Ah! said the Philosopher.
He might be outside, maybe?
He might indeed, said the Philosopher gravely.
Well, it doesn’t matter, said the visitor, for . you have enough knowledge by yourself to stock a shop. The reason I came here to-day was ask your honoured advice about my wife’s washing board. She only has it a couple of years, and the last time she used it was when she washed out my Sunday shirt and her black shirt with the red things on it—you know the one?
I do not, said the Philosopher.
Well, anyhow, the washboard is gone, and my wife says it was either taken by the fairies or by Bessie Hannigan—you know Bessie Hannigan? She has whiskers like a goat and a lame leg!…
I do not, said the Philosopher.
No matter, said Meehawl MacMurrachu. She didn’t take it, because my wife got her out yesterday and kept her talking for two hours while I went through everything in her bit of a house—the washboard wasn’t there.
It wouldn’t be, said the Philosopher.
Maybe your honour could tell a body where it is then?
Maybe I could, said the Philosopher; are you listening?
I am, said Meehawl MacMurrachu.
The Philosopher drew his chair closer to the visitor until their knees were jammed together. He laid both his hands on Meehawl MacMurrachu’s knees…
Washing is an extraordinary custom, said he. We are washed both on coming into the world and on going out of it, and we take no pleasure from the first washing nor any profit from the last.
True for you, sir, said Meehawl MacMurrachu.
Many people consider that scourings supplementary to these are only due to habit. Now, habit is continuity of action, it is a most detestable thing and is very difficult to get away from. A proverb will run where a writ will not, and the follies of our forefathers are of greater importance to us than is the well-being of our posterity.
At this point Karen interrupted his wife to ask if we liked the passage.
I do indeed, I said. Let her continue!
Continue! said Karen, settling still deeper into his chair.
Lotta read on. She had an excellent voice and could handle the brogue expertly. The dialogue got funnier and funnier. Karen began to titter and then to laugh like a hyena. The tears were rolling down his face.
Do be careful, Karen, begged his wife, putting the book down a moment. I’m afraid you’ll get the hiccoughs.
I don’t care, said Karen, it’s worth getting the hiccoughs.
But you remember, the last time it happened we had to call a doctor.
Just the same, said Karen. I’d like to hear the end of it. And again he exploded into peals of laughter. It was frightening to hear him laugh. He had no control whatever. I wondered to myself if he could weep just as bravely. It would be something to unnerve one.
Lotta waited for him to subside, then resumed her reading.
Did you ever hear, sir, about the fish that Paudeen MacLaughlin caught in the policeman’s hat?
I did not, said the Philosopher. The first person who washed was possibly a person seeking a cheap notoriety. Any fool can wash himself, but every wise man knows that it is an unnecessary labour, for nature will quickly reduce him to a natural and healthy dirtiness again. We should seek, therefore, not how to make ourselves clean, but how to attain a more unique and splendid dirtiness, and perhaps the accumulated layers of matter might, by ordinary geologic compulsion, become incorporated with the human cuticle and so render clothing unnecessary…
About that washboard, said Meehawl, I was just going to say…
It doesn’t matter, said the Philosopher. In its proper place I…
Here Lotta had to close the book. Karen was laughing, if it could be called that, with such uncontrollable violence that his eyes were popping out of his head. I thought he would throw a fit.
Darling, darling! came Lotta’s anxious voice, registering a concern I hadn’t believed her capable of. Please, darling, calm yourself!
Karen continued to be rocked by spasms which now sounded more like sobs. I got up and thumped him violently on the back. At once the commotion subsided. He looked up at me gratefully. Then he coughed and wheezed and blew his nose vigorously, wiping the tears away with his coat sleeve.
Next time, Henry, use a mallet, he sputtered. Or a sledgehammer.
That I will, I said.
He began to titter again.
Please don’t! begged Lotta. He’s had enough for one evening.
It was indeed a wonderful evening, said Mona. I’m beginning to like it here. And how wonderfully you read, she said, addressing Lotta.
I used to be on the stage, said Lotta modestly.
I thought so, said Mona. So was I once.
Lotta arched her eyebrows. You were? There was a tinge of sarcasm in her voice.
Why yes, said Mona, unruffled, I played with the Theatre Guild.
Hear, hear! said Karen, relapsing into his Oxford manner.
What’s so strange about that? I demanded to know. Didn’t you think she had any talent?
Why, Henry, said Karen, clasping my arm, you are a sensitive brute, aren’t you? I was congratulating myself on our good luck. We’ll all take turns reading some night. I was on the stage once myself, you know.
And I was once a trapeze artist, I countered.
Really! This from Lotta and Karen simultaneously.
Didn’t I ever tell you? I thought you knew.
For some strange reason this innocent lie impressed them. If I had said I had been a cabinet minister once it could not have produced as telling an effect. It was amazing how limited was their sense of humor. Naturally I expatiated at length on my virtuosity. Mona chimed in now and then to help me out. They listened as if spellbound.
When I had finished Karen soberly remarked: Among other things, Henry, you’re not a bad story teller. You must tell us some more yarns like that when we’re in the mood.
The next day, as if to make up for the grand splurge, Karen was determined to tackle the roof. It had to be shingled and then coated with tar. And I who could never drive a nail straight was to do the job—under his directions. Fortunately it took some time to find the right ladder, the proper nails, the hammer and saw and a dozen other tools which he thought might come in handy. What followed was straight out of Laurel and Hardy. First of all I insisted on finding a pair of old gloves so as not to get any splinters in my hands. I made it clear as a Euclidian theorem that with splinters in my fingers I would be unable to type and being unable to type would mean no dictaphone work. After that I insisted on finding a pair of sneakers so as not to slip and break my neck. Karen nodded approval in dead seriousness. He was the type who, in order to get the maximum amount of work out of you, would carry you to the toilet if necessary and wipe your ass for you. It was clear by this time that I would need a lot of assistance to fix the roof. Mona was to stand by in case anything fell to the ground; she was also to fetch us some ice-cold lemonade at intervals. Karen, of course, had already drawn several diagrams explaining how the shingles were to be adjusted one to another. Naturally I profited not at all from these explanations. I had only one thought in mind—to start hammering away like a demon and let the chips fall where they would.
In order to limber up I suggested that I first practise walking along the ridge pole. Karen, still nodding approval, wanted to lend me an umbrella, but at this Mona laughed so heartily that he abandoned the idea. I scurried up the ladder as nimbly as a cat, hoisted myself up to the ridge pole and began my tight rope exercises. Lotta looked on with suppressed fright, her mind busy, doubtless, computing hospital expenses in the event I should slip and break a leg. It was a scorcher of a day, the flies out in swarms and biting like fury. I had on a huge Mexican hat much too big for me which kept falling over my eyes. When I descended I took the notion to change into my swimming trunks. Karen thought he would do likewise. This consumed a little more time.
Finally there was nothing left but to begin. I climbed up the ladder with the hammer under my arm clutching a keg of nails. It was getting on towards noon. Karen had rigged up a platform on wheels from which he unloaded the shingles and gave directions. He looked like a Carthaginian setting the defenses of the city in order. The women stood below, clucking away like hens, all set to catch me if I fell.
I got the first shingle set and picked up the hammer to drive the first nail home. I missed it by an inch or two and the shingle went flying homeward like a kite. I was so surprised, so stunned, that the hammer fell out of my hands and the keg of nails tumbled to the ground. Karen, unperturbed, gave orders to remain where I was, the women would gather up the hammer and nails. It was Lotta who ran to the kitchen to get the hammer. When she returned I learned that I had broken the tea pot and a few plates. Mona was scrambling for the nails, picking them up so fast that they fell out of her hand before she could get them in the keg.
Easy,
