The Inventions of the Idiot

by John Kendrick Bangs

  XI

  Concerning Children

  The Poet had been away for a week, and on his return to his accustomedpost at the breakfast-table seemed but a shadow of his former self. Hiseyes were heavy and his long locks appeared straggly enough for a man offar more extended reputation as a singer of melodious verse.

  "To judge from your appearance, Mr. Poet," said the Idiot, afterwelcoming his friend, "you've had a lively vacation. You certainly donot look as if you had devoted much of it to sleep."

  "I haven't," said the Poet, wearily, "I haven't averaged more than twohours of sleep daily since I went away."

  "I thought you told me you were going off into the country for a rest?"observed the Idiot.

  "I did--and this is what comes of it," returned the Poet. "I went tovisit my sister up in Saratoga County. She has seven children."

  "Aha!" smiled the Idiot. "That's it, is it--well, I can sympathize withyou. I've had experience with youngsters myself. I love 'em, but I liketo take 'em on the instalment plan--very little at a time. I have asmall cousin with a capacity for play and impudence that can't beequalled. His mother wrote me once and asked if I thought Hagenbeck, thewild-animal tamer, could be induced to take him in hand."

  "That's the kind," put in the Poet, his face lighting up a little upondiscovering that there was some one at least at the board who couldsympathize with him. "My sister's seven are all of the wild-animalvariety. I'd rather fall in with seven tigers than put in another weekwith my beloved nephews and nieces."

  "Did they play Alp with you?" the Idiot asked, with a grin.

  "Alp?" said the Poet. "No--not that I know of. They may have, however. Iwas hardly conscious of what they were doing the last two days of mystay there. They simply overpowered me, and I gave in and became a toyfor the time."

  "It isn't much fun being a toy," said the Idiot. "I think I'd ratherplay Alp."

  "What on earth is Alp?" asked Mr. Pedagog, his curiosity aroused. "I'veheard enough absurd names for games in the last five years, but I mustsay, for pure idiocy and lack of suggestiveness, the name of Alpsurpasses all."

  "That's as it should be," said the Idiot. "My small cousin inventedAlp, and anything that boy does is apt to surpass all. He takes after mein some things. But Alp, while it may seem to lack suggestiveness as aname, is really just the name for the game. It's very simple. It isplayed by one Alp and as many chamois as desire to take a hand. As arule the man plays the Alp and the children are the chamois. The mangets down on his hands and knees, puts his head on the floor, and has awhite rug put on his back, the idea being that he is an Alp and the rugrepresents its snow-clad top."

  "And the chamois?" asked Mr. Whitechoker.

  "The chamois climbs the Alp and jumps about on the top of it," said theIdiot. "My experience, based upon two hours a day of it for tenconsecutive days, is that it's fun for the chamois but rough on theAlp; and I got so after a while that I really preferred business topleasure and gave up playing Alp to return to work before my vacationwas half over."

  "How do you score in this game of Alp?" said Mr. Pedagog, smilingbroadly as he thought of there being an embryo idiot somewhere who coulddiscomfit the one fate had thrown across his path.

  "I never had the strength to inquire," said the Idiot. "But myimpression is that the game is to see which has the greater endurance,the chamois or the Alp. The one that gets tired of playing first loses.I always lost. My small cousin is a storehouse of nervous energy. Ibelieve he could play choo-choo cars with a real engine and last longerthan the engine--which being the case, I couldn't hope to hold outagainst him."

  "My nephews didn't play Alp," said the Poet. "I believe Alp would havebeen a positive relief to me. They made me tell them stories and poemsfrom morning until night, and all night too, for one of them shared hisroom with me, and the worst of it all was that they all had to be newstories and new poems, so I was kept composing from one week's end tothe other."

  "Why weren't you firm with them and say you wouldn't, and let that endit?" said Mr. Pedagog.

  "Ha--ha!" laughed the Idiot. "That's fine, isn't it, Mr. Poet? It's veryevident, Mr. Pedagog, that you're not acquainted with children. Now, mysmall cousin can make the same appeal over and over again in a hundredand fifty different ways. You may have the courage to say no a hundredand forty-nine times, but I have yet to meet the man who could make hisno good with a boy of real persistent spirit. I can't do it. I'vetried, but I've had to give in sooner or later."

  "Same way with me, multiplied by seven," said the Poet, with difficultyrepressing a yawn. "I tried the no business on the morning of the thirdday, and gave it up as a hopeless case before the clock struck twelve."

  "I'd teach 'em," said Mr. Pedagog.

  "You'd have to learn 'em first," retorted the Idiot. "You can't doanything with children unless you understand them. You've got toremember several things when you have small boys to deal with. In thefirst place, they are a great deal more alert than you are. They are agreat deal more energetic; they know what they want, and in getting itthey haven't any dignity to restrain them, wherein they have a distinctadvantage over you. Worst of all, down in your secret heart you want tolaugh, even when they most affront you."

  "I don't," said Mr. Pedagog, shortly.

  "And why? Because you don't know them, cannot sympathize with them, andlook upon them as evils to be tolerated rather than little minds to becultivated. Hard a time as I have had as an Alp, I'd feel as if a greathole had been punched in my life if anything should deprive me of mycousin Sammie. He knows it and I know it, and that is why we are chums,"said the Idiot. "What I like about Sammie is that he believes in me," headded, a little wistfully. "I wouldn't mind doing that myself--if Icould."

  "You might think differently if you suffered from seven Sammies the waythe Poet does," said the Bibliomaniac.

  "There couldn't be seven Sammies," said the Idiot. "Sammie is unique--tome. But I am not at all narrow in this matter. I can very well imaginehow Sammie could be very disagreeable to some people. I shouldn't caremuch for Alp, I suppose, if when night came on Sammie didn't climb up onmy lap and tell me he thought I was the greatest man that ever livednext to his mother and father. That's the thing, Mr. Pedagog, that makesAlp tolerable--it's the sugar sauce to the batter pudding. There's agood deal of plain batter in the pudding, but with the sauce generouslymixed in you don't mind it so much. That boy would be willing to go tosleep on a railway track if I told him I'd stand between him and theexpress train. If I told him I could hammer down Gibraltar with puttyhe'd believe it, and bring me his putty-blower to help along in thegreat work. That's why I think a man's so much better off if he is afather. Somebody has fixed a standard for him which, while he may knowhe can't live up to it, he'll try to live up to, and by aiming high hewon't be so apt to hit low as he otherwise might. As Sammie's fatheronce said to me: 'By Jove, Idiot,' he said, 'if men could _only_ be whattheir children think them!'"

  "Nevertheless they should be governed, curbed, brought up!" said theBibliomaniac.

  "They should, indeed," said the Idiot. "And in such a fashion that whenthey are governed, curbed, and brought up they do not realize that theyhave been governed, curbed, and brought up. The man who plays the tyrantwith his children isn't the man for me. Give me the man who, like myfather, is his son's intimate, personal friend, his confidant, his chum.It may have worked badly in my case. I don't think it has--in any event,if I were ever the father of a boy I'd try to make him feel that I wasnot a despot in whose hands he was powerless, but a mainstay to fallback on when things seemed to be going wrong--fountain-head of goodadvice, a sympathizer--in short, a chum."

  "You certainly draw a pleasant picture," said Mr. Whitechoker, kindly.

  "Thank you," said the Idiot. "It's not original with me. My father drewit. But despite my personal regard for Sammie, I do think somethingought to be done to alleviate the sufferings of the parent. Take themother of a boy like Sammie, for instance. She has him all day andgenerally all night. Sammie's fath
er goes to business at eight o'clockand returns at six, thinking he has worked hard, and wonders why it isthat Sammie's mother looks so confoundedly tired. It makes him slightlyirritable. She has been at home taking things easy all day. He has beenin town working like a dog. What right has she to be tired? He doesn'trealize that she has had to entertain Sammie at those hours of the daywhen Sammie is in his best form. She has found him trying to turnsomersaults at the top of the back stairs; she has patiently borne hismusical efforts on the piano, upon which he practises daily for a fewminutes, generally with a hammer or a stick, or something else equallywell calculated to beautify the keys; she has had to interfere inSammie's well-meant efforts to instruct his small brother in the art ofbeing an Indian who can whoop and scalp all in the same breath, therebyincurring for the moment Sammie's undying hatred; she has heard Sammieusing language which an inconsiderate hired man has not scrupled to usein Sammie's presence; she has, with terror in her soul, watched him atplay with a knife which some friend of the family who admires Sammie hadgiven him, and has again incurred his enmity by finally, to avoidnervous prostration, taken that treasure from him. In short, she haspassed a day of real tragedy. Sammie is farce to me, comedy to hisfather, and tragedy to his mother. Cannot something be done for her? Isthere no way by means of which Sammie can be entertained during the day,for entertained he must be, that does not utterly destroy the nervoussystem of his mother? Can't some inventive genius who has studied thesmall boy, who knows the little ins and outs of his nature, and who,above all, sympathizes with those ins and outs, put his mind on the lifeof the woman of domestic inclination, and do something to make her lifeless of a burden and more of a joy?"

  "You are the man to do it," said the Bibliomaniac. "An inventive geniussuch as you are ought to be able to solve the problem."

  "Perhaps he ought to be," said the Idiot; "but we are not all what weought to be, I among the number. Almost anything seems possible to meuntil I think of the mother at home all day with a dear, sweet, bright,energetic boy like Sammie. Then, I confess, I am utterly at a loss toknow what to do."

  And then, as none of the boarders had any solution of the problem tosuggest, I presume there was none among them who knew "How To BeTranquil Though A Mother."

  Perhaps when women take up invention matters will seem more hopeful.

  XII

  Dreamaline

  "Well, Mr. Idiot," said Mr. Pedagog, as the guests gathered about thetable, "how goes the noble art of invention with you? You've been at itfor some time now. Do you find that you have succeeded in yourself-imposed mission and made the condition of the civilized lessunbearable?"

  "Frankly, Mr. Pedagog, I have failed," said the Idiot, sadly. "Failedegregiously. I cannot find that of all the many schemes I have evolvedfor the benefit of the human race any single one has been adopted bythose who would be benefited. Wherefore, with the exception ofDreamaline, which I have not yet developed to my satisfaction, I shalldo no more inventing. What is the use? Even you, gentlemen, here havetacitly declined to accept my plan for the elimination of irritation onWaffle Days, a plan at once simple, picturesque, and efficacious. Withsuch discouragement at home, what hope have I for better fortuneabroad?"

  "It is dreadful to be an unappreciated genius!" said the Bibliomaniac,gruffly. "It's better to be a plain lunatic. A plain lunatic is at leastfree from the consciousness of failure."

  "Nevertheless, I'd rather be myself than any one else at this board,"rejoined the Idiot. "Unappreciated though I be, I am at least happy.Consciousness of failure need not necessarily destroy one's happiness.If I do the best I can with the tools I have I needn't weep because Ifail, and with his consciousness of failure the unappreciated geniusalways has the consolation of knowing that it is not he but the worldthat is wrong. If I am a philanthropist and offer a thousand dollars toa charity, and the charity declines to accept it because I happen tohave made it out of my interest in 'A Widows' and Orphans' SpeculationCompany, Large Losses a Surety,' it is the charity that loses, not I. Sowith my plans. Social expansion is not taken up by society--who dies, Ior society? Capitalists decline to consider my proposition for a GeneralPoetry Trust and Supply Company. Who loses a fine chance, I or thecapitalists? I may be a little discouraged for the time being, but whatof that? Invention isn't the only occupation in the world for me. I cangive up Philanthropy and take up Misanthropy in a moment if I wantto--and with Dreamaline I can rule the world."

  "Ah--just what is this Dreamaline?" asked Mr. Whitechoker, interested.

  "That, sir, is the question which I am now trying to answer for myself,"returned the Idiot. "If I could answer it, as I have said, I could rulethe world--everybody could rule the world; that is to say, his ownworld. It is based on an old idea which has been found by some to bepracticable, but it has never been developed to the point which I hopeto attain."

  "Wake me up when he gets to the point, will you, kindly?" whispered theDoctor to the Bibliomaniac.

  "If you sleep until then you'll never wake," said the Bibliomaniac. "Tomy mind the Idiot never comes to a point."

  "You are a little too mysterious for me," observed Mr. Whitechoker. "Iknow no more about Dreamaline now than I did when you began."

  "Which is my case exactly," said the Idiot. "It is a vague, shadowysomething as yet. It is only a germ lost in my cerebral wrinkles, but Ihope by a persistent smoothing out of those wrinkles with what I mightcall the flat-iron of thought, I may yet lay hold of the microbe, andwith it electrify the world. Once Dreamaline is discovered all otherdiscoveries become as nothing; all other inventions for the ameliorationof the condition of the civilized will be unnecessary, and evenProgressive Waffles will cease to fascinate."

  "Perhaps," said the Bibliomaniac, "if you will give us a hint as to thenature of your plan in general we may be able to help you in carrying itout."

  "The Doctor might," said the Idiot. "My genial friend who occasionallyimbibes might--even the Poet, with his taste for Welsh rarebits,might--but from you and Mr. Pedagog and Mr. Whitechoker I fear I shouldreceive little assistance. Indeed, I am not sure but that Mr.Whitechoker might disapprove of the plan altogether."

  "Any plan which makes life happier and better is sure to meet with myapproval," said Mr. Whitechoker.

  "With that encouragement, then," said the Idiot, "I will endeavor to laybefore you my crowning invention. Dreamaline, as its name may suggest,should be a patent medicine, by taking which man should become obliviousto care."

  "What's the matter with champagne for that?" interrupted the Genial OldGentleman who occasionally imbibes.

  "Champagne has some good points," said the Idiot. "But there are twodrawbacks--the effects and the price. Both of these drawbacks, so farfrom making us oblivious to our cares, add to them. The superiority ofDreamaline over champagne, or even over beer, which is comparativelycheap, is that one dose of Dreamaline, costing one cent, will do morefor the patient than one case of champagne or one keg of beer; it is notintoxicating or ruinous to the purse. Furthermore, it is more potent forgood, since, under its genial influences, man can do that to which heaspires, or, what is perhaps better yet, merely imagine that he is doingthat to which he aspires, and so avoid the disappointment which I amtold always comes with ambition achieved.

  "Take, for instance, the literary man. We know of many cases in whichthe literary man has stimulated his imagination by means of drugs, andwhile under the influence has penned the most marvellous tales. That mansacrifices himself for the delectation of others. In order to writesomething for the world to rave over, he takes a dose which makes himrave, and which ultimately kills him. Dreamaline will make thisentirely unnecessary. Instead of the writers taking hasheesh, the readertakes Dreamaline. Instead of one man having to smoke opium for millions,the millions take Dreamaline for themselves as individuals. I would havethe scientists, then, the chemists, study the subject carefully, decidewhat quality it is in hasheesh that makes a writer conceive of thesehorrible situations, put this into a nostrum, and sell it to those
wholike horrible situations, and let them dream their own stories."

  "Very interesting," said the Bibliomaniac, "but all readers do not likehorrible situations. We are not _all_ morbid."

  "For which we should be devoutly thankful," said the Idiot. "But yourpoint is not well taken. On each bottle of what I should call 'LiteraryDreamaline,' to distinguish it from 'Art Dreamaline,' 'ScientificDreamaline,' and so on, I should have printed explicit directionsshowing consumers how the dose should be modified to meet the consumer'staste. One man likes a De Maupassant story. Let him take his Dreamalinestraight, lie down and dream. He'd get his De Maupassant story with avengeance. Another likes the modern story in realism--a story in which aprize might be offered to the reader who finds a situation, an incidentin the three hundred odd pages of the book he reads. This man could takea spoonful of Dreamaline and dilute it to his taste. A drop ofDreamaline, which taken raw would give a man a dream like Doctor Jekylland Mr. Hyde, put into a hogshead of pure water would enable the man whotook a spoonful of it before going to bed to fall asleep and walkthrough a three-volume novel by Henry James. Thus every man could getwhat he wanted at small expense. Dreamaline for readers sold at adollar a quart would give every consumer as big and varied a library ashe wished, and would be a great saving to the eyes. People would havemore time for other pleasures if by taking a dose of Dreamaline beforeretiring they could get all their literature in their sleeping hours.Then every bottle would pay for itself ten times over if on awakeningthe next morning the consumer would write out the story he had dreamedand publish it for the benefit of those who were afraid to take themedicine."

  "You wouldn't make much money out of it, though," said the Poet. "If onebottle sufficed for a library you wouldn't find much of a demand."

  "That could be got around in two ways," said the Idiot. "We couldcopyright every bottle of Dreamaline and require the consumers to pay usa royalty on every book inspired by it, or we could ourselves take whatI would call Financial Dreamaline, one dose of which would make a manfeel like a millionaire. Life is only feeling after all. If you feellike a millionaire you are as happy as a millionaire--happier, in fact,because in reality you do not have to wear your thumbs out cuttingcoupons on the first of every month. Then I should have Art Dreamaline.You could have it arranged so that by a certain dose you could have oldmasters all over your house; by another dose you could get a collectionof modern French paintings, and by swallowing a whole bottle you coulddream that your walls were lined with mysteries that would drive theImpressionists crazy with envy. In Scientific Dreamaline you would getideas for invention that would revolutionize the world."

  "How about the poets and the humorists?" asked the Poet.

  "They'd be easy," said the Idiot. "I wouldn't have any hasheesh in themixture for them. Welsh rarebit would do, and you'd get poems somysterious and jokes so uproarious that the whole world would soon befilled with wonder and with laughter. In short, Dreamaline would go intoevery walk of life. Music, letters, art, poetry, finance. Every manaccording to his bent or his tastes could partake. Every man could makewith it his own little world in which he was himself the prime mover,and so harmless would it be that when next morning he awoke he would beas tranquil and as happy as a babe. I hope, gentlemen, to see the daywhen Dreamaline is an established fact, when we cannot enter a householdin the land that does not have hanging on its walls, after the manner ofthose glass fire hand-grenades, a wire rack holding a row of bottleslabelled Art, Letters, Music, and so on, instead of libraries,picture-galleries, music-rooms, and laboratories. The rich and the pooralike may have it. The child who loves to have stories told to him willcry for it; the poor wanderer who loves opera and cannot afford even topass the opera-house in a cable-car, can go into a drug-store, and for acent, begged of a kind-hearted pedestrian on the street, purchase asufficient quantity to imagine himself a box-holder; the ambitiousstatesman can through its influences enjoy the sensation of thinkinghimself President of the United States. Not a man, woman, or child livesbut would find it a boon, and as harmless as a Graham cracker. That,gentlemen, is my crowning invention, and until I see it realized Iinvent no more. Good-morning."

  And in a moment he was gone.

  "Well!" said Mr. Pedagog. "That's the cap to the climax."

  "Yes," said Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog.

  "Where do you suppose he got the idea?" asked the Bibliomaniac.

  "I don't know," said the Doctor. "But I suspect that without knowing ithe's had some of the stuff he describes. Most of his schemes indicateit, and Dreamaline, I think, proves it."

  THE END