly literary people who really and sincerely do think that Señor Blasco’s books are the finest novels of the epoch.

  It would therefore be presumptuous of me to say that Spain is now, for the first time since before 1898, in a position to kid the United States and, vicariously through watching her famous son count his royalties and gate receipts, to feel avenged for the loss of her islands. If America has found something superfine in Ibáñez that his countrymen have missed, then America is of course to be congratulated and not kidded.

  But probably no one was more surprised than Blasco when he suddenly found himself a lion in our literary arena instead of in his accustomed rôle of bull in his home ring. And those who know say that you could have knocked his compatriots over with a feather when the news came that old man Ibáñez’s son had made good in the United States to the extent of something like five hundred million pesetas.

  For, like the prophet whom someone was telling about, Ibáñez was not known at home as a particularly hot tamale. But, then, he never had such a persistent publisher in Spain, and book-advertising is not the art there that it is in America. When the final accounting of the great success of “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse” in this country is taken, honorable mention must be made of the man at the E.P. Dutton & Co. store who had charge of the advertising.

  The great Spanish novelist was in the French propaganda service during the war. It was his job to make Germany unpopular in Spanish. “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse” is obviously propaganda, and not particularly subtle propaganda either. Certain chapters might have come direct from our own Creel committee, and one may still be true to the Allied cause and yet maintain that propaganda and literature do not mix with any degree of illusion.

  There is no question, of course, that those chapters in the book which are descriptive of the advance and subsequent retreat of the German troops under the eye of Don Marcelo are masterpieces of descriptive reporting. But Philip Gibbs has given us a whole book of masterpieces of descriptive reporting which do not bear the stamp of approval of the official propaganda bureau. And, furthermore, Philip Gibbs does not wear a sport shirt open at the neck. At least, he never had his picture taken that way.

>   As for the rest of the books that were dragged out from the Spanish for “storehouse” when “The Four Horsemen” romped in winners, I can speak only as I would speak of “The World’s Most Famous Battles” or “Heroines in Shakespeare.” I have looked them over. I gave “Mare Nostrum” a great deal of my very valuable time because the advertisements spoke so highly of it. “Woman Triumphant” took less time because I decided to stop earlier in the book. “Blood and Sand” I passed up, having once seen a Madrid bull-fight for myself, which may account for this nasty attitude I have toward any Spanish product. I am told, however, that this is the best of them all.

  It is remarkable that for a writer who seems to have left such an indelible imprint in the minds of the American people, whose works have been ranked with the greatest of all time and who received more publicity during one day of his visit here than Charles Dickens received during his whole sojourn in America, Señor Blasco and his works form a remarkably small part of the spontaneous literary conversation of the day. The characters which he has created have not taken any appreciable hold in the public imagination. Their names are never used as examples of anything. Who were some of his chief characters, by the way? What did they say that was worth remembering? What did they do that characters have not been doing for many generations? Did you ever hear anyone say, “He talks like a character in Ibáñez,” or “This might have happened in one of Ibáñez’s books”?

  Of course it is possible for a man to write a great book from which no one would quote. That is probably happening all the time. But it is because no one has read it. Here we have an author whose vogue in this country, according to statistics, is equal to that of any writer of novels in the world. And as soon as his publicity department stops functioning, I should like to lay a little bet that he will not be heard of again.

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  On Bricklaying

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  After a series of introspective accounts of the babyhood, childhood, adolescence and inevitably gloomy maturity of countless men and women, it is refreshing to turn to “Bricklaying in Modern Practice,” by Stewart Scrimshaw. “Heigh-ho!” one says. “Back to normal again!”

  For bricklaying is nothing if not normal, and Mr. Scrimshaw has given just enough of the romantic charm of artistic enthusiasm to make it positively fascinating.

  “There was a time when man did not know how to lay bricks,” he says in his scholarly introductory chapter on “The Ancient Art,” “a time when he did not know how to make bricks. There was a time when fortresses and cathedrals were unknown, and churches and residences were not to be seen on the face of the earth. But today we see wonderful architecture, noble and glorious structures, magnificent skyscrapers and pretty home-like bungalows.”

  To one who has been scouring Westchester County for the past two months looking at the structures which are being offered for sale as homes, “pretty home-like bungalows” comes as le mot juste. They certainly are no more than pretty home-like.

  One cannot read far in Mr. Scrimshaw’s book without blushing for the inadequacy of modern education. We are turned out of our schools as educated young men and women, and yet what college graduate here tonight can tell me when the first brick in America was made? Or even where it was made? . . . I thought not.

  Well, it was made in New Haven in 1650. Mr. Scrimshaw does not say what it was made for, but a conjecture would be that it was the handiwork of Yale students for tactical use in the Harvard game. (Oh, I know that Yale wasn’t running in 1650, but what difference does that make in an informal little article like this? It is getting so that a man can’t make any statement at all without being caught up on it by some busybody or other.)

  But let’s get down to the art itself.

  Mr. Scrimshaw’s first bit of advice is very sound. “The bricklayer should first take a keen glance at the scaffolding upon which he is to work, to see that there is nothing broken or dangerous connected with it. . . . This is essential, because more important than anything else to him is the preservation of his life and limb.”

  Oh, Mr. Scrimshaw, how true that is! If I were a bricklayer I would devote practically my whole morning inspecting the scaffolding on which I was to work. Whatever else I shirked, I would put my whole heart and soul into this part of my task. Every rope should be tested, every board examined, and I doubt if even then I would go up on the scaffold. Any bricks that I could not lay with my feet on terra firma (there is a joke somewhere about terra cotta, but I’m busy now) could be laid by someone else.

  But we don’t seem to be getting ahead in our instruction in practical bricklaying. Well, all right, take this:

  “Pressed bricks, which are buttered, can be laid with a one-eighth-inch joint, although a joint of three-sixteenths of an inch is to be preferred.”

  Joe, get this gentleman a joint of three-sixteenths of an inch, buttered. Service, that’s our motto!

  It takes a book like this to make a man realize what he misses in his everyday life. For instance, who would think that right here in New York there were people who specialized in corbeling? Rain or shine, hot or cold, you will find them corbeling around like Trojans. Or when they are not corbeling they may be toothing. (I too thought that this might be a misprint for “teething,” but it is spelled “toothing” throughout the book, so I guess that Mr. Scrimshaw knows what he is about.) Of all departments of bricklaying I should think that it would be more fun to tooth than to do anything else. But it must be tiring work. I suppose that many a bricklayer’s wife has said to her neighbor, “I am having a terrible time with my husband this week. He is toothing, and comes home so cross and irritable that nothing suits him.”

  Another thing that a bricklayer has to be careful of, according to the author (and I have no reason to contest his warning), is the danger of stepping on spawls. If there is one word that I would leave with the young bricklayer about to enter his trade it is “Beware of the spawls, my boy.” They are insidious, those spawls are. You think you are all right and then – pouf! Or maybe “crash” would be a better descriptive word. Whatever noise is made by a spawl when stepped on is the one I want. Perhaps “swawk” would do. I’ll have to look up “spawl” first, I guess.

  Well, anyway, there you have practical bricklaying in a nutshell. Of course there are lots of other points in the book and some dandy pictures and it would pay you to read it. But in case you haven’t time, just skim over this résumé again and you will have the gist of it.

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  “American Anniversaries”

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  Mr. Phillip R. Dillon has compiled and published in his “American Anniversaries” a book for men who do things. For every day in the year there is a record of something which has been accomplished in American history. For instance, under Jan. 1 we find that the parcel-post system was inaugurated in the United States in 1913, while Jan. 2 is given as the anniversary of the battle of Murfreesboro (or Stone’s River, as you prefer). The whole book is like that; just one surprise after another.

  What, for instance, do you suppose that Saturday marked the completion of? . . . Presuming that no one has answered correctly, I will disclose (after consulting Mr. Dillon’s book) that July 31 marked the completion of the 253d year since the signing of the Treaty of Breda. But what, you may say – and doubtless are saying at this very minute – what has the Treaty of Breda (which everyone knows was signed in Holland by representatives of England, France, Holland and Denmark) got to do with American history? And right there is where Mr. Dillon and I would have you. In the Treaty of Breda, Acadia (or Nova Scotia) was given to France and New York and New Jersey were confirmed to England. So, you see, inhabitants of New York and New Jersey (and, after all, who isn’t?) should have especial cause for celebrating July 31 as Breda Day, for if it hadn’t been for that treaty we might have belonged to Poland and been mixed up in all the mess that is now going on over there.

  I must confe
ss that I turned to the date of the anniversary of my own birth with no little expectation. Of course I am not so very well known except among the tradespeople in my town, but I should be willing to enter myself in a popularity contest with the Treaty of Breda. But evidently there is a conspiracy of silence directed against me on the part of the makers of anniversary books and calendars. While no mention was made of my having been born on Sept. 15, considerable space was given to recording the fact that on that date in 1840 a patent for a knitting machine was issued to the inventor, who was none other than Isaac Wixan Lamb of Salem, Mass.

  Now I would be the last one to belittle the importance of knitting or the invention of a knitting machine. I know some very nice people who knit a great deal. But really, when it comes to anniversaries I don’t see where Isaac Wixan Lamb gets off to crash in ahead of me or a great many other people that I could name. And it doesn’t help any, either, to find that James Fenimore Cooper and William Howard Taft are both mentioned as having been born on that day or that the chief basic patent for gasoline automobiles in America was issued in 1895 to George B. Selden. It certainly was a big day for patents. But one realizes more than ever after reading this section that you have to have a big name to get into an anniversary book. The average citizen has no show at all.

  In spite of these rather obvious omissions, Mr. Dillon’s book is both valuable and readable. Especially in those events which occurred early in the country’s history is there material for comparison with the happenings of the present day, events which will someday be incorporated in a similar book compiled by some energetic successor of Mr. Dillon.