The need for a determination of the rights and wrongs in the affaire Fraskell-Watling is, clearly, no less urgent now than it has ever been.
Dr. Donge, by incredible, indeed almost impossible, labor has proved that the issue was one of veracity. Colonel Fraskell intimated to Joseph Cooper, following a meeting of the Society of the Cincinnati, that Major Watling had been, in the words of Cooper’s letter of July 18,1789, to his brother Puntell in Philadelphia, “drauin [drawing] the long Bow.”[2]
O fatal indiscretion! For Puntell Cooper delayed not a week to “relay” the intelligence to Major Watling by post, as a newsy appendix to his order for cordwood from the major’s lot!
The brief, fatally terminated correspondence between the major and the colonel then began; I suppose most of us have it [better change to “at least key passages of corresp.” HS] committed to memory.
The first letter offers a tantalizing glimpse. Watling writes to Fraskell, inter alia: “I said I seen it at the Meetin the Nigh before Milkin Time by my Hoss Barn and I seen it are you a Atheist Colonel?” It has long been agreed that the masterly conjectural emendation of this passage proposed by Miss Stolp in her epoch-making paper[3] is the correct one, i.e.: “I said at the meeting [of the Society of the Cincinnati] that I saw it the night before [the meeting] at milking time, by my horse barn; and I [maintain in the face of your expressions of disbelief that I] saw it. Are you an atheist, colonel?”
There thus appears to have been at the outset of the correspondence a clear-cut issite: did or did not Major Watling see “it”? The reference to atheism suggests that “it” may have been some apparition deemed supernatural by the major, but we know absolutely nothing more of what “it” may have been.
Alas, but the correspondents at once lost sight of the “point.” The legendary Watling Temper and the formidable Fraskell Pride made it certain that one would sooner or later question the gentility of the other as they wrangled by post. The fact is that both did so simultaneously, on August 20, in letters that crossed. Once this stone was hurled [say “these stones”? HS] there was in those days no turning back. The circumstance that both parties were simultaneously offended and offending perplexed their seconds, and ultimately the choice of weapons had to be referred to a third party mutually agreeable to the duelists, Judge E. Z. C. Mosh.
Woe that he chose the deadly Pennsylvania Rifle![4] Woe that the two old soldiers knew that dread arm as the husbandman his sickle! At six o’clock on the morning of September 1, 1789, the major and the colonel expired on the cward behind Brashear’s Creek, each shot through the heart. The long division of our beloved borough into Fraskellite and Watlingist had begun.
After this preamble, I come now to the modern part of my tale. It begins in 1954, with the purchase of the Haddam property by our respected fellow-townsman, that adoptive son of Eleusis, Dr. Caspar Mord. I much regret that Dr. Mord is apparently on an extended vacation [where can the man be? HS]; since he is not available [confound it! HS] to grant permission, I must necessarily “skirt” certain topics, with a plea that to do otherwise might involve a violation of confidence. [Positively, there are times when one wishes that one were not a gentleman! HS]
I am quite aware that there was an element in our town which once chose to deprecate Dr. Mord, to question his degree, to inquire suspiciously into matters which are indubitably his own business and no one else’s, such as his source of income. This element of which I speak came perilously close to sullying the hospitable name of Eleusis by calling on Dr. Mord in a delegation afire with the ridiculous rumor that the doctor had been “hounded out of Peoria in 1929 for vivisection.”
Dr. Mord, far from reacting with justified wrath, chose the way of the true scientist. He showed this delegation through his laboratory to demonstrate that his activities were innocent, and it departed singing his praises, so to speak. They were particularly enthusiastic about two “phases” of his work which he demonstrated: some sort of “waking anaesthesia” gas, and a mechanical device for the induction of the hypnotic state.
I myself called on Dr. Mord as soon as he had settled down, in my capacity as President of the Eleusis Committee for the Preservation .of Local Historical Buildings and Sites. I explained to the good doctor that in the parlor of the Had-dam house had been formed in 1861 the Oquanantic Zouaves, that famed regiment of daredevils who with zeal and dash guarded the Boston (Massachusetts) Customs House through the four sanguinary years of conflict. I expressed the hope that the intricate fretsaw work, the stained glass, the elegant mansard roof and the soaring central tower would remain mute witnesses to the martial glory of Eleusis, and not fall victim to the “remodeling” craze.
Dr. Mord, with his characteristic smile (its first effect is unsettling, I confess, but when one later learns of the kindly intentions behind it, one grows accustomed to his face) replied somewhat irrelevantly by asking whether I had any dependents. He proceeded to a rather searching inquiry, explaining that as a man of science he liked to be sure of his facts. I advised him that I understood, diffidently mentioning that I was no stranger to scientific rigor, my own grandfather having published a massive Evidences for the Phlogiston Theory of Heat.[5] Somehow the interview concluded with Dr. Mord asking: “Mr. Spoynte, what do you consider your greatest contribution to human knowledge and welfare, and do you suppose that you will ever surpass that contribution?”
I replied after consideration that no doubt my “high water mark” was my discovery of the 1777 Order Book of the Wyalusing Militia Company in the basement of the Spodder Memorial Library, where it had been lost to sight for thirty-eight years after being rhisfiled under “Indian Religions (Local).” To the second part of his question I could only answer that it was given to few men twice to perform so momentous a service to scholarship.
On this odd note we parted; it occurred to me as I wended my way home that I had not succeeded in eliciting from the doctor a reply as to his intentions of preserving intact die Haddam house! But he “struck” me as an innately conservative person, and I had little real fear of the remodeler’s ruthless hammer and saw.
This impression was reinforced during the subsequent month, for the doctor intimated that he would be pleased to have me call on him Thursday evenings for a chat over the coffee cups.
These chats were the customary conversations of two teamed men of the world, skimming lightly over knowledge’s whole domain. Once, for example, Dr. Mord amusingly theorized that one of the most difficult things in the world for a private person to do was to find a completely useless human being. The bad men were in prison or hiding, he explained, and when one investigated the others it always turned out Aat they had some redeeming quality or usefulness to somebody. “Almost always,” he amended with a laugh. At other Hoes he would question me deeply about my life and activist, now and then muttering: “I must be sure; I must be sure”—typical of his scientist’s passion for precision. Yet again, he would speak of the glorious Age of Pericles, saying fervently: “Spoynte, I would give anything, do anything, to look upon ancient Athens in its flower!”
Now, I claim no genius inspired my rejoinder. I was merely “the right man in the right place.” I replied: “Dr. Mord, your wish to visit ancient Athens could be no more fervent than mine to visit Major Waiting’s horse barn at milking time the evening of July 17, 1789.”
I must, at this point, [confound it! I am sure Dr. M. would give permission to elaborate if he were only here! HS] drop an impenetrable veil of secrecy over certain episodes, for reasons which I have already stated.
I am, however, in a position to state with absolute authority that there was no apparition at Major Watling’s horse barn at milking time the evening of—
[Steady on, Hardeign. Think. Think. Major W. turned. I looked about No apparitions, spooks, goblins. Just Major W. and myself. He looked at me and made a curious sort of face. No. Nonono. Can’t be. Oh, my God! I was the—Fault all mine. Duel, feud. Traitor to dear Eleusis. Feel sick . . . . HS]
&n
bsp; DOCUMENT TWO
Being a note delivered by Mrs. Irving McGuinness, Domestic, to Miss Agnes DeW. Stolp, President, the Tuscarora Township Historical Society
“The Elms”
Wednesday
Dear Miss Stolp,
Pray forgive my failure to attend the last meeting of the Society to read my paper. I was writing the last words when—I can tell you no more. Young Dr. Scantt has been in constant attendance at my bedside, and my temperature has not fallen below 99.8 degrees in the past 48 hours. I have been, I am, a sick and suffering man. I abjectly hope that you and everybody in Eleusis will bear this in mind if certain facts should come to your attention.
I cannot close without a warning against that rascal, “Dr.” Caspar Mord. A pledge prevents me from entering into details, but I urge you, should he dare to rear his head in Eleusis again, to hound him out of town as he was hounded out of Peoria in 1929. Verbum sapientibus satifc.
Hardeign Spoynte
[1] vide Spoynte, H.: “Egney Hovington, Nineteenth-Century American Nature Poet, and his career at Eleusis Academy, October 4—October 28, 1881” (art.) in Bull of the Tuscarora Township Hut. Soc., VoL XVI, No. 4, Winter, 1929, pp. 4-18.
[2] DONGE, Dr. J.: supra, p. 774, u.
[3] STOLP, A. DeW.: “Some Textual Problems Relating to the Correspondence between Major Elisha Watling and Colonel Hiram Fraskell, Eleusis, Pennsylvania, July 27-September 1, 1789” (art.) in Bull. of Tuscarora Township Hist. Soc., Vol. IV, No. 1, Spring, 1917.
[4] Amusingly known to hoi polloi and some who should know better as the “Kentucky” Rifle.
[5] Generally considered the last word on the subject though, as I demand it, somewhat eclipsed at present by the flashy and mystical “molecular theory” of the notorious Tory sympathizer and renegade Benjamin Thompson, styled “Count” Rumford. “A fool can alays find a bigger fool to admire him.” [Quote in orig. French? Check source and exact text HS]
Virginia
This is the tale of an improbable young man and the unlikely fate he meets. Or is it unlikely? Sometimes we wonder . . . but never mind that now. The important thing, after all, is to continue smiling.
JAMES “BUNNY” COOGLER WOKE on the morning of his father’s funeral with a confused feeling that it was awfully crowded in his bedroom. Ohara, his valet (of the Shimanoseki Oharas, and not to be confused with the Dublin branch of the family) was shaking his sleeve and saying: “You wake up, Missah Bunny! Ah, such important gentermen come see you!” Bunny groped on the bedside table for the sunglasses to shelter his pink-rimmed eyes from the light. Ohara popped them onto his face and then rapidly poured a prairie oyster, a bromo and a cup of black coffee laced with brandy into him. Bunny’s usual rate of morning vibration began to dampen towards zero and he peered about the room through the dark lenses.
“Morning, young Coogler,” said a gruff voice. The outline was that of J. G. Barsax, senior partner of his late father’s firm. A murmur of greeting came from three other elephantine figures. They were Gonfalonieri of First American, Witz of Diversified Limited, and McChesney of Southern Development Inc. If an efficient bomb had gone off in the room at that moment, it would have liquidated eighteen-billion-dollars’ worth of Top Management and Ownership.
“Sorry about your father,” Barsax grunted. “Mind if we sit? Not much time before the funeral. Have to brief you fast.”
Bunny said, “Mr. Sankton told me what I’d have to do, Mr. Barsax. Rise after the ‘Amen,’ lead the procession past the casket, up the center aisle to the limousine exit—”
“No, no, no. Of course you know the funeral form. I’m talking about the financial briefing. Coogler, you’re a very wealthy young man.”
Bunny took off his sunglasses. “I am?” he asked uncertainly. “Surely not. There’s this trust thing he was always talking about to pay me twenty thousand a year—”
“Talked,” said Gonfalonieri. “That’s all he did. He never got it on paper. You’re the sole heir to the liquid equivalent of, say, three and a half billion dollars.”
Ohara hastily refilled the cup with laced coffee and put it in Bunny’s hand.
“So,” little Mr. Witz said softly, “there are certain things you must know. Certain rules that have sprung up which We observe.” The capitalized plural pronoun was definitely sounded. Whether it was to be taken as royal, editorial, or theological, who can say? They proceeded to brief Bunny.
Firstly, he must never admit that he was wealthy. He might use the phrase “what little I have,” accompanied by a whimsical shrug.
Secondly, he must never, under any circumstances, at any time, give anything to anybody. Whenever asked for anything he was to intimate that this one request he simply could not grant, that it was the one crushing straw atop his terrible burden of charitable contributions.
Thirdly; whenever offered anything—from a cigar to a million-dollar market tip from a climber—he must take it without thanks and complain bitterly that the gift was not handsomer.
Fourthly, he must look on Touching Capital as morally equivalent to coprophagia, but he must not attempt to sting himself by living on the interest of his interest; that was only for New Englanders.
Fifthly, when he married he must choose his bride from one of Us.
“You mean, one of you four gentlemen?” Bunny asked.
He thought of J.G.’s eldest daughter and repressed a shudder.
“No,” said Witz. “One of Us in the larger sense. You will come to know who is who, and eventually acquire an instinct that will enable you to distinguish between a millionaire and a person of real substance.”
“And that,” said Barsax, “is the sum of it We shall see you at the funeral and approach you later, Coogler.” He glanced at his watch. “Come, gentlemen.”
Bunny had a mechanical turn of mind; he enjoyed the Museum of Suppressed Inventions at J.G.’s Carolina estate. The quavery old curator pottered after him complaining.
This, sir, is the hundred-mile-per-gallon carburetor. I was more active when it came out in ’36—I was a Field Operative then. I tracked it down to a little Iowa village on a rumor from a patent attorney; it was quite a struggle to suppress that one. Quite a struggle, sir! But—the next case, please, sir—it would have been rendered obsolete within two years. Yes, sir, that’s when the Gasoline Pill came out Let me show you, sk!”
He happily popped one of the green pills into a gallon of water and lectured as it bubbled and fumed and turned the water into 100-octane gasoline.
The Eternal Match was interesting, the Two-Cent Sirloin was delicious, and the Vanishing Cream vanished a half-inch roll of fat from Bunny’s belly while he watched. “But Lord bless you, sir,” tittered the curator, “what would be the point of giving people something that worked? They’d just go ahead and use it, and then when they had no more need they’d stop using it, eh?
“And this one, sir, it isn’t really what you’d call suppressed. We’re just working on it to build it up some; perhaps in five years well have it looking like it costs five thousand dollars, and then well be able to sell it”. “It” was three-dimensional, full-color television; the heart of the system was a flashlight battery, a small C-clamp and a pinch of baking soda.
Bunny visited also the vast pest-breeding establishment in the Rockies, where flies, roaches, mice, gnats, boll-weevils, the elm-rot fungus and the tobacco-mosaic virus were patiently raised to maximum virulence and dispatched by couriers to their proper places all over the world. The taciturn Connecticut Yankee who ran the sprawling plant snapped at him, “Danged better mousetraps almost wiped out the mousetrap industry. Think people’d have better sense. DDT almost killed off pesticide—whole danged business, employing two hundred thousand. They think of that? Naw! So we had ter breed them DDT-resistant strains and seed ’em everywhere.”
Bunny began to acquire the instinct to which Witz had referred. When he encountered an Oil Texan he could tell that the man’s nervous hilarity and brag stemmed from his poverty, and he p
itied him. When he encountered one day at Gonfalonieri’s place in Baja California a certain quiet fellow named Briggs, he knew without being told that Briggs was one of Us. It was no surprise to learn later that Briggs held all the basic patents on water.
Briggs it was, indeed, who took him aside for an important talk. The quiet man offered him a thousand-dollar cigar (for the growing of whose tobacco Briggs had caused an artificial island to be built in the deep Central Pacific at the exactly correct point of temperature, wind and humidity) and said to him, “It’s time you took a wife.”
Bunny, who could not these days leaf through Vogue or the New Yorker without a tender, reminiscent smile for each of the lovely models shown in the advertisements, disagreed. “Can’t see why, Briggs,” he muttered. “Having jolly good time. Never used to have much luck with girls—all different now. Mean to say, with—” he gave the whimsical little shrug—“what little I have, doing awfully well and it doesn’t cost me anything. Queer. When I had ten-twenty thou’, when I was poor, had to buy corsages, dinners. All different now. They buy me things. Platinum watches. Have simply dozens. But the rules—have to take ’em. Queer.”
Collected Short Fiction Page 254
