III: _Mr. Pottle and Culture_
Out of the bathtub, rubicund and rotund, stepped Mr. Ambrose Pottle. Heanointed his hair with sweet spirits of lilac and dusted his anatomywith crushed rosebud talcum. He donned a virgin union suit; a pair ofsocks, silk where it showed; ultra low shoes; white-flannel trousers,warm from the tailor's goose; a creamy silk shirt; an impeccable bluecoat; a gala tie, perfect after five tyings; and then went forth intothe spring-scented eventide to pay a call on Mrs. Blossom Gallup.
He approached her new-art bungalow as one might a shrine, with diffidentsteps and hesitant heart, but with delicious tinglings radiating fromhis spinal cord. Only the ballast of a three-pound box of Choc-O-lateNutties under his arm kept him on earth. He was in love.
To be in love for the first time at twenty is passably thrilling; but tobe in love for the first time at thirty-six is exquisitely excruciating.
Mr. Pottle found Mrs. Gallup in her living room, a basket of undarnedstockings on her lap. With a pretty show of confusion and manyembarrassed murmurings she thrust them behind the piano, he protestingthat this intimate domesticity delighted him.
She sank back with a little sigh into a gay-chintzed wicker chair, andthe rosy light from a tall piano lamp fell gently on her high-piledgolden hair, her surprised blue eyes, and the ripe, generous outlines ofher figure. To Mr. Pottle she was a dream of loveliness, a poem, anidyl. He would have given worlds, solar systems to have been able totell her so. But he couldn't. He couldn't find the words, for, like manyanother sterling character in the barbers' supply business, he was noteloquent; he did not speak with the fluent ease, the masterful flow thatcomes, one sees it often said, from twenty-one minutes a day ofcommunion with the great minds of all time. His communings had beenlargely with boss barbers; with them he was cheery and chatty. But Mrs.Gallup and her intellectual interests were a world removed from thingstonsorial; in her presence he was tongue-tied as an oyster.
Mr. Pottle's worshiping eye roved from the lady to her library, and hisgood-hearted face showed tiny furrows of despair; an array of fat crispbooks in shiny new bindings stared at him: Twenty-one Minutes' DailyCommunion With the Master Minds; Capsule Chats on Poets, Philosophers,Painters, Novelists, Interior Decorators; Culture for the Busy Man, sixvolumes, half calf; How to Build Up a Background; Talk Tips; YOU, Too,Can Be Interesting; Sixty Square Feet of Self-Culture--and a score more."Culture"--always that wretched word!
"Are you fond of reading, Mr. Pottle?" asked Mrs. Gallup, popping aChoc-O-late Nuttie into her demure mouth with a daintiness almostethereal.
"Love it," he answered promptly.
"Who is your favorite poet?"
"S-Shakspere," he ventured desperately.
"He's mine, too." Mr. Pottle breathed easier.
"But," she added, "I think Longfellow is sweet, don't you?"
"Very sweet," agreed Mr. Pottle.
She smiled at him with a sad, shy confidence.
"He did not understand," she said.
She nodded her blonde head toward an enlarged picture of the late Mr.Gallup, in the full regalia of Past Grand Master of the Beneficent Orderof Beavers.
"Didn't he care for--er--literature?" asked Mr. Pottle.
"He despised it," she replied. "He was wrapped up in the hay-and-feedbusiness. He began to talk about oats and chicken gravel on ourhoneymoon."
Mr. Pottle made a sympathetic noise.
"In our six years of married life," she went on, "he talked of nothingbut duck fodder, carload lots, trade discounts, selling points, bran,turnover----"
How futile, how inadequate seem mere words in some situations. Mr.Pottle said nothing; timidly he took her hand in his; she did not drawit away.
"And he only shaved on Saturday nights," she said.
Mr. Pottle's free hand went to his own face, smooth as steel and artcould make it.
"Blossom," he began huskily, "have you ever thought of marrying again?"
"I have," she answered, blushing--his hand on hers tightened--"and Ihaven't," she finished.
"Oh, Blossom----" he began once more.
"If I do marry again," she interrupted, "it will be a literary man."
"A literary man?" His tone was aghast. "A writing fella?"
"Oh, not necessarily a writer," she said. "They usually live in garrets,and I shouldn't like that. I mean a man who has read all sorts ofbooks, and who can talk about all sorts of things."
"Blossom"--Mr. Pottle's voice was humble--"I'm not what you mightcall----"
There was a sound of clumping feet on the porch outside. Mrs. Gallupstarted up.
"Oh, that must be him now!" she cried.
"Him? Who?"
"Why, Mr. Deeley."
"Who's he?" queried Mr. Pottle.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you! He said he might call to-night. Such a niceman! I met him over in Xenia last week. Such a brilliantconversationalist. I know you'll like each other."
She hastened to answer the doorbell; Mr. Pottle sat moodily in hischair, not at all sure he'd like Mr. Deeley.
The brilliant conversationalist burst into the room breezily,confidently. He was slightly smaller than a load of hay in his beltedsuit of ecru pongee; he wore a satisfied air and a pleased mustache.
"Meet Mr. Pottle," said Mrs. Gallup.
"What name?" asked Mr. Deeley. His voice was high, sweet and loud; hishandshake was a knuckle pulverizer.
"Pottle," said the owner of that name.
"I beg pardon?" said Mr. Deeley.
"Pottle," said Mr. Pottle more loudly.
"Sorry," said Mr. Deeley affably, "but it sounds just like 'Pottle' tome."
"That's what it is," said Mr. Pottle with dignity.
Mr. Deeley laughed a loud tittering laugh.
"Oh, well," he remarked genially, "you can't help that. We're born withour names, but"--he bestowed a dazzling smile on Mrs. Gallup--"we pickour own teeth."
"Oh, Mr. Deeley," she cried, "you do say the most ridiculously wittythings!"
Mr. Pottle felt a concrete lump forming in his bosom.
Mr. Deeley addressed him tolerantly. "What line are you in, Mr. Bottle?"he asked.
"Barbers' supplies," admitted Mr. Pottle.
"Ah, yes. Barbers' supplies. How interesting," said Mr. Deeley."Climbing the lather of success, eh?"
Mr. Pottle did not join in the merriment.
"What line are you in?" he asked. He prayed that Mr. Deeley would say"Shoes," for by a happy inspiration he was prepared to counter with,"Ah, starting at the bottom," and thus split honors with the Xenian.
But Mr. Deeley did not say "Shoes." He said "Literature." Mrs. Gallupbeamed.
"Oh, are you, Mr. Deeley? How perfectly thrilling!" she saidrapturously. "I didn't know that."
"Oh, yes indeed," said Mr. Deeley. He changed the subject by turning toMr. Pottle. "By the way, Mr. Poodle, are you interested in Abyssinia?"he inquired.
"Why, no--that is, not particularly," confessed Mr. Pottle. He lookedtoward her who had quickened his pulse, but her eyes were fastened onMr. Deeley.
"I'm surprised to hear you say that," said Mr. Deeley. "A mostinteresting place, Abyssinia--rather a specialty of mine."
He threw one plump leg over the other and leaned back comfortably.
"Abyssinia," he went on in his high voice, "is an inland countrysituated by the Red Sea between 5 deg. and 15 deg. north latitude, and 35 deg. and42 deg. east longitude. Its area is 351,019 square miles. Its population is4,501,477. It includes Shoa, Kaffa, Gallaland and Central Somaliland.Its towns include Adis-Ababa, Adowa, Adigrat, Aliu-Amber, Debra-Derhanand Bonger. It produces coffee, salt and gold. The inhabitants aremorally very lax. Indeed, polygamy is a common practice, and----"
"Polly Gammy?" cried Mrs. Gallup in imitation of Mr. Deeley'spronunciation. "Oh, what is that?"
Mr. Deeley smiled blandly.
"I think," he said, "that it is hardly the sort of thing I care todiscuss in--er--mixed company."
He helped himself to three of the Choc-O-late
Nutties.
"That reminds me," he said, "of abbreviations."
"Abbreviations?" Mrs. Gallup looked her interest.
"The world," observed Mr. Deeley, "is full of them. For example, Mr.Puttle, do you know what R. W. D. G. M. stands for?"
"No," answered Mr. Pottle glumly.
"It stands for Right Worshipful Deputy Grand Master," informed Mr.Deeley. "Do you know what N. U. T. stands for?"
"I know what it spells," said Mr. Pottle pointedly.
"You ought to," said Mr. Deeley, letting off his laugh. "But we werediscussing abbreviations. Since you don't seem very well informed onthis point"--he shot a smile at Mrs. Gallup--"I'll tell you that N. U.T. stands for National Union of Teachers, just as M. F. H. stands forMaster of Fox Hounds, and M. I. C. E. stands for Member of Institute ofCivil Engineers, and A. O. H. stands for----"
"Oh, Mr. Deeley, how perfectly thrilling!" Mrs. Gallup spoke; Mr. Pottlewrithed; Mr. Deeley smiled complacently, and went on.
"I could go on indefinitely; abbreviations are rather a specialty ofmine."
It developed that Mr. Deeley had many specialties.
"Are you aware," he asked, focusing his gaze on Mr. Pottle, "that thereis acid in this cherry?" He held aloft a candied cherry which he haddeftly exhumed from a Choc-O-late Nuttie.
"My goodness!" cried Mrs. Gallup. "Will it poison us? I've eaten six."
"My dear lady"--there was a world of tender reassurance in Mr. Deeley'stone--"only the uninformed regard all acids as poisonous. There areacids and acids. I've taken a rather special interest in them. Let'ssee--there are many kinds--acetic, benzoic, citric, gallic, lactic,malic, oxalic, palmitic, picric--but why go on?"
"Yes," said Mr. Pottle; "why?"
"Do not interrupt, Mr. Pottle, if you please," said Mrs. Gallupseverely. "I'm sure what Mr. Deeley says interests me immensely. Go on,Mr. Deeley."
"Thank you, Mrs. Gallup; thank you," said the brilliantconversationalist. "But don't you think alligators are more interestingthan acids?"
"You know about so many interesting things," she smiled. Mr. Pottle'svery soul began to curdle.
"Alligators are rather a specialty of mine," remarked Mr. Deeley."Fascinating little brutes, I think. You know alligators, Mrs. Gallup?"
"Stuffed," said the lady.
"Ah, to be sure," he said. "Perhaps, then, you do not realize that thealligator is of the family _Crocodilidoe_ and the order _Eusuchia_."
"No? You don't tell me?" Mrs. Gallup's tone was almost reverent.
"Yes," continued Mr. Deeley, in the voice of a lecturer, "there are twokinds of alligators--the _lucius_, found in the Mississippi; and the_sinensis_, in the Yang-tse-Kiang. It differs from the _caiman_ byhaving a bony septum between its nostrils, and its ventral scutes arethinly, if at all, ossified. It is carnivorous and piscivorous----"
"How fascinating!" Mrs. Gallup had edged her chair nearer the speaker."What does that mean?"
"It means," said Mr. Deeley, "that they eat corn and pigs."
"The strong tail of the alligator," he flowed on easily, "by a lashingmovement assists it in swimming, during which exercise it emits a loudbellowing."
"Do alligators bellow?" asked Mr. Pottle with open skepticism.
"I wish I had a dollar for every time I've heard them bellow," answeredMr. Deeley pugnaciously. "Apparently, Mr. Puddle, you are not familiarwith the works of Ahn."
Mr. Pottle maintained a blank black silence.
"Oh, who was he?" put in Mrs. Gallup.
"Johann Franz Ahn, born 1796, died 1865, was an educationalist," saidMr. Deeley in the voice of authority. "His chief work, of which I amvery fond, is a volume entitled, 'Praktischer Lehrgang zur Schnellen undLeichten Erlergung der Franzoesischen Sprache.' You've read it, perhaps,Mr. Pobble?"
"No," said Mr. Pottle miserably. "I can't say I ever have." He felt thathis case grew worse with every minute. He rose. "I guess I'd better begoing," he said. Mrs. Gallup made no attempt to detain him.
As he left her presence with slow steps and a heart of lead he heard thehigh voice of Mr. Deeley saying, "Now, take alcohol: That's rather aspecialty of mine. Alcohol is a term applied to a group of organicsubstances, including methyl, ethyl, propyl, butyl, amyl----"
Back in his bachelor home the heartsick Mr. Pottle flung his new tieinto a corner, slammed his ultra shoes on the floor, and tossed histrousers, heedless of rumpling, at a chair, sat down, head in hand, andthought of a watery grave.
For that he could not hope to compete conversationally or otherwise withthe literary Deeley of Xenia was all too apparent. Mrs. Gallup--he hadcalled her Blossom but a few brief hours ago--said she wanted a literaryman, and here was one literary to his manicured finger tips.
He would not give up. Pottles are made of stern stuff. Reason told himhis cause was hopeless, but his heart told him to fight to the last. Heobeyed his heart.
Arraying himself in his finest, three nights later he went to call onMrs. Gallup, a five-pound box of Choc-O-late Nutties hugged nervously tohis silk-shirted bosom.
A maid admitted him. He heard in the living room a familiar highmasculine voice that made his fists double up. It was saying,"Aristotle, the Greek philosopher, was born at Stagira in 384 B. C.and----"
Mr. Deeley paused to greet Mr. Pottle casually; Mrs. Gallup took thecandy with only conventional words of appreciation, and turned at onceto listen, disciple-like, to the discourses of the sage from Xenia, whofor the rest of the evening held the center of the stage, absorbed everybeam of the calcium, and dispensed fact and fancy about a wide varietyof things. He was a man with many and curious specialties. Mrs. Gallupwas a willing, Mr. Pottle a most unwilling listener.
At eleven Mr. Pottle went home, having uttered but two words allevening, and those monosyllables. He left Mr. Deeley holding forth indetail on the science of astronomy, with side glances at astrology andancestor-worship.
Mr. Pottle's heart was too full for sleep. Indeed, as he walked in themoonlight through Eastman Park, it was with the partially formed intentof flinging himself in among the swans that slept on the artificiallake.
His mind went back to the conversation of Mr. Deeley in Mrs. Gallup'ssalon. She had been Blossom to him once, but now--this loudly learnedstranger! Mr. Pottle stopped suddenly and sat down sharply on a parkbench. The topics on which Mr. Deeley had conversed so fluently passedin an orderly array before his mind: Apes, acoustics, angels, Apollo,adders, albumen, auks, Alexander the Great, anarchy, adenoids----He hadit! A light, bright as the sun at noon, dawned on Mr. Pottle.
Next morning when the public library opened, Mr. Pottle was waiting atthe door.
A feverish week rushed by in Mr. Pottle's life.
"We'll be having to charge that little man with the bashful grin, rentor storage or something," said Miss Merk, the seventh assistantlibrarian, to Miss Heaslip, the ninth assistant librarian.
Sunday night firm determined steps took Mr. Pottle to the bungalow ofMrs. Gallup. He heard Mr. Deeley's sweet resonant voice in the livingroom. He smiled grimly.
"I was just telling Blossom about a curious little animal I take rathera special interest in," began the man from Xenia, with a condescendingnod to Mr. Pottle.
Mr. Pottle checked the frown that had started to gather at "Blossom,"and asked politely, "And what is the beast's name?"
"The aard-vark," replied Mr. Deeley. "He is----"
"The Cape ant bear," finished Mr. Pottle, "or earth pig. He lives onants, burrows rapidly, and can be easily killed by a smart blow on hissensitive snout."
Mr. Deeley stared; Mrs. Gallup stared; Mr. Pottle sailed on serenely.
"A very interesting beast, the aard-vark. But to my mind not sointeresting as the long-nosed bandicoot. You know the long-nosedbandicoot, I presume, Mr. Deeley?"
"Well, not under that name," retorted the Xenia sage. "You don't meanantelope?"
"By no means," said Mr. Pottle with a superior smile. "I saidbandicoot--B-a-n-d-i-coot. He is a _Peramelidoe_ of the Marsupialfamily, meaning he
carries his young in a pouch like a kangaroo."
"How cute!" murmured Mrs. Gallup.
"There are bandicoots and bandicoots," pursued Mr. Pottle; "the_Peragale_, or rabbit bandicoot; the _Nasuta_, or long-nosed bandicoot;the _Mysouros_, or saddle-backed bandicoot; the _Choeropus_, orpig-footed bandicoot; and----"
"Speaking of antelopes----" Mr. Deeley interrupted loudly.
"By all means!" said Mr. Pottle still more loudly. "I've always taken aspecial interest in antelopes. Let's see now--the antelope familyincludes the gnus, elands, hartebeests, addax, klipspringers, chamois,gazelles, chirus, pallas, saigas, nilgais, koodoos--pretty name that,isn't it, Blossom--the blessboks, duikerboks, boneboks, gemsboks,steinboks----"
He saw that the bright blue eyes of the lady of his dreams were fastenedon him. He turned toward Mr. Deeley.
"You're familiar with Bambara, aren't you?" he asked.
"I beg pardon?" The brilliant conversationalist seemed a littleconfused. "Did you say Arabia? I should say I do know Arabia. Population5,078,441; area----"
"One million, two hundred and twenty-two thousand square miles,"finished Mr. Pottle. "No, I did not say Arabia; I said Bambara.B-a-m-b-a-r-a."
"Oh, Bambara," said Mr. Deeley feebly; his assurance seemed to crumple.
"Yes," said Mrs. Gallup. "Do tell us about Bambara; such an intriguingname."
"It is a country in Western Africa," Mr. Pottle tossed off grandly,"with a population of 2,004,737, made up of Negroes, Mandingoes andFoulahs. Its principal products are rice, maize, cotton, millet, yams,pistachio nuts, French beans, watermelons, onions, tobacco, indigo,tamarinds, lotuses, sheep, horses, alligators, pelicans, turtles,egrets, teals and Barbary ducks."
"Oh, how interesting! Do go on, Mr. Pottle." It was the voice of Mrs.Gallup; to Mr. Pottle it seemed that there was a tender note in it.
"Bambara reminds me of baboons," he went on loudly and rapidly, checkingan incipient remark from Mr. Deeley. "Baboons, you know, are_Cynocephali_ or dog-headed monkeys; the species includes drills,mandrills, sphinx, chacma and hamadryas. Most baboons have ischialcallosities----"
"Oh, what do they do with them?" cried wide-eyed Mrs. Gallup.
"They--er--sit on them," answered Mr. Pottle.
"I don't believe it," Mr. Deeley challenged.
Mr. Pottle froze him with a look. "Evidently," he said, "you, Mr.Deeley, are not familiar with the works of Dr. Oskar Baumann, author of'Afrikanische Skizzen.' Are you?"
"I've glanced through it," said Mr. Deeley.
"Then you don't remember what he says on Page 489?"
"Can't say that I do," mumbled Mr. Deeley.
"And you appear unfamiliar with the works of Hosea Ballou."
"Who?"
"Hosea Ballou."
"I doubt if there is such a person," said Mr. Deeley stiffly. He did notappear to be enjoying himself.
"Oh, you do, do you?" retorted Mr. Pottle. "Suppose you look him up inyour encyclopedia--if," he added with crushing emphasis--"if you haveone. You'll find that Hosea Ballou was born in 1771, founded the TrumpetMagazine, the Universalist Expositor, the Universalist Quarterly Review,and wrote Notes on the Parables."
"What has that to do with baboons?" demanded Mr. Deeley.
"A lot more than you think," was Mr. Pottle's cryptic answer. He turnedfrom the Xenian with a shrug of dismissal, and smiled upon Mrs. Gallup.
"Don't you think, Blossom," he said, "that Babylonia is a fascinatingcountry?"
"Oh, very," she smiled back at him. "I dote on Babylonia."
"Perhaps," suggested Mr. Pottle, "Mr. Deeley will be good enough to tellus all about it."
Mr. Deeley looked extremely uncomfortable.
"Babylonia--let's see now--well, it just happens that Babylonia is notone of my specialties."
"Well, tell us about Baluchistan, then," suggested Mr. Pottle.
"Yes, do!" echoed Mrs. Gallup.
"I've forgotten about it," answered the brilliant conversationalistsullenly.
"Well, tell us about Beethoven, then," pursued Mr. Pottle relentlessly.
"I never was there," growled Mr. Deeley. "Say, when does the nexttrolley leave for Xenia?"
"In seven minutes," answered Mrs. Gallup coldly. "You've just got timeto catch it."
The bungalow's front door snapped at the heels of the departing sagefrom Xenia.
Mr. Pottle hitched his chair close to the sofa where Mrs. Gallup sat.
"Oh, Mr. Pottle," she said softly, "do talk some more! I just love tohear you. You surprised me. I didn't realize you were such a well-readman."
Mr. Pottle looked into her wide blue eyes.
"I'm not," he said. "I was bluffing."
"Bluffing?"
"Yes," he said; "and so was your friend from Xenia. He's no more in theliterary line than I am. His job is selling a book called 'HogCulture.'"
"But he talks so well----" began Mrs. Gallup.
"Only about things that begin with 'A,'" said Mr. Pottle. "He memorizedeverything in the encyclopedia under 'A.' I simply went him one better.I memorized all of 'A,' and all of 'B' too."
"Oh, the deceitful wretch!"
"I'm sorry, Blossom. Can you forgive me?" he pleaded. "I did itbecause----"
She interrupted him gently.
"I know," she said, smiling. "You did it for me. I wasn't calling you awretch, Ambrose."
He found himself on the sofa beside her, his arm about her.
"What I really want," she confessed with a happy sigh, "is a good strongman to take care of me."
"We'll go through the rest of the encyclopedia together, dearest," saidMr. Pottle.
The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon, and other humorous tales Page 3
