Love Conquers All Page 8

  (The husband is reading his evening newspaper. The wife appears, bringing a volume from the Five Foot Shelf. Tonight it is Darwin’s “Origin of Species.”)

  WIFE: Hurry up and finish that paper. We’ll never get along in this Darwin if we don’t begin earlier than we did last night.

  HUSBAND: Well, suppose we didn’t get along in it. That would suit me all right.

  WIFE: If you don’t want me to read it to you, just say so. . . (after-thought) if it’s so far over your head, just say so.

  HUSBAND: It’s not over my head at all. It’s just dull. Why don’t you read some more out of that Italian novel?

  WIFE: Ugh! I hate that. I suppose you’d rather have me read “The Sheik.”

  HUSBAND (nastily): No-I-wouldn’t-rather-have-you-read-“The Sheik.” Go on ahead with your Darwin. I’m listening.

  WIFE: It’s not my Darwin. I simply want to know a little something, that’s all. Of course, you know everything, so you don’t have to read anything more.

  HUSBAND: Go on, go on.

  WIFE: That last book we read was so far over—

  HUSBAND: Go on, go on.

  WIFE: (reads in an injured tone one and a half pages on the selective processes of pigeons): You’re asleep!

  HUSBAND: I am not. The last words you read were “to this conclusion.”

  WIFE: Yes, well, what were the words before that?

  HUSBAND: How should I know? I’m not learning the thing to recite somewhere, am I?

  WIFE: Well, it’s very funny that you didn’t notice when I read the last sentence backwards. And if you weren’t asleep what were you doing with your eyes closed?

  HUSBAND: I got smoke in them and was resting them for a minute. Haven’t I got a right to rest my eyes a minute?

  WIFE: I suppose it rests your eyes to breathe through your mouth and hold your head way over on one side.

  HUSBAND: Yes it does, and wha’d’yer think of that?

  WIFE: Go on and read your newspaper. That’s just about your mental speed.

  HUSBAND: I’m perfectly willing to read books in this set if you’d pick any decent ones.

  WIFE: Yes, you are.

  HUSBAND: Wha’d’yer mean “Yes you are”?

  WIFE: Just what I said.

  (This goes on for ten minutes and then husband draws a revolver and kills his wife.)

  * * *

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  When Not in Rome,

  Why Do as the Romans Did?

  * * *

  There is a growing sentiment among sign painters that when a sign or notice is to be put up in a public place it should be written in characters that are at least legible, so that, to quote “The Manchester Guardian” (as everyone seems to do) “He who runs may read.”

  This does not strike one as being an unseemly pandering to popular favor. The supposition is that the sign is put there to be read, otherwise it would have been turned over to an inmate of the Odd Fellows Home to be engraved on the head of a pin. And what could be a more fair requirement than that it should be readable?

  Advertising, with its billboard message of rustless screens and co-educational turkish-baths, has done much to further the good cause, and a glance through the files of newspapers of seventy-five years ago, when the big news story of the day was played up in diamond type easily deciphered in a strong light with the naked eye, shows that news printing has not, to use a slang phrase, stood still.

  But in the midst of this uniform progress we find a stagnant spot. Surrounded by legends that are patent and easy to read and understand, we find the stone-cutter and the architect still putting up tablets and cornerstones, monuments and cornices, with dates disguised in Roman numerals. It is as if it were a game, in which they were saying, “The number we are thinking of is even; it begins with M; it has five digits and when they are spread out, end to end, they occupy three feet of space. You have until we count to one hundred to guess what it is.”

  Roman numerals are all right for a rainy Sunday afternoon or to take a convalescent’s mind from his illness, but to put them in a public place, where the reader stands a good chance of being run over by a dray if he spends more than fifty seconds in their perusal, is not in keeping with the efficiency of the age. If for no other reason than the extra space they take, involving more marble, more of the cutter’s time and wear and tear on his instruments, not to mention the big overhead, you would think that Roman numerals would have been abolished long ago.

  Of course, they can be figured out if you’re good at that sort of thing. By working on your cuff and backs of envelopes, you can translate them in no time at all compared to the time taken by a cocoon to change into a butterfly, for instance. All you have to do is remember that “M” stands for either “millium,” meaning thousand, or for “million.” By referring to the context you can tell which is more probable. If, for example, it is a date, you can tell right away that it doesn’t mean “million,” for there isn’t any “million” in our dates. And there is one-seventh or eighth of your number deciphered already. Then “C,” of course, stands for “centum,” which you can translate by working backwards at it, taking such a word as “century” or “per cent,” and looking up what they come from, and there you have it! By this time it is hardly the middle of the afternoon, and all you have before you is a combination of X’s, I’s and an L, the latter standing for “Elevated Railway,” and “Licorice,” or, if you cross it with two little horizontal lines, it stands for the English pound, which is equivalent to about four dollars and eighty-odd cents in real money. Simple as sawing through a log.

  But it takes time. That’s the big trouble with it. You can’t do the right thing by the office and go in for Roman numerals, too. And since most of the people who pass such inscriptions are dependent on their own earnings, why not cater to them a bit and let them in on the secret?

  Probably the only reason that the people haven’t risen up and demanded a reform along these lines is because so few of them really give a hang what the inscription says. If the American Antiquarian Turn-Verein doesn’t care about stating in understandable figures the date on which the cornerstone of their building was laid, the average citizen is perfectly willing to let the matter drop right there.

  But it would never do to revert to Roman numerals in, say, the arrangement of time-tables. How long would the commuter stand it if he had to mumble to himself for twenty minutes and use up the margins of his newspaper before he could figure out what was the next train after the 5:18? Or this, over the telephone between wife and husband:

  “Hello, dear! I think I’ll come in town for lunch. What trains can I get?”

  “Just a minute – I’ll look them up. Hold the wire. . . . Let’s see, here’s one at XII:LVIII, that’s twelve, and L is a thousand and V is five and three I’s are three; that makes 12:one thousand. . . . that can’t be right. . . . now XII certainly is twelve, and L. . . what does L stand for? . . . I say; what—does—L—stand—for? . . . Well, ask Heima. . . . What does she say? . . . Fifty? . . . Sure, that makes it come out all right. . . . 12:58. . . . What time is it now? . . . 1 o’clock? . . . Well, the next one leaves Oakam at I:XLIV. . . . that’s. . .” etc.

  Batting averages and the standing of teams in the leagues are another department where the introduction of Roman numerals would be suicide for the political party in power at the time. For of all things that are essential to the day’s work of the voter, an early enlightenment in the matter of the home team’s standing and the numerical progress of the favorite batsman are of primary importance. This information has to be gleaned on the way to work in the morning, and, except for those who come in to work each day from North Philadelphia or the Croton Reservoir, it would be a physical impossibility to figure the tables out and get any of the day’s news besides.

  CLVB BATTING RECORDS

  Detroit Chicago

  Games- CLII CLI

  At Bat MMMMMXXCIX MMMMCMXL

  Runs DCLIII DLXXI

&nb
sp; B.H. MCCCXXXIII MCCXLVI

  S.B. CLXVIII CLXXIX

  S.H. CC CCXXI

  Aver. CCLXII CCLII

  Cleveland Boston

  Games- CLII CLI

  At Bat MMMMCMXXXVII MMMMDCCCLXXIV

  Runs DCXIX DXXXIV

  B.H. MCCXXXI MCXCI

  S.B. CL CXXXVI

  S.H. CCXXI CCXXV

  Aver. CCXLIX CCXLV

  New York Washington

  Games- CL CLIII

  At Bat MMMMCMLXXXVII MMMMCMXXVIII

  Runs DLIV DV

  B.H. MCCXXX MCXC

  S.B. CLXXV CLXIII

  S.H. CLXV CLXV

  Aver. CXLVII CCXDI

  St. Louis Philadelphia

  Games- CLV CXLIX

  At Bat MMMMMLXV MMMMDCCCXXVI

  Runs DLXXIV CCCCXVI

  B.H. MCCXXI MCXLIII

  S.B. CCVII CXLIII

  S.H. CLXII CLV

  Aver. CCXLI CCXXXVII

  YOU CAN’T DO RIGHT BY THE OFFICE AND GO IN FOR ROMAN NUMERALS TOO.

  On matters such as these the proletariat would have protested the Roman numeral long ago. If they are willing to let its reactionary use on tablets and monuments stand it is because of their indifference to influences which do not directly affect their pocketbooks. But if it could be put up to them in a powerful cartoon, showing the Architect and the Stone-Cutter dressed in frock coats and silk hats, with their pockets full of money, stepping on the Common People so that he cannot see what is written on the tablet behind them, then perhaps the public would realize how they are being imposed on.

  For that there is an organized movement among architects and stone-cutters to keep these things from the citizenry there can no longer be any doubt. It is not only a matter of the Roman numerals. How about the use of the “V” when “U” should be used? You will always see it in inscriptions. “SVMNER BVILDING” is one of the least offensive. Perhaps the excuse is that “V” is more adapted to stone-lettering. Then why not carry this principle out further? Why not use the letter H when S is meant? Or substitute K for B? If the idea is to deceive, and to make it easier for the stone-cutter, a pleasing effect could be got from the inscription, “Erected in 1897 by the Society of Arts and Grafts”, by making it read: “EKEATEW IZ MXIXLXIXLXXII LY THE XNLIEZY OF AEXA ZNL ELAFTX.” There you have letters that are all adapted to stone-cutting; they look well together, and they are, in toto, as intelligible as most inscriptions.

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  The Tooth, the Whole Tooth,

  and Nothing but the Tooth

  * * *

  Some well-known saying (it doesn’t make much difference what) is proved by the fact that everyone likes to talk about his experiences at the dentist’s. For years and years little articles like this have been written on the subject, little jokes like some that I shall presently make have been made, and people in general have been telling other people just what emotions they experience when they crawl into the old red plush guillotine.

  They like to explain to each other how they feel when the dentist puts “that buzzer thing” against their bicuspids, and, if sufficiently pressed, they will describe their sensations on mouthing a rubber dam.

  “I’ll tell you what I hate,” they will say with great relish, “when he takes that little nut-pick and begins to scrape. Ugh!”

  “Oh, I’ll tell you what’s worse than that,” says the friend, not to be outdone, “when he is poking around careless-like, and strikes a nerve. Wow!”

  And if there are more than two people at the experience-meeting, everyone will chip in and tell what he or she considers to be the worst phase of the dentist’s work, all present enjoying the narration hugely and none so much as the narrator who has suffered so.

  This sort of thing has been going on ever since the first mammoth gold tooth was hung out as a bait to folks in search of a good time. (By the way, when did the present obnoxious system of dentistry begin? It can’t be so very long ago that the electric auger was invented, and where would a dentist be without an electric auger? Yet you never hear of Amalgam Filling Day, or any other anniversary in the dental year). There must be a conspiracy of silence on the part of the trade to keep hidden the names of the men who are responsible for all this.

  However many years it may be that dentists have been plying their trade, in all that time people have never tired of talking about their teeth. This is probably due to the inscrutable workings of Nature who is always supplying new teeth to talk about.

  As a matter of fact, the actual time and suffering in the chair is only a fraction of the gross expenditure connected with the affair. The preliminary period, about which nobody talks, is much the worse. This dates from the discovery of the wayward tooth and extends to the moment when the dentist places his foot on the automatic hoist which jacks you up into range. Giving gas for tooth-extraction is all very humane in its way, but the time for anaesthetics is when the patient first decides that he must go to the dentist. From then on, until the first excavation is started, should be shrouded in oblivion.

  There is probably no moment more appalling than that in which the tongue, running idly over the teeth in a moment of care-free play, comes suddenly upon the ragged edge of a space from which the old familiar filling has disappeared. The world stops and you look meditatively up to the corner of the ceiling. Then quickly you draw your tongue away, and try to laugh the affair off, saying to yourself:

  “Stuff and nonsense, my good fellow! There is nothing the matter with your tooth. Your nerves are upset after a hard day’s work, that’s all.”

  Having decided this to your satisfaction, you slyly, and with a poor attempt at being casual, slide the tongue back along the line of adjacent teeth, hoping against hope that it will reach the end without mishap.

  But there it is! There can be no doubt about it this time. The tooth simply has got to be filled by someone, and the only person who can fill it with anything permanent is a dentist. You wonder if you might not be able to patch it up yourself for the time being, – a year or so – perhaps with a little spruce-gum and a coating of new-skin. It is fairly far back, and wouldn’t have to be a very sightly job.

  But this has an impracticable sound, even to you. You might want to eat some peanut-brittle (you never can tell when someone might offer you peanut-brittle these days), and the new-skin, while serviceable enough in the case of cream soups and custards, couldn’t be expected to stand up under heavy crunching.

  So you admit that, since the thing has got to be filled, it might as well be a dentist who does the job.

  This much decided, all that is necessary is to call him up and make an appointment.

  Let us say that this resolve is made on Tuesday. That afternoon you start to look up the dentist’s number in the telephone-book. A great wave of relief sweeps over you when you discover that it isn’t there. How can you be expected to make an appointment with a man who hasn’t got a telephone? And how can you have a tooth filled without making an appointment? The whole thing is impossible, and that’s all there is to it. God knows you did your best.

  On Wednesday there is a slightly more insistent twinge, owing to bad management of a sip of ice water. You decide that you simply must get in touch with that dentist when you get back from lunch. But you know how those things are. First one thing and then another came up, and a man came in from Providence who had to be shown around the office, and by the time you had a minute to yourself it was five o’clock. And, anyway, the tooth didn’t bother you again. You wouldn’t be surprised if, by being careful, you could get along with it as it is until the end of the week when you will have more time. A man has to think of his business, after all, and what is a little personal discomfort in the shape of an unfilled tooth to the satisfaction of work well done in the office?

  By Saturday morning you are fairly reconciled to going ahead, but it is only a half day and probably he has no appointments left, anyway. Monday is really the time. You can begin the week
afresh. After all, Monday is really the logical day to start in going to the dentist.

  Bright and early Monday morning you make another try at the telephone-book, and find, to your horror, that some time between now and last Tuesday the dentist’s name and number have been inserted into the directory. There it is. There is no getting around it: “Burgess, Jas. Kendal, DDS. . . . Courtland – 2654”. There is really nothing left to do but to call him up. Fortunately the line is busy, which gives you a perfectly good excuse for putting it over until Tuesday. But on Tuesday luck is against you and you get a clear connection with the doctor himself. An appointment is arranged for Thursday afternoon at 3:30.

  Thursday afternoon, and here it is only Tuesday morning! Almost anything may happen between now and then. We might declare war on Mexico, and off you’d have to go, dentist appointment or no dentist appointment. Surely a man couldn’t let a date to have a tooth filled stand in the way of his doing his duty to his country. Or the social revolution might start on Wednesday, and by Thursday the whole town might be in ashes. You can picture yourself standing, Thursday afternoon at 3.30 on the ruins of the City Hall, fighting off marauding bands of reds, and saying to yourself, with a sigh of relief: “Only to think! At this time I was to have been climbing into the dentist’s chair!” You never can tell when your luck will turn in a thing like that.

  But Wednesday goes by and nothing happens. And Thursday morning dawns without even a word from the dentist saying that he has been called suddenly out of town to lecture before the Incisor Club. Apparently, everything is working against you.

  By this time, your tongue has taken up a permanent resting-place in the vacant tooth, and is causing you to talk indistinctly and incoherently. Somehow you feel that if the dentist opens your mouth and finds the tip of your tongue in the tooth, he will be deceived and go away without doing anything.