LITMIR.BIZ

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only recently so coarsely violent, acquired a certain civil polish, at least when she spoke to Waverhouse. “I understand,” she opens, “that Mr. Coldmoon is a bachelor of science. Now please tell me in what sort of subject has he specialized?”

      “In his post-graduate course, he’s studying terrestrial magnetism,” answers my master seriously.

      Unfortunately, Madam Conk does not understand this answer. Therefore, though she says, “Ah,” she looks dubious and asks: “If one studies that, could one obtain a doctor’s degree?”

      “Are you seriously suggesting that you wouldn’t allow your daughter to marry him unless he held a doctorate?” The tone of my master’s inquiry discloses his deep displeasure.

      “That’s right. After all, if it’s just a bachelor’s degree, there are so many of them!” Madam Conk replies with complete unconcern.

      My master’s glance at Waverhouse reveals a deepening disgust.

      “Since we cannot be sure whether or not he’ll gain a doctorate, you’ll have to ask us something else.”Waverhouse seems equally displeased.

      “Is he still just studying that terrestrial something?”

      “A few days ago,” my master quite innocently offers, “he made a speech on the results of his investigation of the mechanics of hanging.”

      “Hanging? How dreadful! He must be peculiar. I don’t suppose he could ever become a doctor by devoting himself to hanging.”

      “It would of course be difficult for him to gain a doctorate if he actually hanged himself, but it is not impossible to become a doctor through study of the mechanics of hanging.”

      “Is that so?” she answers, trying to read my master’s expression. It’s a sad, sad thing but, since she does not know what mechanics are, she cannot help feeling uneasy. She probably thinks that to ask the meaning of such a trifling matter might involve her in loss of face. Like a fortuneteller, she tries to guess the truth from facial expressions. My master’s face is glum. “Is he studying anything else, something more easy to understand?”

      “He once wrote a treatise entitled ‘A Discussion of the Stability of Acorns in Relation to the Movements of Heavenly Bodies.’”

      “Does one really study such things as acorns at a university?”

      “Not being a member of any university, I cannot answer your question with complete certainty, but since Coldmoon is engaged in such studies, the subject must undoubtedly be worth studying.” With a dead-pan face, Waverhouse makes fun of her.

      Madam Conk seems to have realized that her questions about matters of scholarship have carried her out of her depth, for she changes the subject. “By the way,” she says, “I hear that he broke two of his front teeth when eating mushrooms during the New Year season.”

      “True, and a rice-cake became fixed on the broken part.” Waverhouse, feeling that this question is indeed up his street, suddenly becomes light-hearted.

      “How unromantic! I wonder why he doesn’t use a toothpick!”

      “Next time I see him, I’ll pass on your sage advice,” says my master with a chuckle.

      “If his teeth can be snapped on mushrooms, they must be in very poor condition. What do you think?”

      “One could hardly say such teeth were good. Could one, Waverhouse?”

      “Of course they can’t be good, but they do provide a certain humor.

      It’s odd that he hasn’t had them filled. It really is an extraordinary sight when a man just leaves his teeth to become mere hooks for snagging rice-cakes.”

      “Is it because he lacks the money to get them filled or because he’s just so odd that he leaves them unattended to?”

      “Ah, you needn’t worry. I don’t suppose he will continue as Mr. Broken Front Tooth for any long time.” Waverhouse is evidently regaining his usual buoyancy.

      Madam Conk again changes the subject. “If you should have some letter or anything which he’s written, I’d like to see it.”

      “I have masses of postcards from him. Please have a look at them,” and my master produces some thirty or forty postcards from his study.

      “Oh, I don’t have to look at so many of them. . . perhaps two or three would do. . .”

      “Let me choose some for you,” offers Waverhouse, adding as he selects a picture postcard, “Here’s an interesting one.”

      “Gracious! So he paints pictures as well? Rather clever that,” she exclaims. But after examining the picture she remarks “How very silly! It’s a badger! Why on earth does he have to paint a badger of all things! Strange. But it does indeed look like a badger.” She is, albeit reluctantly, mildly impressed.

      “Read what he’s written beside it,” suggests my master with a laugh.

      Madam Conk begins to read aloud like a servant-girl deciphering a newspaper.

      “On New Year’s Eve, as calculated under the ancient calendar, the mountain badgers hold a garden party at which they dance excessively. Their song says, ‘This evening, being New Year’s Eve, no mountain hikers will come this way.’ And bom-bom-bom they thump upon their bellies. What is he writing about? Is he not being a trifle frivolous?” Madam Conk seems seriously dissatisfied.

      “Doesn’t this heavenly maiden please you?” Waverhouse picks out another card on which a kind of angel in celestial raiment is depicted as playing upon a lute.

      “The nose of this heavenly maiden seems rather too small.”

      “Oh no, that’s about the average size for an angel. But forget the nose for the moment and read what it says,” urges Waverhouse.

      “It says ‘Once upon a time there was an astronomer. One night he went as was his wont high up into his observatory, and, as he was intently watching the stars, a beautiful heavenly maiden appeared in the sky and began to play some music; music too delicate ever to be heard on earth. The astronomer was so entranced by the music that he quite forgot the dark night’s bitter cold. Next morning the dead body of the astronomer was found covered with pure white frost. An old man, a liar, told me that this story was all true.’ What the hell is this? It makes no sense, no nothing. Can Coldmoon really be a bachelor of science? Perhaps he should read a few literary magazines.”Thus mercilessly does Madam Conk lambaste the defenseless Coldmoon.

      Waverhouse for fun selects a third postcard and says, “Well then, what about this one?” The card has a sailing boat printed on it and, as usual, there is something scribbled underneath the picture.

      Last night a tiny whore of sixteen summers

      Declared she had no parents.

      Like a plover on a reefy coast,

      She wept on waking in the early morning.

      Her parents, sailors both, lie at the bottom of the sea.

      “Oh, that’s good. How very clever! He’s got real feeling,” erupted Madam Conk.

      “Feeling?” says Waverhouse.

      “Oh yes,” says Madam Conk. “That would go well on a samisen.

      “If it could be played on the samisen, then it’s the real McCoy. Well, how about these?” asks Waverhouse picking out postcard after postcard.

      “Thank you, but I’ve seen enough. For now, at least I know that Coldmoon’s not a straight-laced prude.” She thinks she has achieved some real understanding and appears to have no more queries about Coldmoon, for she remarks, “I’m sorry to have troubled you. Please do not report my visit to Mr. Coldmoon.” Her request reflects her selfish nature in that she seems to feel entitled to make a thorough investigation of Coldmoon whilst expecting that none

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