The Genial Idiot: His Views and Reviews, Page 4

  III

  THE IDIOT'S VALENTINE

  "Well, old man," said the Poet, as the Idiot entered the breakfast-roomon the morning of Valentine's day, "how did old St. Valentine treat you?Any results worth speaking of?"

  "Oh, the usual lay-out," returned the Idiot, languidly. "Nine hundredand forty-two passionate declarations of undying affection from unknownlady friends in all parts of the civilized world; one thousand threehundred and twenty-four highly colored but somewhat insultingintimations that I had better go 'way back and sit down from hithertounsuspected gentlemen friends scattered from Maine to California; onesmall can of salt marked 'St. Valentine to the Idiot,' with sundryallusions to the proper medical treatment of the latter's freshness, anda small box containing a rubber bottle-stopper labelled 'Cork up andbust.' I can't complain."

  "Well, you did come in for your share of it, didn't you?" said Mr.Brief.

  "Yes," said the Idiot, "I think I got all that was coming to me, and Iwouldn't have minded it if I hadn't had to pay three dollars over-duepostage on 'em. I don't bother much if some anonymous chap off in thewilds of Kalikajoo takes the trouble to send me a funny picture of amonkey grinding a hand-organ with 'the loving regards of your brother,'or if somebody else who is afraid of becoming too fond of me sends me ahorse-chestnut with a line to the effect that here is one I haven'tprinted, I don't feel like getting mad; but when I have to pay thepostage on the plaguey things it strikes me it is rubbing it in a littletoo hard, and if I could find two or three of the senders I'd spend anhour or two of my time banging their heads together."

  "I got off pretty well," said the Bibliomaniac. "I only got onevalentine, and though it cast some doubt upon the quality of my love forbooks, I found it quite amusing. I'll read it to you."

  Here the Bibliomaniac took a small paper from his pocket and read thefollowing lines:

  "THE HUNGRY BIBLIOMANIAC

  "If only you would cut your books As often as your butter, When people ask you what's inside You wouldn't sit and sputter. The reading that hath made _you_ full, The reading that doth chain you, Is not from books, or woman's looks, But fresh from off the menu."

  "What do you think of that?" asked the Bibliomaniac, with a chuckle, ashe folded up his valentine and stowed it away in his pocket once more.

  "I think I can spot the sender," said the Idiot, fixing his eyessternly upon the Poet. "It takes genius to get up a rhyme like 'menu'and 'chain you,' and I know of only one man at this board or at anyother who is equal to the task."

  "If you mean me," retorted the Poet, flushing, "you are mightilymistaken. I wouldn't waste a rhyme like that on a personal valentinewhen I could tack it on to the end of a sonnet and go out and sell itfor two-fifty."

  "Then you didn't do it, eh?" demanded the Idiot.

  "No. Did you?" asked the Poet, with his eyes twinkling.

  "Sir," said the Idiot, "if I had done it, would I have had theunblushing effrontery to say, as I just now did say, that its author wasa genius?"

  "Well, we're square, anyhow," said the Poet. "You cast me undersuspicion, to begin with, and it was only fair that I should whack back.I got a valentine myself, and I suspect it was from the same hand. Itruns like this:

  "TO THE MINOR POET

  "You do not pluck the fairy flowers That bloom on high Parnassus, Nor do you gather thistles like Some of those mystic asses Who browse about old Helicon In hope to fill their tummies; Yours rather are those dandy-lines-- Gilt-topped chrysanthemummies-- Quite pleasant stuff That ends in fluff-- Yet when they are beholden Make all the world look golden."

  "Well," ejaculated the Idiot, "I don't see what there is in that to makeyou angry. Seems to me there's some very nice compliments in that. Forinstance, your stuff when 'tis

  'beholden Makes all the world look golden,'

  according to your anonymous correspondent. If he'd been vicious he mighthave said something like this:

  '--withal so supercilious They make the whole earth bilious.'"

  The Poet grinned. "I'm not complaining about it. It's a mighty nicelittle verse, I think, and my only regret is that I do not know who thechap was who sent it. I'd like to thank him. I had an idea you mighthelp me," he said, with a searching glance.

  "I will," said the Idiot. "If the man who sent you that ever reveals hisidentity to me I will tell him you fell all over yourself with joy onreceiving his tribute of admiration. How did you come out, Doctor?"

  "Oh, he remembered me, all right," said the Doctor. "Quite in the samevein, too, only he's not so complimentary. He calls me 'The HumaneSurgeon,' and runs into rhyme after this fashion:

  "O, Doctor Blank's a surgeon bold, A surgeon most humane, sir; And what he does is e'er devoid Of ordinary pain, sir.

  "If he were called to amputate A leg hurt by a bullet, He wouldn't take a knife and cut-- But with his bill he'd pull it."

  "He must have had some experience with you, Doctor," said the Idiot. "Infact, he knows you so well that I am inclined to think that the writerof that valentine lives in this house, and it is just possible that theculprit is seated at this table at this moment."

  "I think it very likely," said the Doctor, dryly. "He's a fresh youngman, five feet ten inches in height--"

  "Pooh--pooh!" said the Idiot. "That's the worst description of Mr. BriefI ever heard. Mr. Brief, in the first place, is not a young man, and heisn't fresh--"

  "I didn't mean Mr. Brief," said the Doctor, significantly.

  "Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself to intimate that Mr.Whitechoker, a clergyman, would stoop to the writing of such a rhyme asthat," cried the Idiot. "People nowadays seem to me to be utterlylacking in that respect for the cloth to which it is entitled. Mr.Brief, if you really wrote that thing you owe it to Mr. Whitechoker toown up and thus relieve him of the suspicion the Doctor has sounblushingly cast upon him."

  "I can prove an alibi," said the Lawyer. "I could no more turn a rhymethan I could play 'Parsifal' on a piano with one finger, and I wouldn'tif I could. I judge, from what I know of the market value of poems thesedays, that that valentine of the Doctor's is worth about two dollars. Itwould take me a century to write it, and inasmuch as my time is worth atleast five dollars a year it stands to reason that I would not put infive hundred dollars' worth of effort on a two-dollar job. So that letsme out. By-the-way, I got one of these trifles myself. Want to hear it?"

  "I am just crazy to hear it," said the Idiot. "If any man has reducedyou to poetry, Mr. Brief, he's a great man. With all your many virtues,you seem to me to fit into a poetical theme about as snugly as anautomobile with full power on in a china-shop. By all means let us haveit."

  "This modern St. Valentine of ours has reduced the profession to versewith a nicety that elicits my most profound admiration," said Mr. Brief."Just listen to this:

  "The Lawyer is no wooer, yet To sue us is his whim. The Lawyer is no tailor, but We get our suits from him. The longest things in all the world-- They are the Lawyer's briefs, And all the joys he gets in life Are other people's griefs. Yet spite of all the Lawyer's faults He's one point rather nice: He'll not remain lest you retain And _never gives_ advice."

  "The author of these valentines," said the Doctor, "is to be spotted,the way I diagnose the case, by his desire that professional peopleshould be constantly giving away their services. He objects to theDoctor's bill and he slaps sarcastically at the Lawyer because hedoesn't _give_ advice. That's why I suspect the Idiot. He's aprofessional Idiot, and yet he gives his idiocy away."

  "When did I ever give myself away?" demanded the Idiot. "You are talkingwildly, Doctor. The idea of your trying to drag me into this thing ispreposterous. Suppose you show down your valentine and see if it is inmy handwriting."

  "Mine is typewritten," said the Doctor.

  "So is mine," said
the Bibliomaniac.

  "Mine, too," said the Poet.

  "Same here," said Mr. Brief.

  "Well, then," said the Idiot, "I'm willing to write a page in my ownhand without any attempt to disguise it, and let any handwriting expertdecide as to whether there is the slightest resemblance between mychirography and these typewritten sheets you hold in your hand."

  "That's fair enough," said Mr. Whitechoker.

  "Besides," persisted the Idiot, "I've received one of the things myself,and it'll make your hair curl, if you've got any. Typewritten like therest of 'em. Shall I read it?"

  By common consent the Idiot read the following:

  "Idiot, zany, brain of hare, Dolt and noodle past compare, Buncombe, bosh, and verbal slosh, Mind of nothing, full of josh, Madman, donkey, dizzard-pate, U. S. Zero Syndicate, Dull, depressing, lack of wit, Incarnation of the nit. Minus, numskull, drivelling baby, Greenhorn, dunce, and dotard Gaby; All the queer and loony chorus Found in old Roget's _Thesaurus_, Flat and crazy through and through, That, O Idiot--that is you. Let me tell you, sir, in fine, _I_ won't be your Valentine.

  "What do you think of that?" asked the Idiot, when he had finished."Wouldn't that jar you?"

  "I think it's perfectly horrid," said Mrs. Pedagog. "Mary, pass thepancakes to the Idiot. Mr. Idiot, let me hand you a full cup of coffee.John, hand the Idiot the syrup. Why, how a thing like that should beallowed to go through the mails passes me!"

  And the others all agreed that the landlady's indignation was justified,because they were fond of the Idiot in spite of his faults. They wouldnot see him abused, at any rate.

  * * * * *

  "Say, old man," said the Poet, later, "I really thought you sent thoseother valentines until you read yours."

  "I thought you would," said the Idiot. "That's the reason why I workedup that awful one on myself. That relieves me of all suspicion."