by Max Shulman
I know different. Professors are just folks. They are fully as realistic, as informed, and as eager to participate in the affairs of the world as anyone else. I found that out at our Alpha Cholera faculty dinner, a gala annual event to which each member of Alpha Cholera invites a professor.
I wish that the critics of professors could have been there. The conversation at the dinner table alone would have knocked the sheltered-life concept into a cocked hat. So heated were the discussions of burning issues at dinner that one could scarcely get a bite of food into his mouth. Many times I feared they would come to blows over such pertinent arguments as the dates of Pliny, the Elder, the construction of an enthymeme, and the influence of El Greco on Kate Douglas Wiggin.
Nor did the conversation diminish in significance after dinner when we repaired to the library for cigars and coffee substitute. Roger started the phonograph and played a recording of Kolacky’s immortal tone poem, “After While, Stella.” When the record had stopped Dr. Con Pedale, the learned music professor, said, “The first movement opened with a vigorous theme, sounded by the strings in unison and reinforced alternately by bassoons and horns. Another motive appeared in the wind. The second theme proper was in triple time (3–2) and should have had a more pointed effect, but the corpulence of the first theme made it seem apologetic. The development was dominated by the principal theme. A long pedal announced the recapitulation which was somewhat altered. The scherzo (F major, 1–1 time) presented two themes (the second, of course, in syncopation) and had a trio (6–4 time) with the usual return to the first part thereafter. This composition of Kolacky’s ranks in popular favor second only to his immortal concerto, ‘Cow Cow Blues.’
“The world came near not ever hearing Kolacky’s music. As a boy in Lead, South Dakota, by his own admission, he was not in the least musical. He was chiefly interested in politics. At the age of eleven he ran for park commissioner of Lead but was defeated by Gerhard Schlomm, the incumbent.
“Many years later he acquired a metronome in lieu of a ‘Smear’ debt owed him by Seth Pestel, a local apothecary. Soon thereafter he was confined to his bed by a severe attack of the glanders. To while away the long days of his illness he picked out simple tunes on his metronome. By the time his doctor pronounced him well again he had already completed his beloved ‘Egg Candler Suite.’
“This suite so delighted the governor of South Dakota, Solon Lafferty, that he arranged a pension for Kolacky. Freed of financial worries, Kolacky devoted all his time to composing. During this period he produced his greatest works, among them ‘I’m Coming, Thuringia,’ and ‘Knock ’Em Down, McCluskey.’
“Kolacky’s fortune, however, soon came to an end. In the next state election Governor Lafferty was defeated in a Free Soil landslide. The new governor, a tone-deaf man named Harris or Benuti, revoked Kolacky’s pension. With his meager savings Kolacky purchased a poultry farm, and there lived out the rest of his life, producing only one composition of any significance, “The Capons Go Rolling Along.’”
“I shall never forget the night I first heard ‘After While, Stella,” said Dr. Albion Angleterre, a professor of English and quite an authority on England, having spent two weeks there once. “It was while I was in merrie old England. After the concert I went to a funny little place called the Truss and Garter to have a pint of good old stout. I was standing at the bar drinking when I noticed some men throwing darts at a target on the wall. I called over the publican, a fine old British type with a fierce mustache and a face as red as the good beef that nourished him. ‘What are they playing, my good man?’ I asked.
“‘Mind your business or lam out of here,’ he replied.”
“Speaking of music,” said Dr. Sam Cromagnon, a noted professor of anthropology, “I’ve done some fascinating research on the so-called jungle telegraph, the system of sending messages through the jungle on drums. It’s a great deal more complicated than one would think. The drums, for instance, in order to be effective, must be made from the hollow trunks of one special kind of tree—the chrata. No other kind will serve as well. It is no small task to obtain a chrata sufficiently mature to make into a drum. You see, the chrata grows in central Africa, right in the heart of the rain belt, and rain, strangely enough, kills the chrata tree. Consequently, an organization of natives called Chratniks, or friends of the chrata tree, goes about the jungle putting umbrellas on the fledgling chratas.
“And even after the drum is made the difficulties are not at an end. It takes years to train a good drum beater, so intricate is the art. Also, receiving drum messages is no easy matter, for there are only six words in the whole dialect of the region.
“Let me give you some examples. ‘Kudu comes on little cat feet’ means ‘It looks like rain. Haul in your wash.’
“‘Cat comes on little kudu feet’ means ‘All clear. Hang it out again.’
“‘Feet comes on little kudu cat’ means ‘Look primitive, kids. Here comes Osa Johnson.’
“‘Little comes on kudu cat feet’ means ‘Maybe you better leave the wash inside after all. You can’t tell about this damn African weather.’”
“Speaking of music,” said Dr. Angleterre, “when I was in jolly old England I visited the Chinese-quarter of London, a district called Soho. I was walking down one of the funny little streets that make dear old London the picturesque place that it is. Suddenly I heard a weird wailing note coming out of one of the funny little buildings along the street. It sounded like some sort of reed instrument, although I couldn’t figure out which kind. A booby, as London policemen are called, happened to be passing by. I stopped him. ‘My good man,’ I said, ‘what sort of instrument is that playing?’
“‘Why, lord love a duck, gov’nor,’ he replied. That’s no instrument. That’s Wang Pu’s wife crying.’
“‘Good heavens,’ I cried. ‘Is he beating her?’
“‘Bless you, no sir,’ he said. ‘It’s just that he’s a reactionary, and he won’t let her eat with a fork. He says she got to eat with chopsticks, he does. And she can’t handle ’em since she lost three fingers last month when she got caught in a fast riffle during a fan-tan game, she did. Poor woman near starves to death. Can’t eat nothing with chopsticks except what sticks to ’em, she can’t.’”
“It does beat all how a fellow gets set in his ways,” said Dr. Frank Newsprint, the eminent professor of journalism. “I remember an A.P man named H. V. Stillborn, a real old-timer who always held the receiver of a telephone between his ear and his shoulder when he talked. He thought French phones were for sissies and would have rather died than used one.
“Well, sir, once he was on a vacation at French Lick Springs. The hotel he was at burned down one night. Everyone in it was killed but Stillborn. Not a newspaperman for hundreds of miles around knew anything about it, it happened so quickly. Stillborn had a clear-cut scoop.
“He rushed out to phone his story to the A.P. But he couldn’t find anything but French phones in the whole town of French Lick Springs. He had to walk clear to Muncie before he found an old-style phone and called his office.
“But the phone was in bad order. Stillborn’s voice was unclear when it came through to the A.P. office. The rewrite man thought he said Hot Springs had had the fire. He flashed the erroneous story all over the country.
“Naturally the Hot Springs Chamber of Commerce took action. They sued the A.P. for $1,000,000, charging that the story had ruined tourist business to that extent. They won the suit, too, but in the appeal the A.P. brought out that the attorney for the Chamber of Commerce, one Lex Legis, did not have a diploma, and the decision was reversed.”
“Speaking of newspapers and writing and the like,” said Dr. Angleterre, “when I was in dear old England I managed to acquire a very valuable document.” He paused for emphasis. “An original Robert Browning manuscript!”
“Which one?” someone asked.
“Well,” said Dr. Angleterre, “you can’t tell. It seems that Browning’s cat spilled a bottle
of ink on it, and the whole thing is just a blot. But, you must agree, an original Browning manuscript is an original Browning manuscript.”
“My goodness,” said Dr. Cromagnon, “look at the time. I must be getting home. I’m preparing a surprise test to spring on my class tomorrow morning. Flunked the whole bunch of them last time I did that,” he chuckled.
“By George,” said Dr. Newsprint, “I think I’ll do that tomorrow too.”
“Let’s all do it!” cried Dr. Angleterre gaily.
They rose from their chairs, straightened their ties while using the backs of each other’s suits for mirrors, put on their hats and coats, and made their good-bys, leaving behind them the not-to-be-soon-forgotten memory of an inspiring evening.
CHAPTER XIII
Les singes sont drolls. —MALRAUX
The rains came and wetted down the yellowing grass. The sky was mottled with teal and mallard flying south in echelon. The leaves turned yellow, red, brown, and fluttered crazily to earth. A rogue wind screamed across the campus scattering broadcast the neat piles of leaves awaiting their pungent cremation. Now in the mornings the hoar-frost melted grudgingly under a paler sun. Presently the first snow fell.
Winter had come, and I had not yet made a decision. Noblesse or Yetta? Noblesse—serene, sophisticated, patrician—the belonger. Yetta—fiery, compassionate, elemental—the crusader. Which? I cursed myself for a weakling, but I could not decide. I even bought another fraternity pin and gave it to Noblesse.
I took a walk one night to try to think things out. It was a cold, invigorating night. The snow crunched under my feet as I made my way across the starlit, white-crowned campus. Yetta or Noblesse?
I passed the library. Minnesota has one of the finest libraries in the country. It has more than two million volumes, out of which nearly three hundred have been read, the leader being Millie by Donald Henderson Clarke.
The first rule of the library is silence, and that rule is rigidly enforced. In the reading room, if you want to turn a page, you raise your hand. The attendant sees it and presses a button which turns on a green light. That is a signal for everyone in the room to put cotton in their ears. Then you turn the page.
Noblesse or Yetta?
Now I was in front of the chemistry building. Minnesota has one of the finest chemistry schools in the country. It was, in fact, at Minnesota that the four elements—earth, air, fire, and water—were discovered.
By day the chemistry building is filled with intelligent young men and women holding beakers over Bunsen burners. Bunsen burners differ from ordinary burners in that they do not burn gas, but Bunsen. Some of the students study organic chemistry and some inorganic. As you know, organic chemistry is the study of organs, like the Wurlitzer, the Hammond Electric, and the Novachord. Inorganic chemistry is the study of the insides of organs.
The work of the chemist is to extract gold from the baser metals.
Yetta or Noblesse?
Before me was the medical building. Minnesota has one of the finest medical schools in the country. Thousands of ailing people come here annually for treatment and observation, and many cases are indeed unusual. Not long ago, for instance, a young woman named Copra Wyatt came in and complained of a growth on her back. The examining doctor was unable to determine the nature of the growth. “Let’s let it grow for a while and see what it is,” he told Miss Wyatt.
She did, and later she was glad that she followed the doctor’s advice because it turned out to be a coconut palm, and today she makes a comfortable living selling coconut milk in the foyer of the Stock Exchange in New York.
Noblesse or Yetta?
I passed the law building. Minnesota has one of the finest law schools in the country. Students are not only taught the theory of law, they also spend a great deal of time studying actual cases. Indeed, many of the cases they study are enough to baffle a lawyer of many years’ experience, yea, a judge even. I am in mind of the extremely complicated Gothic-Flanders-Nebulous-Bucolic-Tonsure action at law.
To properly understand this case we must go back to 1924. One night in the spring of that year Bernhard Gothic was walking down a country road near Etoile du Nord, Minnesota. He kept in the shadows because he was a fugitive from justice. He was wanted for nepotism in Iowa and Nebraska. Gothic had not eaten that day. He was looking for a chicken coop so that he could steal a chicken and make a pillow with its feathers. He was unable to sleep comfortably on the hard ground at night. He spied a chicken coop and stole in—rather noisily, because he was inept at that sort of thing.
The chickens set up a hue and cry which carried to the farmhouse and was heard by the proprietress of the farm, a widow woman named Moll Flanders. When she heard the commotion she dropped the ouija board with which she had been trying to communicate with her son, Duncan, who had gone to sea and disappeared many years before. Grabbing a flashlight, she ran out to the coop.
Her beam of light fell on the prostrate form of Bernhard Gothic hopelessly entangled in one hundred and twenty feet of chicken wire. Mrs. Flanders screamed when she saw Gothic. He happened to resemble her son Duncan slightly, and she thought it was he come home at last. She fell on Gothic with tears and protestations of affection. He shrewdly kept his big mouth shut.
She took him into the house and fed him. To her numerous questions he answered that he had recently suffered an attack of amnesia and it would take a long period of good nourishment and rest before he was himself again. He wasn’t born Tuesday.
Then a well-rounded wench in a wrapper came down from upstairs. “This here’s your baby sister Irma,” said Mrs. Flanders. “Do you remember her?”
“Oh hell, yes,” said Gothic. “Gimme a slobber, sis.”
Mrs. Flanders, more alarmed than pleased at the violence of his fraternal affection, finally pried them loose and sent Gothic to bed.
He stayed for several months, eating five copious meals a day and swinging in the hammock between meals. It would have been perfect except for Irma. Her contours slipped disturbingly into all his gastronomic reveries. Finally he could stand the artificial continence of their relationship no longer. He went to her and told her the whole truth. He wouldn’t have if he had known what a big blabbermouth she was.
She ran right to her mother and told her, but Mrs. Flanders only screamed, “Liar! Jezebel!” and hit her in the mouth with a darning egg. Irma packed her chattels and hied herself to St. Paul in a fit of pique.
Mrs. Flanders went to Gothic and said, “Son, you’re all I got left now. Promise Ma you’ll never leave her.”
“Sure, sure,” he said.
“Women ain’t no good, son,” she continued. “Don’t you be gettin’ married to none of ’em. You stay here with yore pore old ma, and don’t take on with no women, and I’ll leave you somethin’ mighty nice in my will.”
“I gotcha,” he said.
In St. Paul Irma tried unsuccessfully to find a job for several weeks and finally enrolled in Tom Tonsure’s college for lady barbers.
As part of his college Tonsure ran a cut-rate barbershop. When students had completed their basic training they went to work in the shop for a time. Eventually Irma was promoted to the shop.
One day Rex Nebulous, a desk clerk at the Fireproof Hotel in St. Paul, came into Tonsure’s shop to get a haircut. Nebulous was almost bald; that is why he patronized this cheap shop. As he said smilingly, “I don’t want to pay full price for half a haircut.”
He sat in Irma’s chair. As Irma cut his sparse hair she noticed a faint inscription on top of his scalp. Bending closer, she read the almost illegible words, “Good-by, Mama—Duncan.”
“These words on your head. Where did they come from?” she asked excitedly.
“That happened a long time ago,” Nebulous answered. “I was just a little boy then. It was on the Titanic. The ship was going down, and there were not enough lifeboats for everyone. I remember a young sailor putting me in the last boat and writing this message on my head. I was bald then too. I guess I n
ever had no hair,” he giggled.
“And the sailor. What happened to him?”
“He went down with the ship, poor fellow. I saw him go under.”
It was Duncan! Now she would show that impostor. Now she had proof. Now she would succor her poor, victimized old mother. She waved her arms joyously, forgetting that she had a razor in her hand. Nebulous’ ear dropped gently to the floor.
Fortunately, Tom Tonsure had learned to keep a doctor in constant attendance for just such occurrences. Nebulous’ ear was rapidly stitched back on, and, mollified by a free bottle of brilliantine, he left amicably.
Meanwhile, back on the farm Gothic was getting restless. He took long, randy walks around the countryside. During the course of his libidinous constitutionals he chanced on a comely lass named Frances Bucolic up the road a piece. Gothic applied all his amorous arts, and she succumbed.
But not completely. She wanted to get married first. He could not dissuade her. Finally he reached a compromise. He said he would marry her if she kept it a secret from Mrs. Flanders. She grudgingly agreed. They sneaked away one night to a justice of the peace in St. Paul and then took a room at the Fireproof Hotel.
Rex Nebulous was at the desk that night. About 2 A.M. a customer called the desk and informed Nebulous that a dry-goods drummer was enjoying an unsanctified union in Room 415. Nebulous had the phone to his recently severed ear. He thought his informant said Room 450, which was occupied by Bernhard Gothic and his bride. He called in two cops and told them to get up to Room 450. The cops broke down the door, wrapped the newlyweds in a blanket, and hauled them off to jail.
Gothic was quite willing to forget the whole thing, but Frances was outraged. She swore out a complaint against Nebulous, charging him with false arrest.
The unhappy Nebulous blamed all his misfortunes on his damaged ear. He instituted suit for damages against Tom Tonsure.
Tonsure filed suit against Irma, charging criminal negligence.
