Samuel Marchbanks' Almanack

by Robertson Davies

  THE MAGIC OF LATIN / Among the tools of my trade I possess a number of books of quotations, most of which bear titles such as Familiar Quotations, Quotations The Whole World Loves, and the like. The only honestly named one is The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations. The fact is that no great fat thick book of quotations can be called “familiar”; very few people can identify more than a dozen of them. Furthermore there are hundreds of quotations in such books which I solemnly swear are not familiar to anybody. The fake profundities of dead politicians, the treacly outpourings of fifth-rate poets, the moonlit nonsense of minor essayists—this junk makes up the bulk of most quotation books. I like Mencken’s book of quotations because it is full of sin and impudence and does not pretend to be familiar; I like the Oxford book because it is unashamedly highbrow and contains a great many quotations in Latin. But the “familiar” nonsense I scorn. I love Latin quotations. I suspect that nobody ever said anything in Latin which was above the level of barber shop philosophy, but it has a wondrous sonority.

  LASS WITH THE DELICATE AIR / In a periodical I found a picture of a lovely girl in evening dress; she was able to keep up the social pace, the advertisement said, because she took two indigestion pellets after each meal. Now this is melancholy reading, if you like! I do not choose to think of beautiful girls as eating at all, much less digesting. And the notion that a beautiful girl stuffs herself with dyspepsia tablets all the time is utterly repugnant to me. As an amateur of physiology I know that every human creature has enough acid in its gizzard to eat a hole in a heavy steel beam; as a romantic admirer of Womanhood I decline to apply my knowledge to the young and fair. A girl with indigestion is a traitor to her sex and, much worse, a traitor to mine.

  *

  • FROM MY LETTER BOOK •

  To Samuel Marchbanks, ESQ.

  Dear Mr. Marchbanks:

  I write to enlist your support and membership in the Canadian Laudable Litter League which I am forming. Do you realize, sir, that every day thousands of pounds—nay, tons—of material of one sort and another which should be returned to the soil of our country is burned, or washed down our waterways to the sea, never to be recovered? Vital vitamins, irreplaceable minerals and animal and vegetable matter of all kinds is wasted in this way. The time has come to Call a Halt.

  During the Summer I have been doing my bit to preserve what is Canada’s for Canada. Whenever I have been on a picnic I have taken care to throw my hard-boiled eggshell back on the land, to preserve minerals. I have thrown my banana skins and other peelings into farmers’ fields, to put vitamins back into the soil. When others have gathered up their waste paper, I have left it to blow where the wind listeth, for it came from the soil and should return whence it came.

  Each member of the Laudable Litter League pledges himself never again to give his garbage to a wasteful urban collector, for burning; instead he takes it into the country (preferably in the dark of the moon, as this is the time approved by our hero, the late Rudolf Steiner) and throws it into the field of some farmer whose soil appears to be impoverished. This should be done by stealth, for the League seeks no credit for its good work.

  Begging you to become an honorary L.L.D. (Laudable Litter Distributor) at once, I remain,

  Yours literally,

  Minerva Hawser.

  *

  To Haubergeon Hydra, ESQ.

  Dear Mr. Hydra:

  As I have written to you so often in tones of complaint, it gives me particular pleasure to pay you a compliment on the agreeable manners of the men who deal with immigration on the international bridges at Niagara Falls. As Overseer of Conduct for Civil Servants I thought that you would like to hear about this. During the past month I had some work to do in Niagara Falls, Canada, but I was living with some friends in Niagara Falls, USA, and I use the bridges a good deal.

  Each time I crossed I answered much the same questions. “Where were you born?” “Skunk’s Misery, Ontario,” I would reply, in an accent which I acquired abroad, and which has at various times caused me to be taken for an Englishman, an Irishman, a Scotsman, and a native of the Scilly Isles. This accent, and an appearance which suggests an archimandrite of the Greek Orthodox Church, sometimes throws doubt on my Skunk’s Misery origin. But I was always believed. Then, after a few more queries about my sex life and financial status, I would be passed through, with bows and cries of “Huzza for Marchbanks!” If I had any luggage the Customs men would finger it delicately, compliment me on the neatness of my packing and the exquisite taste which I showed in choosing socks and underpants, and wave me on.

  The bridge attendants have a sterner side, however, as I saw on my last journey across the bridge. The man who came after me was elderly, with flowing white hair and a goatee—obviously a Southern Colonel. “Have you anything to declare?” asked the Canadian Immigration man. “I declare it’s a mighty hot day, suh!” said the Colonel. As I drove away he was dragged into the Customs House and the thud of cudgels on pulpy flesh mingled with screams in a Southern accent rent the air. Presumably he was suspected of importing a joke, which would of course have been intolerable to our local funnymen, completely upsetting the economy of their trade.

  Yours loyally,

  Samuel Marchbanks.

  *

  To Chandos Fribble, ESQ.

  Esteemed Fribble:

  I want you to look into a curious psychological twist which has recently become observable in advertisements for cars. One of these (I need not specify the maker’s name) shows a young man who is about to kiss a very pretty girl, but turns his head at the vital moment to look at a passing car. The second shows a young man in the act of telling a charming girl that he loves her hair, her eyes, and her father’s new car. The third shows a young couple doting upon—a baby? each other?—no, upon a bright shiny car.

  Now, Fribble, it looks to me as though the North American male were beginning to exalt motor cars to the position in his esteem once held by women. This is dangerous, and I would like to find out how far it has gone. For if this trend continues the day is not far off when the American male will mate, not with a woman, but with his car, and the result of this union will probably be a winsome, cuddly little motorcycle.

  Yours in alarm,

  Samuel Marchbanks.

  To Waghorn Wittol, ESQ.

  Dear Wittol:

  I understand your position exactly. When strange men call on the phone and want to know where Mrs. Wittol is, or to describe to you their feelings toward Mrs. Wittol, it must be very boring for you. But why do you not develop a technique for such callers?

  For years I have used a variety of methods for discouraging phoners who are nuisances. The simplest, and one of the best, is to pretend that you can’t hear, and demand repetitions, which you interrupt with cries of “It’s no use: I can’t hear a word you say.” But it is also a good idea to lay the phone down gently, and then to go elsewhere and read a book. This gives the impression that you have been carried off by fairies, or perhaps a great eagle. Sneezing and coughing into the instrument are also effective, when followed by a muttered “Excuse me,” and another blast, or perhaps a groan. And you can always pretend to be talking to someone else in the room with you, so that the phoner gets an impression of divided attention.

  There are dozens of ways to discourage telephoners. You must learn to protect yourself. Regards to your wife—if she is still yours.

  Marchbanks.

  *

  • FROM MY MEDITATIONS •

  MUSICAL PUZZLER / Mingled with some musical people today, almost on terms of equality. I like musical people but I am always astonished by the dogmatic quality of their statements, especially when they are young. For instance, a young lady who was probably about nineteen asserted this afternoon that J. S. Bach had embraced the whole scope of human feelings in his music in a manner more sublime than that of any other composer. I could not permit this to pass. “Where does Bach make even a passable stab at an expression of romantic love?” I asked her, and
she could not answer. And truly old Bach, who had two wives and twenty children, had not much to say about this important matter; the majesty of his harmony and the remorseless deedle-doodle of his counterpoint were not geared for it, and in this sphere such lesser creatures as Puccini beat him hollow. The young woman took her revenge by behaving toward me as if I had no soul, which was typically feminine, and pained me not at all. I have quite a large soul—a number 9.

  SCENTING AN AUDIENCE / In a weak moment some months ago I agreed to talk to a women’s club today. I am a hardy optimist; when people ask me to make speeches several months before the appointed time I often accept, stupidly thinking that in the interval something will happen to prevent me from making good my promise. But the fateful day always comes, and there I am, on my feet, clutching my notes, with despair in my heart. An audience entirely of men is bad enough, but an audience entirely of women is as frightening as a battery of machine guns. There is one thing about female audiences, though—they have a delicious smell. Powder, expensive textiles and scent—all favourite sniffs of mine,—combine to make them more glorious than a June garden. I am sure not one of these ladies today was wearing any scent below the rank of Chanel Number Five, and I thought I detected several twenty-five-dollars-an-ounce whiffs, for they were wealthy women, knee-deep in good works. So I inhaled deeply and gave tongue. Audiences of men smell of cigars, whisky, and shoe-polish, which inspires me with solemn and world-shaking thoughts, unsuitable for the more delicate intellects of women.

  UNVEILING THE FEET / A rainy day, and this afternoon I attended a gathering at which several ladies appeared in overshoes of a type new to me. They were not the honest old goloshes which for generations have made Canadian women look like Brahma hens, but new-fangled creations of a milky-semi-transparent plastic, which gave their feet a mysterious air and which, when removed, looked like the ghosts of overshoes. Several ladies, I also observed, wore what appeared to be bedsocks under their goloshes, but upon closer examination I found that these were little bags which they wore to protect their shoes from being scratched by the (presumably) harshly abrasive linings of their overshoes. There is no enchantment in the spectacle of a woman unwrapping her feet; in my younger days girls wore heavy knitted bloomers over their fine silk-step-ins when attending winter parties, but they always took them off in a room provided for that purpose. A room for foot-unveiling would save much coy balancing in hallways.

  DECLINING ART / Pondered upon the decline of the once great art of Striking-the-Match-on-the-Seat of the Pants; I saw a girl in slacks trying to do so, and although she had an impressive acreage of taut trouser upon which to work she could not manage it. A girl! The greatest master of this art I ever knew was an employee in a woodyard, who never spoke of girls save in terms of obscene contempt; how his oaken heart would ache, and his teak head tremble, if he knew that now only girls seek to excel in the trick of which he was a master. He relit his pipe—a short clay—at least fifty times every morning, and always struck his match with a glorious ripping sound upon his blue-jeaned fundament. He died when a load of logs fell on him; if he had survived, shame would finish him now.

  CROWNING ENORMITY / I can no longer deceive myself that Autumn is not here, so today I retrieved my hat from the bottom of the hall cupboard, where somebody had stood an umbrella in it, and put it on. This Assumption of the Hat is a symbolic act with me, marking the end of Summer. As I trudged to work I saw many men wearing hats which bore unmistakable signs of imprisonment in hall cupboards; there is a crippled look about the brim of a long-disused hat which is ignominious. The wearers, too, have a self-conscious look, as though they expected people to laugh at them. In the ’Twenties the enthusiasm for going without a hat in Summer arose, simultaneously with the Decline of the Straw Boater. It was thought to be good for the hair to expose it to the sun, wind, soot, sand, smog, fall-out and other elements. Even bald men allowed the Sun to beat down upon their poor skulls, hoping that some sort of vegetation might be encouraged thereby. The delusion that going without a hat is good for the hair has long since been abandoned; ordinary common sense shows that it is bad for the hair, making it dirty, dry and frizzled. But the habit persists, and every year, come Michaelmas, we have to learn to wear hats all over again.

  *

  • COMMUNIQUÉ (discovered in entrails of a wild duck, written on birchbark) •

  To Big Chief Marchbanks.

  How, Marchbanks:

  This one hell country, Marchbanks. Look at weather. Every Fall people say to me how about Winter. And I say long Winter or short Winter if bears go to sleep or sit up till maybe Christmas. This year my best bear that I trust nearly twenty year go to sleep awful early. He sound asleep right after hunting season. So I say to everybody long hard Winter cause bear asleep. But no hard Winter come. So I go to bear nest and look inside. Bear sound asleep. What hell, I think. Then I see bottle in bear paw. Grab bottle. It say sleeping pills on outside, Marchbanks. Bear steal bottle from some big city hunter, busy fellow can’t sleep without pills. Bear eat every pill. Bear sleep like dead. I wish big city hunter stay out of woods. They ruin woods and weather forecast business for good Indian.

  How again,

  Osceola Thunderbelly,

  Chief of the Crokinoles.

  *

  • CULLED FROM THE APOPHTHEGMS OF WIZARD MARCHBANKS •

  It is hard to make an empty bag stand upright; even the most complete Social Security scheme can scarcely achieve it.

  (October 24 to November 22)

  SCORPIO IS the sign of the Scorpion, and those born under its influence are especially gifted in all matters relating to sex. It is usual for works on astrology to advise the Scorpio-born to do all that they can to master and subdue this remarkable and, let it be said, uncommon advantage. Wizard Marchbanks takes no such unrealistic attitude. You will find that most people are doubtful of their capacities in this respect; it is here that you have the advantage of them, and you would be stupid not to use it, for it is virtually the only advantage you have in the battle of life. You can do with a glance what others must toil to achieve and in the arts of entertainment you are invaluable, though rarely talented. Do not attempt to rival those born under other signs in such accomplishments as conversation or elegant attire, but concentrate on your specialty and in the end everything and virtually everybody will fall into your lap.

  • ENCHANTMENT-OF-THE-MONTH •

  Not a bad group of colours for you: gold, yellow, red and orange. Your flowers are the honeysuckle and red carnation. Your gems, the moon crystal and the topaz. All astrological authorities, from the earliest to those appearing last year, are agreed that Scorpio people are very lucky in love–and when they say love, they do not mean mooning on a swing-seat on a verandah, but real-blood-and-thunder stuff with Eternal Triangles, Wagnerian music and pistols-for-two-and-coffee-for-one. Understandably, with a fate like this, you will need a fairly extensive wardrobe of gold, yellow and red clothes, and if you are a man you will naturally have a standing order for red carnation buttonholes with a reliable florist. Persons born under other signs are warned to be particularly careful of emotional entanglements with those born under Scorpio. A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse: a nod or a wink to the Scorpio-born may mean the end of your peace of mind for quite a long time.

  • HEALTH HINTS FOR THOSE BORN UNDER SCORPIO •

  I do not intend to discuss your special focus of physical weakness with you. All I say is Look Out! Wizard Marchbanks flatly declines to discuss this matter further, and will not, however opulent the bribe, send any additional information in a plain, self-addressed envelope.

  *

  • REFLECTIONS •

  STEALTHY TERROR / There is an ugly development in the cellars at the Towers. I discovered a few days ago that a jar of brandied peaches which I had prepared against the Christmas festival had popped its seal, and made a mental note to do something about it. Today, when I got around to this chore, I found that a third of the peaches an
d a third of the brandy were gone, and there were signs about that mice were the culprits. Does this mean that a coven of inebriated mice are at large somewhere in my house, engaged in who can say what excesses? A mouse with a brandy jag might turn ugly, and decide that it wanted my bed. I am not unnerved by mice, as some people are, but they tickle, and what is more, their personal hygiene is of the most elementary sort. A mouse is not the lovable little creature that Disney presented to the world; it is as much like a rat as a pony is like a horse, and its disposition is unstable. I am rather worried about this situation, for I do not know how many mice have been at the brandy; ten or more could easily take over the proprietorship of the Towers, in a sudden, mutinous rush. I sat all evening with ears cocked, listening for tiny hiccups, almost too high for the human ear to detect, behind the wainscot.

  A VULGAR ERROR / A man said to me today that what ailed the modern world was that it had forgotten about the Seven Deadly Sins. Not to be outdone in this line of argument I said that I considered that it was far worse that we had forgotten the Four Cardinal Virtues. He goggled, and had plainly never heard of these, so I named them—Prudence, Temperance, Justice and Fortitude. He was himself an exemplar of what ails the world, with his yelping about sin, and his neglect of virtue. I suppose the poor boob thought that mere abstention from sin was virtue enough—a common, comical and somewhat criminal error.

  MEALINESS OF MOUTH / “What pretty china!” exclaimed a guest who was taking a dish of tea at Marchbanks Towers this afternoon. “Madam,” said I, in what I hope was a polite tone, “that is not china, but crockery, and if you don’t know the difference between the two it is time you found out.” … The North American continent is afflicted with a vast amount of pseudo-gentility; we hate to call things by their proper names, and as a result we degrade and debase a number of fine words. Any fool knows china when he sees it; it is porcelain, has an unmistakable glow and finish, and can be wrought much thinner than crockery; crockery—which includes most of the vessels from which we eat and drink—is thicker, and in spite of its glaze it has no glow. It is made of clay, and looks it. There is no shame in using crockery; it is good, honest stuff and some of it has great beauty. But why pretend that it is china? If you can judge the height of the tea through the side of the cup, you are drinking from china; if you can’t, you aren’t.… It is this same mealy-mouthed prissiness which describes any old chunk of cloudy bottle-glass as “crystal.”