by E. B. White
Television, when it gets going, will almost certainly pick up and throw into one’s home scenes it didn’t reckon on when it set up its camera. There have already been examples of this. In London not long ago, a television broadcaster was giving his impressions of the zoo when a big lizard bit him on the finger. The technicians in charge of the broadcast, delighted at this turn of events, kept their camera trained on the spurting blood. Thus what had begun as a man’s impression of an animal ended as an animal’s impression of a man, and a few drops of private blood gained general currency and became a great pool of public blood, and the world immediately contained more per-sons who had seen a lizard bite a man.
AIR-CONDITIONED FIRES
9/12/53
AS YOU APPROACH the taproom of the Holland House Taverne, in Radio City, pressing forward through the small, air-conditioned American foyer toward the distant Dutch retreat, you pass a fireplace in which an electric fire burns cheerfully in a coal grate. Somehow this combination of fire and ice, of heat and chill, of winterproofing in the midst of summerproofing, brings to a head the American Way in a single interior. It is an architectural banana split, a perfect case of the debauchery of design. A menu printed almost entirely in Dutch adds a fillip to a completely American occasion of lunatic splendor and comfort. There is something so wonderfully insatiable about this culture of ours. The other day, as we paused in front of the Holland House fire a moment to recover from the ninety-five-degree heat of the streets and to wait for a friend, we reached in our pocket and found there a letter from an engineering firm in Chicago telling us of a device for cutting king-size cigarettes in half. (“Stop cigarette waste. Save 25 cents a day. Combination case and cutter cuts king-size cigarettes in half—for 40 quick, always fresh smokes.”) Probably the man who thought up the idea of adding a cubit to the stature of a cigarette believed he had hit on something that was for the ages. It seems doubtful whether he envisioned that in a few short years somebody would come up with the revolutionary idea of cutting the longer cigarette down to size. (“Smoke the half you throw away!”) At any rate, we wished we had a cutter. We would have liked to spend a languorous afternoon there by the glowing coals in the air-conditioned room, nursing a bottle of Heineken’s beer and slowly slicing cigarettes and allowing them to fall onto the ashless hearth of the heat-free fire.
BRANDY KEGS
4/16/55
PLENTY OF STORES sell dog supplies—rubber bones, baskets, vitamins, leashes—but Abercrombie & Fitch doesn’t stop there. For the past few days Abercrombie has displayed in one of its windows a brandy keg for a St. Bernard’s collar. This object, so nicely made, so brilliantly unlikely, holds a curious fascination for us, a man who has been lost in the snows of Forty-fifth Street these many years and whom no dog has succored. We stand and gaze at it every time we pass, admiring its brass bindings and its strap of well-dressed leather. Only a store with a lot of guts would try to pay a high midtown rent by selling brandy kegs for St. Bernards. Of course, New York is a town of eight million inhabitants, many of them buying fools, but even so whole hours must slip by without anybody’s dropping in to pick up a keg for a St. Bernard. Another thing that impresses us is the size of the keg. Its girth is about that of a dachshund puppy, and we would say that its capacity is very close to a quart. That’s a lot of brandy for a half-frozen man to take aboard—and the least a snowbound man can do if a dog shows up with a drink is drink it.
When Churchill* retired the other day, we felt like sending him something—some gift in appreciation of his having once saved our life. Perhaps a St. Bernard, complete with brandy, would be the perfect present—a dog that would shuffle along at his side as he strolls the grounds of Chartwell, a sort of four-legged hip flask, keeping him supplied with his favorite comfort in the frightening blizzard of old age. We shall have to think about it, though; it’s not the sort of project a person should rush into, however much it might stimulate Abercrombie, however deep our sense of gratitude to this great man.
GRANDFATHER CLOCKS
2/23/57
ON TV THE OTHER MORNING we heard the old song about the grandfather’s clock and how it “stopped short, never to go again, when the old man died.” It’s a ghostly tale, all right, and we don’t intend to challenge its authenticity. We do know one thing about a grandfather’s clock, though, from close association: even when you take the weights off, thus depriving it of its source of strength, the clock doesn’t stop short. The last time we removed the weights from ours, the clock kept going for ten minutes, from sheer force of habit, or of character, or both, plus the disinclination of all things, animate or inanimate, to let go of life. We were greatly impressed by this extra ten minutes of timekeeping by a clock that had had its jugular cut—more ghostly, in a way, than if we ourself had died and the clock had stopped short. This clock belonged originally to an ancestor of our wife’s, who had it built (of cherry) to furnish a house in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, about a hundred and sixty years ago. It still keeps perfect time. In our house, instead of setting the clock by the radio, we set the radio by the clock. (How’s that for a ghostly tale?)
12
Christmas Spirit
MIDNIGHT MASS
12/26/36
EVERYONE HAS ONE CHRISTMAS he remembers above all others, one blindingly beautiful occasion. Ours is a Christmas Eve, during calf love, when we made the (for us) adventurous pilgrimage to a midnight Mass in a Catholic church. Churchgoing in our family had always been in the honest gloom of a Protestant Sunday morning, and we must hasten to explain that the purpose of this clandestine night expedition was far from religious; we simply had reason to suspect that if we visited that church at that hour, we would catch a glimpse of our beloved. Snow began to fall at sundown, and fell quietly all evening. The snow, the lateness of the hour, the elaborate mysteries of the Mass (we had never seen the inside of a cathedral before), together with the steady burning vision of the back of Her neck whom we adored, and then the coming out into the snow alone afterward, with the street lamps veiled in white: this indeed was a holy time.
WOOLWORTH MADONNA
12/26/36
SHOPPING IN WOOLWORTH’S, in the turbulent days, we saw a little boy put his hand inquiringly on a ten-cent Christ child, part of a créche. “What is this?” he asked his mother, who had him by the hand. “C’mon, c’mon,” replied the harassed woman, “you don’t want that!” She dragged him grimly away—a Woolworth Madonna, her mind dark with gift-thoughts, following a star of her own devising.
RELATIVE PRONOUNS
12/25/48
WE HAD A SCROOGE in our office a few minutes ago, a tall, parched man,* beefing about Christmas and threatening to disembowel anyone who mentioned the word. He said his work had suffered and his life been made unbearable by the demands and conventions of the season. He said he hated wise men, whether from the East or from the West, hated red ribbon, angels, Scotch Tape, greeting cards depicting the Adoration, mincemeat, dripping candles, distant and near relatives, fir balsam, silent nights, boy sopranos, shopping lists with check marks against some of the items, and the whole yuletide stratagem, not to mention the low-lying cloud of unwritten thank-you letters hanging just above the horizon. He was in a savage state. Before he left the office, though, we saw him transfigured, just as Scrooge was transfigured. The difference was that whereas Scrooge was softened by visions, our visitor was softened by the sight of a small book standing on our desk—a copy of Fowler’s “Modern English Usage.”
“Greatest collection of essays and opinions ever assembled between covers,” he shouted, “including a truly masterful study of that and which.”
He seized the book and began thumbing through it for favorite passages, slowly stuffing a couple of small gift-wrapped parcels into the pocket of his greatcoat.
“Listen to this,” he said in a triumphant voice.” ‘Avoidance of the obvious is very well, provided that it is not itself obvious, but, if it is, all is spoilt.’ Isn’t that beautiful?”
We agreed that it was a sound and valuable sentiment, perfectly expressed. He then began a sermon on that and which, taking as his text certain paragraphs from Fowler, and warming rapidly to his theme.
“Listen to this: ‘If writers would agree to regard that as the defining relative pronoun, and which as the non-defining, there would be much gain both in lucidity and in ease. Some there are who follow this principle now; but it would be idle to pretend that it is the practice either of most or of the best writers.’ “
“It was the practice of St. Matthew,” we put in hastily. “Or at any rate he practiced it in one of the most moving sentences ever constructed: ‘And, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was.’ You’ve got to admit that the which in that sentence is where it ought to be, as well as every other word. Did you ever read a more satisfactory sentence than that in your life?”
“It’s good,” said our friend, cheerfully. “It’s good because there isn’t a ten-dollar word in the whole thing. And Fowler has it pegged, too. Wait a minute. Here. ‘What is to be deprecated is the notion that one can improve one’s style by using stylish words.’ See what I mean about Fowler? But let’s get back to that and which. That’s the business that really fascinates me. Fowler devotes eight pages to it. I got so excited once I had the pages photostatted. Listen to this: ‘We find in fact that the antecedent of that is often personal.’ Now, that’s very instructive.”
“Very,” we said. “And if you want an example, take Matthew 2:1:’. . . there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews?’ Imagine how that simple clause could get loused up if someone wanted to change that to who”
“Exactly,” he said. “That’s what I mean about Fowler. What was the sentence again about the star? Say it again.”
We repeated, “And, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was.”
“You see?” he said, happily. “This is the greatest damn book ever written.” And he left our office transfigured, a man in excellent spirits. Seeing him go off merry as a grig, we realized that Christmas is where the heart is. For some it is in a roll of red ribbon, for some in the eyes of a young child. For our visitor, we saw clearly, Christmas was in a relative pronoun. Wherever it is, it is quite a day.
HOLIDAY GREETINGS
12/20/52
FROM THIS HIGH MIDTOWN HALL, undecked with boughs, unfortified with mistletoe, we send forth our tinselled greetings as of old, to friends, to readers, to strangers of many conditions in many places. Merry Christmas to uncertified accountants, to tellers who have made a mistake in addition, to girls who have made a mistake in judgment, to grounded airline passengers, and to all those who can’t eat clams! We greet with particular warmth people who wake and smell smoke. To captains of river boats on snowy mornings we send an answering toot at this holiday time. Merry Christmas to intellectuals and other despised minorities! Merry Christmas to the musicians of Muzak and men whose shoes don’t fit! Greetings of the season to unemployed actors and the blacklisted everywhere who suffer for sins uncommitted; a holly thorn in the thumb of compilers of lists! Greetings to wives who can’t find their glasses and to poets who can’t find their rhymes! Merry Christmas to the unloved, the misunderstood, the overweight. Joy to the authors of books whose titles begin with the word “How” (as though they knew)! Greetings to people with a ringing in their ears; greetings to growers of gourds, to shearers of sheep, and to makers of change in the lonely underground booths! Merry Christmas to old men asleep in libraries! Merry Christmas to people who can’t stay in the same room with a cat! We greet, too, the boarders in boarding houses on 25 December, the duennas in Central Park in fair weather and foul, and young lovers who got nothing in the mail. Merry Christmas to people who plant trees in city streets; merry Christmas to people who save prairie chickens from extinction! Greetings of a purely mechanical sort to machines that think—plus a sprig of artificial holly. Joyous Yule to Cadillac owners whose conduct is unworthy of their car! Merry Christmas to the defeated, the for-gotten, the inept; joy to all dandiprats and bunglers! We send, most particularly and most hopefully, our greetings and our prayers to soldiers and guardsmen on land and sea and in the air—the young men doing the hardest things at the hardest time of life. To all such, Merry Christmas, blessings, and good luck! We greet the Secretaries-designate, the President-elect: Merry Christmas to our new leaders, peace on earth, goodwill, and good management! Merry Christmas to couples unhappy in doorways! Merry Christmas to all who think they’re in love but aren’t sure! Greetings to people waiting for trains that will take them in the wrong direction, to people doing up a bundle and the string is too short, to children with sleds and no snow! We greet ministers who can’t think of a moral, gagmen who can’t think of a joke. Greetings, too, to the inhabitants of other planets; see you soon! And last, we greet all skaters on small natural ponds at the edge of woods toward the end of after-noon. Merry Christmas, skaters! Ring, steel! Grow red, sky! Die down, wind! Merry Christmas to all and to all a good morrow!
FEED THE BIRDS!
12/26/53
AT CHRISTMAS ONE SHOULD think about birth—an easy task for us, since we have just returned from a pilgrimage to see a newborn child.* Instead of following a star, we simply followed directions given us by the child’s parents; took the ten o’clock train, and found the infant in Boston, where it lay be-hind glass in a hospital. No shepherds were abiding there, but there was a nurse in a mask attending, and the glory of the Lord shone round about—a child seen through a glass clearly. Like all very new infants, this one appeared to be clothed in innocence and wisdom, probably more of each than he will ever attain again in his life. In the conventional manner, we brought gifts—a flowering plant, a bottle of wine. Then we went out to the Public Gardens to see Mary and Jesus on the island in the lake, a pale-blue Madonna and Child, with ducks circling around. A Boston lady in a shabby coat fed pigeons and spar-rows near us where we sat, and she was soon joined by another lady, in a fur cape, who also had crumbs to offer. A squirrel, who seemed well acquainted with the visitors, waited his chance and leapt astride the cape. The feeding went on for a while: a scene of serenity, good will, and competence, each bird being known individually, the more timid ones being given special treatment. When the second lady arose and departed, she sent a little cry of farewell to her friend. “Goodbye for now!” she said, her voice rising. “Meantime, feed the birds!” This simple, bright warning, hurled against the terrible dark dome of the modern sky of anxiety and trouble, had a gentle, lunatic sound that has since echoed in our ear. It made us aware of our own need to send out at this season some general cry of good will to friends. We hope that another year will see the world of men and birds grow steadier, the free spirit stronger under its afflictive load; we hope the insane hatred of nation for nation will yield to the promise of a fertile world that is ready to be good to all when each is just to the other; we pray for the lifting of curtains, so that the dimly discernible feeling of community among peoples may shine with a clearer light. We send best wishes for a bright Christmas and for the coming of man’s humanity to man. Meantime, feed the birds!
REMEMBRANCE IS SUFFICIENT
12/25/54
IT IS NOT EASY to select the few words each year that shall serve as a Christmas greeting to our readers, wherever (like Mrs. Calabash) they are. While engaged in making the selection, we study the typewriter keys with the gravity you some-times see in the faces of greeting-card buyers in stationery stores—faces taut with a special anguish (a sailor searching for a valentine message commensurate with his desire, a girl hunting for the right phrase to repair a broken friendship), as though all of life, all of love, must suddenly be captured on a small piece of decorative paper and consigned to the mails. This morning early, when we passed the angels in Rockefeller Center, we wished we could simply borrow a trumpet from one
of them and blow our best wishes to the world in a single loud blast, instead of coming to the office and picking around among the confused shapes of a keyboard. But then, a few minutes later, gazing at the Dutch candy house in the window of KLM, we were reminded that everyone constructs a Christmas of his own, in his fashion, in sugar-candy form if need be, and that the quest for beauty, piety, simplicity, and merriment takes almost as many forms as there are celebrants, certainly too many to be covered by one note on a borrowed horn.
No one ever weeps for joy—we have this on good authority. We have it on the authority of a professor at the School of Medicine of the University of Rochester, (EXPERT DEEMS JOY NO CAUSE OF TEARS—The Times.) But it is true that at Christmas (season of joy, season of joy-to-the world), tears are not unknown, or even infrequent: many find themselves greatly moved by small events—by minor miracles of home or school or church, by a snatch of music, by a drift of paper snow across a TV screen. It is, of course, not joy but beauty that is responsible for this mild phenomenon: the unexpected gift of sadness—of some bright thing unresolved, of some formless wish unattained and unattainable. Since most of the common satisfactions of Christmas are available at the stores, and for a price, we wish our readers the pleasures that are unpurchasable, the satisfactions unpredictable, the nourishment of tears (if at all convenient).
There is one member of our household who never has to grope for words as we are groping now. She is our Aunt Caro-line and she is ninety-two. She has observed all her ninety-two Christmases in good health and excellent spirits, and she is in good health and spirits now. Being so old, she goes back to a more leisurely period, and when she speaks, she speaks with a precision and a refinement rare in this undisciplined century. There is nothing stiff-backed about the furnishings of her mind, but it is her nature to sit erect, to stand erect, and to speak an upright kind of English that is always graceful and exact. A few weeks ago, she said something so close to the theme of Christmas that we shall quote it here. We were sitting with her at lunch in the country, and we apologized for not having taken her for a motor ride that morning to see once again the bright colors in the changing woods. “Why, my dear,” she said without hesitating, “remembrance is sufficient of the beauty we have seen.”
