A MODERN GULLIVER EXPLORES THE MOVIES
A famous movie studio on Long Island is discovered by an intrepid traveller
By Sir Arthur Catchpole, Bart., D.C.L., K.C.B., R.S.V.P., etc.
Editor’s Note: In this article, the elderly and intrepid British explorer (who recently received the Nobel Peace Prize for his elucidation of the little known man-eating inhabitants of the Andaman Islands) presents the world with his almost incredible meanderings among the hitherto undiscovered Gobos, or blood-drinking motion picture actors, scenic directors, camera men, forty year old ingenues, society “extra” ladies, and publicity artists at Astoria. To say that Vanity Fair is happy to be the vehicle of so significant a communication is to insult the intelligence of its readers—but let the aged Sir Arthur’s story of the Gobos on Long Island speak for itself.
Faced by a truly momentous task (so momentous that, instinctively, I hesitated to imagine that least of a thousand miracles which its accomplishment would entail for humanity in general and the world in particular) it was with a sense of responsibility well nigh crushing that, at approximately seven o’clock in the morning of the fourteenth of October, with a bag of peppermints in my left jacket pocket, I found myself one of the scrambling myriad who, for one reason or another, inhabited at that hour the irrevocable purlieus of the Grand Central Station.
Ordinarily I should have paused to contemplate a scene in which pity and terror strove for the mastery; now I found myself to be the frenzied protagonist, the fanatical traveller whose one and only aim was to locate, with the least possible delay, a not infrequently imaginary unit of conveyance. Having to the best of my ability explored passage after passage of the marble labyrinth (during which Odysseys I narrowly escaped having my shoes shined, buying a book, eating a dinner, and similar unforeseen perils) I succeeded, by appealing to a considerable number of persons of diverse sexes, in establishing beyond the shadow of a doubt the far from unimportant fact that the particular train whose presence I so ardently desired was to be boarded only upon a level differing from that on which I found myself at the moment. Further inquiries had scarcely revealed the fact that this level was directly attainable, at intervals of from one to three minutes, by means of a lift—when before me doors shot open, and I found myself confronted by two Negroes combining gigantic size with less than the ordinary quota of intelligence. Having (not without some trepidation) entered the machine, I was whisked downward to a substratum or sunken promenoir containing, to be sure, a train differing in no essential respect from the ordinary electrically operated conveyance, but which, to my great spiritual comfort, I ascertained to be marked “Astoria.”
This circumstance, trivial in itself, considerably heartened me: so much so, indeed, that I immediately boarded the train; which thereupon to my no small satisfaction made off through a tunnel under the river, without other ill effects to myself and—if I may presume—the other occupants, than a slight discomfort to the eardrums coincident with the encountering of a sudden difference in air pressures not unnatural under the circumstances.
During this, the submarine, portion of the journey, I had ample time to pass in review the motives and methods of my truly astonishing expedition; such introspective tendencies as were natural to my personality being reinforced by the complete (except for an occasional cough or sneezing) absence of any factor of external interest. As the train rushed on through darkness I found myself little by little becoming hypnotized by the prospect of treading in person the soil of that fabulous corner of the world from which so many fantastic myths, so many gruesome legends, have emanated, Astoria!—extraordinary principality, mysterious kingdom, unreal domain, inhabited by half-human, half-imaginary creatures! What by comparison was Africa or India or Egypt? What were the secrets of the pyramids, the mutterings of the fakirs, the darknesses of the Congo? Myself appeared to me as one who is both foolhardy and presumptuous: true, I had weathered inconceivable perils, I had wrestled barehanded with the pigmy hippopotamus and crossed the Amazon in a fig leaf—but what, after all, were these dangers, or a thousand times worse than they, compared with the vivid and perpendicular Unknown against which I was being hurled by an elemental force at a velocity truly merciless? My heart quailed. And then a realization of the dignity of my mission—a vision of the sublimity of endeavour—crossed my mind: instantly I was comforted, and murmuring, “Thy will is my law, Scientia!” I clenched the bag of pink peppermints.
At this very moment, with a slight jolt, we emerged into the light of day; and on every hand an (to say the least) awe-inspiring spectacle unfolded itself. What a scene! Before the beholder stretched, literally à perte de vue, an inimitable panorama of unparalleled desolation, consisting of acres upon hideous acres of dump heaps, some smoking, others smokeless, all cruelly illuminated by the clear air of morning. The tonality of the whole—a drab mixture of acid browns and constipated greys—was, to be sure, occasionally relieved by the inspired occurrence of some ordinarily humble fraction of objectivity; as when, for instance, a tin can, snaring the sun’s rays, tossed into the eye a jet of violet brightness. Occasionally, too, the olfactory contribution of a recently emptied refuse barrel, wafting through the open windows of the train, greeted the nostrils with a far from timid salutation.
But aside from such accidents, it is no exaggeration to say that the fatality of disintegration was everywhere strictly observed. Be it understood that I am recounting a first impression, and that I am by temperament abnormally, even peculiarly, susceptible to Nature in her various moods and tenses, in which respect I differ radically from the vast majority of human beings—as is well illustrated by the present situation; a glance to left and right sufficing to persuade me that my fellow travellers were, to all intents and purposes, inured to the desolation of a scene which, so far as I could judge, presented no novel features to their possibly somewhat limited apparati of sense perception; whereas I must candidly admit that from the moment of their exit from terra firma my own eyes and nostrils were busy defending themselves against innumerable onslaughts of, to put it mildly, unwelcome phenomena. But what, after all, is ugliness? Probably not more than a few minutes later I found myself, if not positively enjoying, at least disinterestedly appraising, the extraordinary landscape which forms a steppingstone from civilization to the awe-inspiring Gobo Land.
Presently the train stopped—not, however, before I had begun to experience a curious sensation in the top of my head. I felt for the peppermints: they were safe. What was this place? I promptly produced from my hat a number of large and inaccurate maps of the district and discovered, with great difficulty, that we had attained the little station of Bee-Bee-Ave. from which point my destination was only a few minutes distant.
Startled by this revelation, I had scarcely time to put away my maps and straighten my necktie when we were off with renewed vigour. In vain I tried to collect my senses, to form some definite plan of offense or defense—my wits had deserted me—I could concentrate upon nothing whatever; and, to my horror, found my own voice humming a popular catch, or ditty, of a distinctly (unless I greatly err) reprehensible nature, its title being “Red Hot Mamma” as I recall.
I rose from my seat just in time to receive the full shock of the train’s abrupt stopping, which error resulted in my nothing short of velocitous propulsion into the arms of an elderly female from whose embrace I extricated myself with a difficulty which must have appeared remarkable but for the unassailable fact that, in the flurry of the moment, we had thrown—as it were—our arms around each other.
Just as I was making elaborate apologies for this acrobatic courtship, a door opportunely opened; whereupon I “saved myself” (to employ the French expression) and with such good effect that, a jiffy later, all of me was standing upon the station platform of Astoria, breathless, but intact even to the last peppermint.
A cursory inspection of my immediate environment having failed to display the presence of anyone whose appearance might encourage a stranger to deman
d the exact whereabouts of the Palace, I was on the point of giving way to despair, when—quite by accident—my eyes perceived, only a short distance away, a magnificent and colossal edifice surpassing in elaborate simplicity the temples of archaic Ethiopia.
Immediately I set out hotfoot over hill and dale, and very soon arrived without interference before a pair of stunning marble gates, behind which was seated a brilliantly uniformed doar-mahn, or bouncer, of whom I politely inquired—employing the dialect of the district with which eighteen years’ intensive study had made me slightly familiar—where I was. “Faymoo splay-hoor zlah-skee” (you are at the King’s own house, stranger) the doar-mahn answered in a drawling, dangerous voice. Unabashed by the menacing tone of the answer, I stated that I desired to be conducted through the edifice, and mentioned by name a certain baron of whom I had been told that he stood very near his sovereign. Courteously but definitely I was assured that the great man was out; whereupon, without more ado, I handed the Cerberus a peppermint, which he immediately tasted, and which so far altered his opinion of myself as to cause him to press a button—at which, as if by magic, an office boy named Gee-hoar-j appeared.
A brief conversation between the doar-mahn and the office boy now took place: and at its conclusion the latter offered to show me around for two peppermints, which I immediately bestowed upon him. I then shook hands affectionately with the doar-mahn, and followed my enthusiastic guide down a corridor and into a garage, where he called in a loud voice for his car: a glistening, twelve-cylinder Minerva swept up, driven by an elaborately attired chauffeur, and I was ushered into the tonneau. As we sped away, cocktails were served by a Japanese butler, which occurrence considerably increased my already far from negligible bewilderment anent the economic structure of a society in which office boys own limousines; and it was with a positively foreconscious embarrassment that I managed to ask why an inspection of the palace should begin with an automobile ride. My host, without mincing matters, informed me that the enormous size of the royal house made any other procedure ridiculous, further explaining that for a pedestrian adequately to explore the intricacies of the king’s ménage would require a continuous promenade of from sixty to ninety days and nights, depending on the speed of the walker.
Inoculated by this statement with a dim realization of the vast scale on which everything in Astoria (including salaries) occurs, I glanced around me with a new interest, while the billionaire emptier of wastepaper baskets, Gee-hoar-j, pointed out—to left and right—various fleeting departments or offices of the palace. After a half-hour’s furious drive we slowed down and entered an elevator, which took us up several thousand feet or more (as I should guess) before we stopped rising. I now emerged from the car: my host followed. A door opened—revealing a huge plain, perhaps a hundred acres in area, which, I was informed, constituted only one of a number of “sets” connected with a romance then in the course of production.
For, incredible as it may appear, the king of the Gobos amuses himself by producing from time to time a sinn-ee-mah or picture game, in which all the inhabitants of the royal mansion mingle their efforts, and whose occurrence frequently consumes as much as a whole month. I was in the midst of a thousand tumultuous doubts and fears when I became aware, for the first time, of figures moving (as if in obedience to a master will) hither and thither upon the surface of the plain. At this very instant an attendant came up and, bowing to the ground, displayed for my approval two pairs of diabolical-looking machines, very distantly resembling our roller skates. Gee-hoar-j explained that if I would be good enough to don one pair, he would do the same with the other, and we would examine together the spectacle then in the course of being created. Knowing no way of refusing, I permitted the attendant to secure my feet in the contrivances, and allowed him to place in my right hand a switch whereby the speed of the skates was regulated. Then, as he bowed once more, I gave him three peppermints, and he withdrew joyously. Gee-hoar-j started forward: I closed my switch and felt my feet moving away with my body—a sensation at first somewhat uncanny, but soon positively pleasant.
A few minutes sufficed to enable me to master the operation of my skates; I then followed my guide, and presently found myself approaching a group of actors, all moving by electricity like myself, who were in the midst of interpreting a love scene. Indeed, just as I arrived, the hero and heroine, skating from points several miles apart, met at gigantic velocity and—after promulgating several truly incredible acrobatic exercises—indulged in a kiss lasting, by my watch, just over eleven minutes: upon the conclusion of which highly mercurial act bells thundered, fish horns blew, cannon of large calibre were discharged, and a voice, speaking by radio, shouted above the din a statement which I may roughly translate, “Next scene the rustic swing, mother and child, make it snappy everybody”—whereupon there was a rushing sound, as stagehands, electricians, actors, and managers began simultaneously skating toward a corner of the plain some twenty-three miles distant.
Gee-hoar-j and I followed at top speed, and very soon sighted a forest five hundred feet high built entirely of cardboard, through which celluloid birds flew by electricity uttering phonograph records by famous artists. Having tipped a policeman four peppermints, I made bold to penetrate the wood, and presently came upon a swing, and in it seated a young child of perhaps three years, whose arms were around the neck of a maternal and extremely ill-looking woman. The same voice which I had previously remarked—and which (as Gee-hoar-j informed me in a whisper) belonged to the king of all Gobos—shouted “Kahm-air-ah” (begin) and a great many curiously complicated machines began turning as the infant drew down the woman’s ear and whispered something in it. This process was repeated until, in spite of myself, I grew abnormally desirous of knowing the content of the mysterious message—for a long time I restrained my curiosity; but in the end rashness conquered discretion: I gave a house detective five peppermints and, throwing away the empty bag, fell on my hands and knees, in which position I entered the underbrush at its densest point.
For several miles I crept along, making as little noise as possible, without other guidance than a pocket compass: eventually I began to see a dim light, which told me that my objective was near: finally, panting, exhausted, having completed a perfect circle forty-two and five-eights miles in diameter, I arrived at a point directly beside the adult and unhealthy ear into which the mysterious message was about to be whispered by the flourishing and childish lips. At this very moment, the child and woman began to move: the former’s baby hand reached up (as if actuated by clockwork) and took hold of the latter’s grown-up auditory appendage, which (as previously described) it proceeded to draw downward until the sonal apparatus of the undernourished female was on a level with the oesophagus of the robust little one—until, in other words, the vocal region of the babe and the listening organ of the parent coincided.
Now was my moment!—breathless, perspiring, inchoate, I stretched every nerve: I closed my eyes, opened my larynx, counted to one hundred and thirty-five (in seven languages), and—as in a dream—heard the tiny tot murmur:
“Do not spoil your eyes with crying, Mama. Daddy will perhaps tire of the lady and come home to you and I. And, if Providence is kind, it may bring you and he together again. See, Mother, there is light at the window. It is the dawn!”
From Vanity Fair, March 1925: line drawing by the author.
WHEN CALVIN COOLIDGE LAUGHED
A true account of the world-shaking consequences of a hearty laugh
Calvin Coolidge laughed.
Instantly an immense crowd gathered. The news spread like wildfire. From a dozen leading dailies, reporters and cameramen came rushing to the scene pell-mell in high-powered aeroplanes. Hundreds of police reserves, responding without hesitation to a reiterated riot call, displayed with amazing promptness a quite unpredictable inability to control the ever-increasing multitude, but not before any number of unavoidable accidents had informally occurred. A war veteran with three wooden legs, for ex
ample, was trampled, and the non-artificial portions of his anatomy reduced to pulp. Two anarchists (of whom one was watering chrysanthemums at Salt Lake City, Utah, while the other was fast asleep in a delicatessen at the corner of Little B and 12½ Streets) were immediately arrested, lynched, and jailed, on the charge of habeas corpus with premeditated absence. At Lafayette Square, a small dog, stepped on, bit in the ankle a beautiful and high-strung woman who had for some time suffered from insomnia, and who—far too enraged to realize, except in a very general way, the source of the pain—vigorously struck a child of five, knocking its front teeth out. Another woman, profiting by the general excitement, fainted and with a hideous shriek fell through a plate glass window.
On the outskirts of the throng, several nonagenarian members of the Senate, both Republican and otherwise, succumbed to heart trouble with serious complications. A motorcycle ran over an idiot. A stone-deaf nightwatchman’s left eye was extinguished by the point of a missing spectator’s umbrella. Falling seven stories from a nearby office building, Congressman N. G. Knott of Tennessee (Dem.) landed in the midst of the crowd absolutely unhurt, killing eleven persons including the ambassador to Uruguay. At this truly unfortunate occurrence, one of the most promising businessmen of Keokuk, Iowa, Aloysius Q. Van Smith (a member of the Harvard, Yale, and Racquet Clubs) swallowed a cigar and died instantly. Fifty plainclothesmen and two policewomen with some difficulty transported the universally-lamented remains three and three-fourths miles to a waiting ambulance where they were given first aid, creating an almost unmentionable disturbance during which everybody took off everybody’s hat and the Rev. Peter Scott Wilson, of the Eighteenth Anabaptist Church of Paragould, Ark., received internal injuries resulting in his becoming mentally unbalanced and attempting to undress on the spot.
A Miscellany (Revised) Page 7
